Chapter 2

The first thing I did the next morning was Google my new husband.

I sat in the massive king-size bed—the sheets were Egyptian cotton, soft as butter—and typed his name into my phone. Vito Marchetti. I expected to find a LinkedIn page, maybe a Facebook profile with bad photos. Instead, I found absolutely nothing.

No social media. No business listings. No news articles. Nothing. It was like the man didn't exist.

That should have been my first red flag. Instead, I felt a thrill of curiosity. Who was this man who could make himself invisible?

I got out of bed and padded barefoot into the living room. Vito was already there, standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows, coffee in hand. He was wearing a simple white shirt and dark pants, but even in that casual outfit, he looked like he could command an army.

"Morning, principessa." He didn't turn around. "Sleep well?"

"How did you know I was awake?"

"I can hear your heartbeat from across the room."

I laughed. "You're lying."

"Probably." He turned, a rare smile tugging at his lips. "But you like the idea of it."

He wasn't wrong.

I walked over and took the coffee he offered. It was perfect—strong, black, just the way I liked it. "I Googled you this morning."

"And?"

"And there's nothing. You're a ghost."

He took a sip of his own coffee, unruffled. "Some people prefer to stay off the radar."

"Most people don't have to try that hard."

He studied me for a moment. "You're not scared?"

"Should I be?"

He didn't answer. He just put down his cup and walked over to the closet. "Get dressed. We have things to do."

I didn't know what he meant by "things," but I followed his lead. He took me to a boutique where a team of women dressed me in clothes that cost more than my monthly rent. Then we had a private breakfast at a restaurant that didn't even have a sign on the door. The chef came out personally to greet Vito and call him "Don."

I filed that away. Don. That was what they called him.

Later that afternoon, he dropped me off at my office. I expected to slip back into my cubicle and pretend I hadn't just married a mysterious, wealthy stranger. But when I walked into the building, everything had changed.

The receptionist practically jumped to her feet. "Mrs. Marchetti! Good afternoon!"

I blinked. "It's still Ms. Bellamy."

"Of course, Mrs. Marchetti." She beamed like I'd just given her a raise.

I got in the elevator with a knot of anxiety in my stomach. When I reached my floor, the entire office seemed to be holding its breath. My boss, Mr. Sterling, appeared before I even reached my desk.

"Aria! There you are!" He was sweating. "I've had your office prepared."

"My office?"

He led me to a corner space I'd never even been allowed to glance at. It had windows, a real desk, a leather chair. My name was already on the door.

"I don't understand," I said.

Mr. Sterling lowered his voice. "Vito Marchetti called me this morning. He said you're to be given every accommodation. If there's anything you need—anything at all—just ask."

I stared at the new office, then back at him. "Vito called you?"

"He made it very clear that your happiness is his priority." Mr. Sterling swallowed. "And believe me, Aria, no one in this city wants to disappoint Vito Marchetti."

I sat down in my new chair, spinning it slowly. So this was who he was. A man with enough power to make executives grovel. A man who could make a whole building treat a former admin assistant like royalty.

My phone buzzed. A text from Vito: "Like your new office?"

I typed back: "You didn't have to do this."

His reply came instantly: "I know. But I wanted to. Come home early tonight. I have something to show you."

I couldn't focus on work after that. I spent the afternoon fielding visits from coworkers who suddenly wanted to be my best friend. Everyone was asking about Vito. Where did we meet? How long had we been dating? Why hadn't I mentioned I was seeing someone so important?

I gave vague answers and retreated to my office. When the clock hit five, I grabbed my bag and practically ran out the door.

Vito was waiting for me in a black car outside the building. He opened the door himself—no driver, which surprised me. "Get in, wife."

"Where are we going?"

"Home."

The penthouse was different tonight. Candles flickered everywhere. There was a bottle of wine on the table, two glasses, and a plate of fresh pasta that smelled incredible.

"Did you cook this?" I asked.

"No, I had it flown in from Rome." He smirked. "Yes, I cooked it. I told you, Marchettis do things the old-fashioned way."

I sat down and took a bite. It was amazing. Rich, savory, with just a hint of heat. "You could open a restaurant."

"Then who would run the family business?"

I paused. "What exactly is the family business?"

He swirled his wine, his expression unreadable. "You really want to know?"

"Yes."

He set down his glass. "My family has been in this city for three generations. We started with small businesses—restaurants, construction, shipping. Over time, we expanded. Some of it was legal. Some of it wasn't. These days, we control most of the docks, a significant portion of real estate, and a few other things that are best discussed in private."

I felt my heart rate pick up. "So you're a... mob boss?"

"I prefer 'Don.'" He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I didn't choose this life, principessa. It chose me. My father was the Don before me, and his father before him. When they died, I took over. That's how it works."

"And you married me. A stranger. Someone who doesn't know anything about this world."

"I married you because you looked at me like I was a man, not a monster." He reached across the table and took my hand. "And because you had the guts to propose to a man you didn't even know. That takes something. Something I haven't seen in a long time."

I squeezed his hand. "I'm not going to pretend I'm not scared. Because I am. But I'm also... curious. I want to know who you really are."

He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed my knuckles. "You will. But not all at once. This life is layered. You need to experience it slowly."

That night, he showed me the penthouse's hidden rooms—a library full of leather-bound books, a wine cellar, a room full of old photographs that traced his family's history. In one photo, a young Vito stood next to an older man who looked exactly like him. His father.

"He was a hard man," Vito said quietly. "But he loved his family. He taught me that loyalty is everything."

"And what about love?" I asked.

He looked at me then, really looked. "I'm learning."