Chapter 2 - The Secret Beneath the StoneThe ceremony was less a celebration and more a silent transaction conducted in Latin and flickering candlelight. There were no guests, no cheering family members, and no white veil. Just the scratching of a fountain pen on heavy parchment, the low, steady murmur of the priest, and the heavy, warm weight of a platinum band sliding onto my finger.
When the priest pronounced us husband and wife, Luca didn't kiss me. He didn't lean down with the possessive swagger of a mafia romance novel cliché. Instead, he gently took my hand, his thumb brushing over my knuckles with a reverence that felt almost sacred, before stepping back to sign the registry.
“It’s done,” Elena announced from the back pew, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her expression sour. “Welcome to the family, Sophia. Try not to break anything antique on your way out.”
“Goodnight, Elena,” Luca said, his voice dropping into a dangerous register that made his sister turn on her heel and march out of the chapel without another word.
Marco followed her, closing the heavy oak doors behind them with a muffled thud.
Suddenly, the chapel felt entirely too small. Just Luca and me, standing beneath the vaulted stone arches with forty generations of Moretti ancestors glaring down from the shadows.
“Your room is on the third floor,” Luca said, turning to face me, his hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets as if he didn't quite know what to do with them now that the ceremony was over. “East wing. It overlooks the lake. You’ll have privacy, a private bath, and... space. You won't be bothered.”
I blinked, processing his words. “My room? Singular?”
Luca’s brow furrowed slightly. “Did you expect...?” He stopped, his expression hardening into a defensive shell. “We had an agreement. A marriage of convenience to settle your father’s accounts. I’m not a monster, Sophia. I don't expect a bride bought on paper to share a bed with a man like me.”
A flash of irritation pierced through my exhaustion. I stepped closer, stopping just inches from his chest—forcing him to look down at me.
“A man like you?” I repeated, my voice rising slightly in the empty chapel. “What kind of man is that, Luca? Because so far, the only thing I’ve noticed about you is that you’re six-foot-six, you brood in stereo, and you have terrible communication skills.”
Luca stared at me, sheer disbelief freezing his features. No one—not his lieutenants, not rival capos, and certainly not his terrified brides—had ever spoken to him that way.
“Sophia—”
“I’m tired,” I interrupted, rubbing my temples as a headache began to hammer behind my eyes. “I’ve flown across an ocean, fallen over my own luggage, witnessed a family drama in a gothic foyer, and gotten married to a man who treats me like a fragile piece of porcelain he’s afraid will shatter if he breathes too hard. I’m going to find my room. You can sleep wherever giant mafia bosses sleep.”
Without waiting for his answer, I turned on my heel and marched down the center aisle of the chapel. As I pushed open the heavy oak doors, I heard him call out behind me.
“Sophia.”
I paused, looking back over my shoulder.
Luca was standing motionless under the altar lights, his massive silhouette cutting a lonely figure against the stained glass.
“Thank you,” he said softly, the words barely carrying across the stone floor.
I didn't answer. I just walked out into the corridor, my mind racing.
Finding the east wing of a sprawling nineteenth-century Italian mountain estate at midnight is roughly as easy as navigating a medieval dungeon blindfolded. After taking three wrong turns, ending up in a gallery filled with terrifying taxidermy, and nearly tripping over a suit of armor, I finally found the heavy mahogany double doors marking the master suite corridor.
Or, as Luca had called it, my room.
I pushed the door open. The room was breathtaking—a sprawling suite with high ceilings, polished parquet floors, a roaring stone fireplace already lit with crackling logs, and French doors leading out onto a wrought-iron balcony overlooking the dark, ink-black expanse of Lake Como.
My suitcase sat neatly at the foot of a massive four-poster bed draped in rich velvet.
I let out a long breath, dropping my purse onto a velvet armchair and kicking off my heels. My feet throbbed. I walked over to the French doors, unlocking the latch and pushing them open to let the crisp mountain air wash over my face.
The storm was rolling in over the water now. Lightning split the distant peaks in jagged ribbons of white fire, followed moments later by a deep, rumbling roll of thunder that vibrated through the stone floorboards.
As I stood there watching the lightning dance across the water, a soft tap sounded at my door.
I turned around, frowning. “Come in.”
The heavy door creaked open, and Marco stepped inside, holding a silver tray carrying a steaming mug of chamomile tea, a plate of shortbread cookies, and a folded piece of heavy cardstock.
“Signora Moretti,” Marco said, nodding respectfully, his eyes respectfully fixed on the floor. “Boss sent this up. He said... well, he said you probably hadn't eaten since Milan, and baking is your profession, so he thought you might appreciate something sweet.”
I looked at the tray, a sudden, unexpected warmth spreading through my chest. The terrifying mafia enforcer had sent me tea and cookies like a nervous schoolboy.
“Thank you, Marco,” I said gently, taking the tray from his hands. “And... what’s the card?”
Marco hesitated, his hand lingering on the doorknob. “The boss didn't write it, Signora. It was slid under the front gate ten minutes before your car arrived. It’s from Elena.”
My heart skipped a beat. The warning. The thing Elena knew that Luca didn't.
“Leave it on the table,” I said, my voice dropping.
Marco bowed his head slightly and slipped out of the room, closing the door silently behind him.
May you like
I set the tray down on the desk, my hands trembling slightly as I picked up the heavy cardstock. I unfolded it. Inside, written in sharp, hurried cursive, were two sentences that made the blood run cold in my veins:
Luca didn't tell you how the first five brides died, did he? They didn't run away, Sophia. They were murdered.
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