Chapter 3 The Silent Battle

• There are over 195 countries in this world and approximately 8.2 billion people on earth and of course, it had to be him. My brain did a quick calculation of my survival odds: low. Best escape plan? Think, Elena. Food poisoning? Should I just pass out to avoid dinner altogether.
• While I was still putting my thoughts together, a warm hand landed on my shoulder. My father.
• “Lorenzo,” he said warmly, gesturing toward me like a prize up for auction.
• “This is my daughter, Elena.”
• Greek God = Lorenzo. His gaze swept over me slowly, like he was memorizing every inch, every flaw, every scar. His eyes felt like fingers, tugging at secrets I didn’t want exposed.
• “Pleasure,” he said, voice rough with a trace of accent.
• “Likewise,” I lied, my voice as steady as I could manage.
• The table buzzed with talk of shipments and territory rather than the elephant in the room. The wedding. When was it? Where would it be? Would I have to move to Italy to his house? Would I ever see my mother again? Did he kill Vincenzo? Most importantly… did he remember me?
• These questions buzzed in my head, each one sharper than the cutlery laid out in front of me.
• The younger brother with the goatee Bruno De Luca, as I’d learned leaned back, staring at me with amusement.
• “So,” he said, swirling his wine lazily, “are you always this quiet, or is my brother’s face just that intimidating?”
• “It’s the face,” I blurted before I could stop myself.
• “I mean..no offense.” I glanced at Lorenzo, waiting for the earth to swallow me whole.
• “None taken,” Lorenzo replied, but the glint in his eyes made me wonder if he was already planning some kind of payback.
• Bruno grinned, delighted. “Careful, or he’ll brood all week. Fun fact: he used to practice his dangerous mafia boss face in the mirror when we were kids.”
• “I did not,” Lorenzo muttered, eyes fixed on his plate.
• “You did,” Bruno insisted. “He scared all our poor housemates with that mean stare.”
• I smothered my laugh into my napkin. For a fleeting second, the heaviness around my chest lifted. Then—
• “Elena.” My father’s sharp voice cut through. “Sit straight. Stop fidgeting.”
• Heat crawled up my neck as several guests turned to look. I straightened, every movement stiff. My meal roasted lamb, vegetables, and a spicy sauce blurred on my plate.
• When I risked a glance upward, Lorenzo’s eyes were waiting. Steady. Unreadable. Not staring in the way men do when they want you, but like he was studying me… waiting for me to reveal something.
• “So, Elena,” the man I recognised from the Berlin couch addressed me. “Your father tells us you’ve been… educated abroad?”
• “Yes,” I said simply.
• “Useful sentences. Don’t mumble like a child,” my father snapped.
• “Yes. I studied abroad,” I corrected, forcing my voice even.
• “What did you study?” Bruno asked lightly.
• “Please, don’t let her bore you with the details,” my father cut in before I could answer. “If she starts talking now, she won’t stop.”
• I clenched my fork under the table. The humiliation burned, but I swallowed it whole.
• Then Lorenzo spoke, his tone smooth, final.
• “So… shall we talk about the wedding?”
• My fork froze mid-air. My heart pounded so hard I was certain the entire table could hear it.
• “What about it?” I managed.
• “She sounds thrilled,” Bruno smirked.
• “I was… processing,” I muttered.
• “Well,” Lorenzo said casually, “the wedding is in two weeks. I’m sure that’s plenty of time to get yourself ready. Two weeks.”
• Two weeks? I wasn’t even good at picking lunch, let alone a life partner. A wedding dress? Forget it I’d need months just to breathe.
• “That’s very decisive of you,” I said through gritted teeth.
• “Elena, sit up. A lady does not slouch in front of her fiancé, nor does she talk back,” my father scolded.
• I stiffened, blood roaring in my ears.
• “I wasn’t—”
• “Don’t interrupt. You will learn how to conduct yourself in this marriage,” his voice was ice.
• Something flickered in Lorenzo’s eyes. He set his glass down slowly, his fingers deliberate, like a predator choosing between strike or restraint.
• “If you want her to stand beside me,” he said quietly, “don’t teach her to bow.”
• The table stilled. Conversations faltered. My father’s jaw clenched hard enough to crack.
• “You think I don’t know how to raise my own daughter?”
• “Do you?” Lorenzo’s tone was calm, almost bored. “Besides…she is to be my wife.”
• He returned to sipping his wine, as though nothing had happened, but the air was heavy with an unspoken challenge.
• Dinner dragged on under that weight until finally, guests began to leave. My father shook hands stiffly, while I downed my water like it was salvation.
• “Walk him to his car,” he ordered.
• Perfect.
• The night air was cool, a relief after the suffocating heat inside. Lorenzo walked beside me, his stride effortless, the kind of confidence that made the shadows themselves part for him. His sleek, black car waited a predator crouched at the curb. A man in a suit stood by the door.
• “You’re quiet,” Lorenzo said.
• “Not sure what you want me to say. You don’t seem like the type who enjoys small talk.” I shrugged.
• “I don’t,” he admitted. His eyes cut sideways to me. “Though I can’t tell if you’re quiet because you’re scared of me… or because of your brother.”
• My steps faltered. He remembered.
• “What about him?” I asked carefully.
• His lips curved not a smile, not a grin. Something sharper. Something dangerous.
• “He crossed a line once. The kind you don’t come back from. I was there when it ended for him.”
• The words fell like ice water down my spine.
• “Are you saying—”
• “I’m not saying anything,” he interrupted, voice almost bored. “Except that some debts get paid one way or another.”
• My chest tightened. My brother. My Vincenzo. Was this man this monster confessing to killing him?
• I wanted to lunge, to claw at his face, to scream. Instead, he slipped a hand into his pocket and drew out a black, glossy card.
• Fucking show-off.
• “For the wedding,” he said, pressing it into my hand.
• “Why?”
• “Because when my wife walks in, I want heads to turn. I’ll get a chiropractor if necessary. My wife isn’t going to look… basic.”
• He leaned down, close enough that I caught the faint scent of smoke and something darker. His lips hovered near my ear.
• “Piccola Ladra.”
• The words wrapped around me like silk and steel all at once.
• And then he was gone, sliding into his car with the kind of arrogance that didn’t need permission. The convoy roared away into the night.
• I stood frozen on the pavement, the card clutched in my hand.
• What did he just call me?