Page 13 of Marco

Looking at her then, I desperately want to believe that's true. It has to be true.

six

Alessia

The black sedan glides to a stop outside an imposing iron gate flanked by stone columns. I crane my neck to take in the sheer size of the mansion looming beyond the gate. Intricate metalwork and surveillance cameras line the high perimeter walls. I was expecting his residence to be enormous given the notoriety of his family name, but this is no home—it's a fortress.

While I thought he might accompany me here on my first trip to his home, Marco had a meeting so he sent me on by myself. I'm strangely disappointed not to be spending more time with him, but also relieved that I get to explore his place without his prying eyes. That said, I'm under no illusion that his staff won't just report back anything I say or do. I get the impression that men like him feel like they need to know everything.

The gate swings open and we drive up the long, tree-lined driveway. My palms sweat against the leather seats. What have I gotten myself into?

The car pulls up to the grand portico entrance. I step out on shaky legs into the vast courtyard lined with precisely trimmed hedges and marble statues. Uniformed staff hurry to and fro, averting their gaze. Wow, his team is even bigger than I expected it to be… there must be at least three kinds of uniforms. Garden and maintenance technicians in their dark blue polos, housekeepers in their crisp black and white shirts and aprons, and several others that I can't yet identify.

A stern-looking woman in a crisp suit greets me. "Miss Moretti. This way please." Her heels click sharply as she leads me inside. I guess seeing Marco was busy he sent someone else as a replacement welcoming committee. I'd kind of held out hope that he'd be waiting for me when I got here. Someone who is apparently all business with the bedside manner of a well-fed cat. Maybe he really wasn't lying when he said our marriage would all be just for show. I feel a mixture of relief and, for some unknown reason, slight irritation.

My footsteps echo in the cavernous foyer, marble floors gleaming. A crystal chandelier drips from the domed ceiling. Everything screams old money and power. This is most definitely Marco's world and not mine.

The woman gestures brusquely down a hallway. "Your room is the third door on the left. Dinner is at seven. The security system is active, so do not attempt to leave the premises or the security team will be notified immediately." Her words chill me. They remind me that I'm not a guest here. I'm a prisoner.

I nod mutely and make my way down the hall, each footstep magnified in the hushed atmosphere. My 'room' is larger than my entire apartment, decorated in rich mahoganies and velvets. The canopy bed could sleep four. I find myself blushing as I realize Marco and I could both roll around in the bed with plenty of room left over. I sink into a plush chair by the window overlooking manicured gardens. Somewhere beyond those walls is the city I know, the life I left just this morning, though it feels years away.

A knock at the door startles me. A tall man in a tailored suit enters. He's handsome with a perpetually serious expression and piercing brown eyes. "Miss Moretti, I'm Luca, Mr. De Luca's head of security. I've been asked to give you a tour of the residence."

As we walk, Luca points out the gym, home theater, wine cellar. Security cameras track our every move. The place feels sterile, more like a museum than a home.

We pass a set of double doors. Muffled angry voices leak out. Luca quickens his pace. "Mr. De Luca's study. Private area." His tone brooks no argument.

Marco remains a mystery, glimpsed only in moments like this and the times he's visited the cafe. Powerful, dangerous, unknowable. And I'm at his mercy. In his house. About to be his wife. Just what have I gotten myself into? I barely know him, after all, and here I am in his palatial mansion, about to be made his wife on paper. What if this whole thing is all made up? What if there are no threats beyond the usual that exist living in a big city? What if he's some controlling psychopath who wants to keep me trapped in his basement?

I sigh. If he wasn't so devastatingly handsome, maybe I wouldn't be here. Perhaps I would have turned down his suggestion, laughed it off. But here I am. Am I really that fickle, so easily sucked in by a man? Still, maybe there is truth in his warnings. Maybe I really am a target, and this is the only way to protect my grandmother, my employees and my café.

I continue staring out the window as dusk settles over the grounds below. Somewhere down there, people are wrapping up their normal days, heading home to families, getting ready for a regular evening. While I'm sequestered in this grandiose fortress, my fate in the hands of a virtual stranger who couldn't even make himself available to greet me when I arrived.

What little I know about Marco De Luca only deepens the pit in my stomach. The staff's deference and fear as they avoid his wing of the house. The state-of-the-art security meant to keep threats out...and me in. The heated voices behind closed doors hinting at dealings far beyond the boundaries of my 'normal' world.

I think back to this morning at the cafe when I was steaming milk, joking with customers, blissfully unaware my world was about to be turned upside down. Was it really just a day ago that my life made sense? Now everything is uncertain.

A glance at my phone reminds me there's an outside world, even if I'm cut off from it. At least they didn't take that away from me, although with this level of security I wouldn't be surprised if they insist on that next. I scroll through unanswered texts from friends, photos of places I used to go. Was it naïve to think I could keep one foot in my old reality? Or am I clinging to a life that no longer exists?

My rumbling stomach interrupts my brooding. I debate venturing to the ornate dining room before deciding to make a sandwich in the glossy kitchen instead. Better to keep a low profile, retain small rituals of normalcy.

Looking in his fridge, it's as immaculate as everything else appears to be in the house. No surprises there. But I am pleased to see little touches that make me feel like I'm at home—a thick balsamic glaze, freshly picked basil—presumably from the expansive garden, plump tomatoes that smell like sunshine and goodness.

As I assemble my humble meal, I think of Marco again. Does he stand here in his designer suits, making a snack? Does he have friends who text him silly memes? It's hard to imagine the cold, imposing man indulging in something so...human. For now, I assume that any tasks perceived as menial are done for him by his team, and his days are nothing but serious.

I take my sandwich back upstairs, the marble floors amplifying my footsteps. I'm insignificant here, my life swallowed up in the vast emptiness of this place, dependent on the whims of a powerful and dangerous stranger. A stranger who couldn't even adjust his schedule to be here when I arrived for the first time… for the person who is about to be his wife.

I don't know what this is going to entail, but it can't be as easy as swanning around the mansion making myself sandwiches. At that rate, I might die of boredom. But I must be more than a prisoner in a gilded cage. I am still me, still Alessia. And I must survive this…. whatever this is.

I finish my sandwich, lost in thought. The sound of voices drifts up from downstairs—Marco must be home. I creep to the top of the grand staircase and peer between the banisters.

Marco stands in the foyer below, barking orders at his men. His presence seems to fill the room, commanding attention. The others listen intently, nodding, ready to obey his every word. This is not a home—it's a fortress, the headquarters of a vast empire. I need to remember that. It may have all the trappings of a welcoming residence, but this explains why there's an austere, icy quality to it. Going through the motions of day-to-day life for the outside world, when the real business is conducted in the background.

As Marco dismisses the men, a tall woman steps forward hesitantly. "Mr. De Luca, your godmother called earlier. She asked that you call her back as soon as possible." Marco's stony expression softens ever so slightly. "Thank you, Anna. I'll call her after dinner."

So he has a godmother. I mean, I know that many people do… but when I look at someone like Marco, my first thought isn't about their family. I'm struck by this glimpse of Marco's humanity. There is more to him than the ruthless mob boss. What secrets lie beneath that hard exterior? What shaped him into the man he is today?

I hear footsteps on the stairs and scramble back to my room before Marco can discover me spying. My mind spins with more questions than answers. I don't know this man at all. And yet our fates are now intertwined.

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