Page 46 of Luca
More real.
I've been thinking my wife is acting strange because marriage has changed her. Because she's more comfortable now and confident.
But what if it's not that at all?
Chapter 17: Gabriella
I’m excited to be leaving the villa and going somewhere, anywhere for a change of scenery.
We leave the villa and head straight to the airstrip where Luca’s private jet waits, gleaming under the late-afternoon sun. Paolo handles the details while Luca guides me up the steps, his hand steady at the small of my back. Inside, the cabin is a cocoon of soft leather seats and polished wood.
The engines roar to life, and soon Rome shrinks beneath us, all domes and terracotta roofs, before giving way to patchwork countryside. I sink into the seat, staring out the oval window as vineyards and villages pass far below.
The flight should feel freeing, but Luca keeps watching me. Not in his usual, indulgent way, this gaze is assessing. "You're quiet today," he observes.
"I was wondering about the meeting.” I turn to face him. "You haven't told me much about what kind of business you're conducting today."
“The less you know about my business, the better off you’ll be. Most wives aren’t concerned with business.”
The casual dismissal irks me, but I don’t show it. "Maybe this wife is different."
"Maybe she is."
There's something in his tone that makes me look at him more carefully. He's studying my face with an intensity that makes me nervous.
"Is there something wrong?" I ask.
"Not at all. Should there be?"
I frown at him. "That's not an answer. Are you worried about the meeting?"
“No.”
The conversation hangs between us in the hum of the engines until Paolo appears to tell us we’re descending into Milan. Lights glitter below, the city spread out like a jeweled net against the darkening sky.
The landing is smooth, efficient. Within minutes we’re in a sleek black car, Paolo driving us through the outskirts of Milan. The city shifts quickly from elegant boulevards to an industrial district that’s seen better decades. Graffiti-stained walls, broken windows, streets empty except for the occasional stray cat.
"We’re here," Paolo announces, pulling up in front of what looks like an abandoned warehouse.
"This is where you're conducting business?" I ask, staring at the crumbling facade.
"Not exactly,” he says.
Luca helps me out of the car, his hand warm and steady on my elbow as we navigate the uneven pavement in my ridiculous heels. Paolo leads us to a service entrance that looks like it hasn't been used since the Cold War.
But when he knocks in a specific pattern, the door opens immediately.
The man who greets us is massive and serious. He nods respectfully to Luca, then glances at me with the type of assessment that makes my skin crawl, and steps aside to let us pass.
"Welcome to Milan," Luca murmurs in my ear as we step inside.
What I see inside takes my breath away. We're standing at the top of a staircase that descends into what can only be described as a fever dream of wealth. The underground space has been transformed into a high-end casino.
Crystal chandeliers hang from a ceiling that's been painted to look like a starry night sky. The walls are covered in deep red velvet, and the lighting is low and warm, casting everything in a golden glow.
There are gaming tables scattered throughout the space, surrounded by men in suits. Servers in elegant black dresses weave between tables carrying trays of champagne and whiskey.
"Impressive," I say.
