Chapter 7 DEVIL IN A DRESS SHIRT

Leone's POV)

I've stared death in the face with a glass of whiskey in my hand. Buried men who crossed me, signed off on hits during dinner, walked into a shootout just to remind myself I wasn't scared of anything.

Turns out, I was wrong.

Because nothing had ever prepared me for this barefoot fury of a woman stomping through my house like she paid rent, yelling in a cocktail of English and Italian, as if the walls owed her an apology.

Ariana.

My supposed fiancée. Or, more accurately, the walking, talking receipt of a debt her father never planned to pay.

I stood by the window in my study, sipping Laphroaig and watching the SUV roll through the gates like it knew it had just delivered a disaster in heels. My men were visibly flinching as she stepped out, shouting curses like she was born in a mafia movie.

"She bit Enzo," Matteo said behind me, half-laughing, half-shocked.

I didn't even blink. "Of course she did. How bad?"

"She drew blood. He's icing it with a frozen lasagna."

I turned to him slowly. "Lasagna?"

"We ran out of ice packs," he shrugged. "She said if we gave her one, she'd throw it at your portrait."

"My portrait?" I blinked. "Wait... who even put that thing up?"

"Your mom," he replied, completely deadpan.

Of course she did.

Before I could process how much therapy my household apparently needed, I heard the stomp-stomp of heels approaching like a war drum. Then the door slammed open with enough force to scare the ancestors out of their frames.

There she was.

Hair in elegant chaos. Face flushed with fury. Her robe flapping like a cape. She pointed at me with the kind of rage you only see in soap operas or during Nigerian weddings gone wrong.

"You," she hissed. "How dare you!"

Ah, yes. We've reached the screaming phase.

"I haven't done anything... yet," I said coolly, walking to the liquor cabinet.

"YOU KIDNAPPED ME!" she yelled, her hands flailing like she wanted to slap a confession out of me.

"I rescued you," I corrected, pouring myself another drink. "From the ambush. You're welcome, by the way."

She narrowed her eyes so tightly I thought her lashes would fuse together. "You tied me up!"

"For your own good. You were flailing like a possessed kitten."

She marched right up to me, practically nose to chest. "You call this safety? You call this marriage?"

"I call this Tuesday," I muttered, offering her a glass of whiskey like I was hosting a guest instead of negotiating with a feral bride.

She looked at it. Then at me. Then back at the drink like it had insulted her ancestors.

"What is this?" she asked, suspicious.

"Whiskey. Twelve years older than you."

She wrinkled her nose. "I only drink things that don't smell like betrayal and male ego."

I blinked. "We're going to get along just fine."

---

Later that night, I sat in the surveillance room, watching the ambush footage again. My guys had been sloppy. That was rare. The men who attacked us? Definitely not mine. Their aim was trash. Their formation? Laughable. Whoever sent them was either desperate or stupid.

"Boss," Matteo walked in with a bruised lip and a sheepish grin. "We've got another situation."

I raised a brow. "Is Enzo bleeding again?"

"No, this time she locked herself in the wine cellar."

I stared at him. "That door is coded."

"She hacked it."

"...She hacked the code?"

"She said and I quote 'I may not know how to shoot a gun, but I've been Nevio's daughter longer than I've been anyone's bride.'"

I closed my eyes and let out a long, slow breath. "Tell me she didn't touch the 1982 Amarone."

Matteo winced. "She said it looked emotionally supportive."

I stood up so fast my chair skidded back. "That bottle is older than her father."

When I finally got to the cellar, I found her perched on a crate, legs crossed, robe hanging off one shoulder like she was doing a photoshoot for "Mafia Weekly: Hostage Edition."

The bottle was beside her. Empty. She held the last glass in her hand like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

"You do realize that bottle is older than you," I said, staring at the red stain on her lip.

She took a slow sip, her eyes sharp. "Then maybe you should upgrade your security system."

"Good point. I'll let the guards know that a five-foot-six wine-thief in fuzzy slippers broke the perimeter."

She tilted her head. "I want to go home."

I met her gaze. "This is your home now."

She stood, slowly. The robe trailed behind her like smoke. "I didn't ask for this, Leone."

"And I didn't ask to inherit your father's mess," I said, quieter. "But here we are."

For a moment, we just stood there. The silence was heavy, full of things neither of us was ready to say. Her breathing was tight. My jaw was clenched.

Then she murmured, "You're not as tall as you look in that painting."

I blinked. Then I actually laughed. "You're not as innocent as you act."

She raised a brow. "Touché."

The next morning, I found her in the kitchen. Barefoot. Hair wild. My robe trailing after her like a cape of chaos. And she was threatening the chef with a rolling pin.

"She asked for scrambled eggs!" the chef shouted, clearly near tears. "And now she says they're too scrambled!"

"They're soupy!" she snapped. "Even soup would sue for identity theft!"

I leaned against the doorframe, biting into an apple. "You're causing destruction before coffee. That's impressive."

She glared. "Your eggs are a hate crime."

"You want to cook?" I asked.

She blinked. "You'd let me?"

"Why not? Insurance is paid up. I'm feeling adventurous."

Later, I sat with my inner circle in the underground war room we call The Den. The walls were covered in old maps and modern paranoia. But my mind wasn't on strategy.

"She's been here twelve hours and you've already forgotten how to run an empire," Matteo said, smirking.

"She's a tornado," I muttered.

"You like her."

I looked at him. "Come again?"

"You like her," he repeated, grinning. "Your jaw twitches when you lie."

I narrowed my eyes. "That twitch might be the last thing you see."

But damn it... he wasn't wrong.

I hadn't expected Ariana to be this-whatever this was. She wasn't meek. She wasn't soft. She wasn't some naïve pawn in Nevio's game. She was a hurricane wrapped in silk. A walking contradiction.

And somehow, that made her more dangerous than anyone I've ever faced.

That evening, I found her in the garden. Curled up on a stone bench, hugging her knees, staring at the sky like it had betrayed her.

"You ever wish you were someone else?" she asked quietly.

"All the time," I said.

She looked at me like she hadn't expected me to answer. "Seriously?"

"I didn't always want this life."

"What did you want?"

I gave a dry laugh. "A bakery. Peace. Quiet. Croissants instead of bullets."

She chuckled. A real one, this time.

"You still could," she said.

"Where would I even go?"

"A mafia don in an apron?" she grinned. "You'd break the internet."

I gave her a sideways glance. "You'd eat my croissants?"

She nodded. "If you don't poison them first."

I didn't reply. Just stared at her.

That smile. That mouth. That fire.

Damn it.

I was in serious trouble.