Chapter 2

The front door slammed with enough force to vibrate through the floorboards and rattle the crystal chandelier in the foyer.

He was home.

I smelled him before I saw him-a volatile cocktail of gunpowder, expensive scotch, and the cloying, floral scent of Sofia's perfume.

Bile rose in my throat, but I forced it down, smoothing the front of my silk dress.

Luca strode into the living room, tearing off his jacket and discarding it onto a chair.

His shirt was unbuttoned at the top, revealing the tattoos that crept up his neck-ink that marked him as a killer, a leader, a king.

He looked exactly like Dante-a cruel joke of the universe.

Every time I looked at him, my heart leaped, only to crash and burn when I saw the cold, dead look in his eyes.

"Where is it?" he demanded, not even sparing me a glance.

"Where is what, Luca?"

"The soup. The herbal blend your grandmother used to make. Sofia is feeling faint. She needs it."

I stood perfectly still.

He wanted me, his wife, to cook for his mistress.

It was a test, a way to see how far I would bend before I broke.

He thought I was obsessed with him. He thought my silence was submission, my presence was devotion. He had no idea I was just biding my time.

"I'm not a maid, Luca," I said softly.

He stopped mid-stride and turned to me.

His eyes were dark, bottomless pits of aggression.

He walked over to me, towering over my frame, using his size to intimidate.

"You are whatever I say you are, Elena. You forced this marriage. You wanted the title of Mrs. Falcone. Now act like it."

He grabbed my chin, tilting my face up. His fingers were rough.

"Make the soup."

My gaze dropped from his eyes to his wrist.

There, glinting under the hallway lights, was a vintage Patek Philippe watch. Leather strap. Gold face.

Dante's watch.

The one I gave him for his twenty-first birthday.

Luca had taken it from Dante's body at the morgue, and now he wore it like a trophy.

"I'll make it," I said, my voice steady.

Luca smirked, releasing my chin. "Good girl."

"On one condition."

His smirk faltered. "You're bargaining with me?"

"I want the watch."

Luca looked down at his wrist, then back at me, a furrow of confusion knitting his brows.

"This old thing? It's out of style. I can buy you a diamond-encrusted Rolex tomorrow."

"I don't want a Rolex," I said. "I want that one."

He laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "You're pathetic, Elena. You want it because it's on my skin? Because it smells like me?"

He began to unbuckle it.

"You love me that much? You want my scraps?"

"Yes," I lied, the words tasting like ash. "I love you that much."

He tossed the watch at me.

I caught it.

The leather was warm from his body heat.

I clutched it tight, my nails digging into the strap, suppressing the urge to bring it to my nose and inhale, hoping a trace of Dante remained beneath the scent of his brother.

"Soup. Now," Luca ordered, checking his phone.

Twenty minutes later, I was in the passenger seat of his Bugatti, a thermos of soup on my lap.

He drove like he lived-fast, reckless, aggressive.

"Rossi called me again," Luca said, swerving through traffic. "Said you seemed... different today."

"I'm just tired, Luca."

"Don't be. Sofia needs you to be pleasant. She's sensitive."

We arrived at the private hospital wing the Falcone family owned.

Sofia was lounging in a VIP suite that looked more like a five-star hotel room than a medical facility.

She was wearing a silk robe, her makeup flawless for someone who was supposedly "faint."

When we walked in, her eyes snapped to me, then to Luca.

"Luca!" She held out her arms.

He went to her immediately, sitting on the edge of the bed, kissing her forehead with a tenderness he had never, not once, shown me.

"I brought it," he said gently.

He turned to me and snapped his fingers. "Give it here."

I walked forward and handed him the thermos.

"Pour it," Sofia said, looking at me with a smirk. "My hands are too weak."

Luca looked at me.

I unscrewed the lid and poured the steaming liquid into a bowl. The smell of ginger and herbs filled the room.

"It's hot," I warned.

"I'll feed her," Luca said, taking the bowl from my hands without a word of thanks.

He turned his back to me, spooning the soup, blowing on it gently before bringing it to Sofia's lips.

She opened her mouth, her eyes locking with mine over his shoulder.

She smiled.

A victorious, predatory smile.

She thought she had won the King.

I touched the watch in my pocket, feeling the cool metal against my palm.

I didn't care about the King.

I had the crown jewels.

Turning on my heel, I walked out of the room, leaving my husband to play nursemaid to a rat, while I carried his brother's memory out the door.