Two weeks later, Angela was Mrs. de Luca.
The wedding had been nothing short of exquisite, held on a private beach, under the fading blush of a golden sunset, the waves crashing rhythmically like a quiet orchestra. She had worn a white satin dress that clung to her body like it had been sewn onto her skin, simple but commanding. Matteo hadn't taken his eyes off her once.
Her sister, Alex, had cried silently through the ceremony. Not tears of joy, but of fear, of confusion. Angela had promised her, sworn, that everything was under control. That she knew what she was doing. That it was worth it.
Little Jace had clung to her after the ceremony, whispering "Don't go" into her dress with small, trembling hands. She had crouched to his level and kissed his forehead. "I'm going to fix everything," she whispered back.
Now, the fantasy was over.
The guests were gone, the flowers withering in their vases, the dress stored away. Reality set in fast.
She was Matteo de Luca's wife.
And the game? It had just begun.
Her boss Lorenzo had been elated when he learned she'd pulled it off. "Every weekend," he told her over the phone. "You report back to me every weekend. I don't care how hard it gets. He's hiding something, money, weapons, secrets. Dig."
She promised she would.
That very night, she'd taken refuge in one of the guest bedrooms of Matteo's massive estate. She hadn't asked permission. She didn't think she had to. After all, he had been "busy" and hadn't even shown up until well past midnight.
She was already under the sheets, her makeup off, her hair let down in soft waves when one of his men knocked on the door.
"The boss wants you in his room," the man said, avoiding eye contact. "He said I should bring your things too."
Angela blinked, still groggy from travel and adrenaline. "Tell him I'm tired. I need rest. I'll talk to him tomorrow."
The man hesitated, then gave a small nod and disappeared.
Matteo didn't like being refused.
Twenty minutes later, the door to her room burst open.
She didn't even flinch. She had been expecting him.
Matteo stood in the doorway, the dim light casting sharp shadows over his angular face. He had changed out of his suit, now in a fitted black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, veins prominent along his forearms, the top buttons undone to reveal a sliver of toned chest.
His blue eyes were cold fire.
"I said," he began, voice calm but dangerous, "you're sleeping in my room."
Angela raised an eyebrow from where she sat on the edge of the bed, a silk robe wrapped tightly around her. "I said I'm tired."
"You're my wife," he said simply, stepping fully into the room. "Wives sleep with their husbands."
"Wives also have the right to sleep where they want," she countered. "And this one needs rest."
Something flickered in his eyes, amusement? Irritation? Maybe both. "I wasn't asking, Angela."
He crossed the room in three strides, and before she could process it, his hand wrapped around her wrist. Not rough, but firm. She jolted.
"Let go of me—"
He didn't. He lifted her effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing, and she gasped, kicking at the air, the silk robe sliding slightly off one shoulder.
"Put me down!"
"You want the entire staff to hear you scream on your wedding night?" he murmured near her ear, his breath warm against her skin. "That's not how I like to be welcomed home."
Angela twisted in his arms, fighting him, but he only chuckled darkly and carried her out of the room like she was a disobedient doll.
"Put me down, Matteo—"
"You should have walked to my room. Now you're being carried."
He threw open the door to his bedroom and strode in, placing her down,no, throwing her onto the massive bed. The impact jolted her, and she sat up, breathless, face flushed with rage.
"I'm not your toy," she hissed, pushing her hair out of her face.
Matteo stood over her, unbothered, slowly rolling his sleeves down, then undoing the cuff buttons with deliberate slowness. "No, you're not," he agreed smoothly. "You're my wife."
She glared at him, heart hammering. "You don't own me."
"No," he said, voice dangerously quiet, "but I do expect my wife to sleep in my bed. It's not about sex. It's about principle."
"Right," she muttered. "Your principles involve manhandling women into submission?"
He leaned down slowly, bracing one hand beside her on the bed, his face now inches from hers. "Don't tempt me," he whispered, voice low and rough. "You have no idea what I'm trying to hold back right now. Mi fai bollire il sangue (you make my blood boil)."
Angela froze.
And for a long moment longer than she was willing to admit, she wanted him to close that space between them. Her body reacted before her mind did. Heat pooled in her stomach, her lips parted.
Matteo's gaze dropped to her mouth.
Then, suddenly, he stilled. Something in his expression shifted.
His hand brushed against her leg, against bare skin, and paused. She stiffened.
"Wait," he said, voice a little hoarse. "You're shaking."
"I'm fine," she snapped, trying to move away.
He didn't let her.
His eyes searched her face with something new, something less arrogant, less dominant. Something almost… soft.
His voice, when it came, was quiet. "You're a virgin."
Angela's breath caught in her throat. She cursed herself for not hiding it better.
Matteo straightened slowly. "You married me without telling me that."
Her voice was a whisper now. "Would it have mattered?"
He looked at her for a long time. Then, he stepped away from the bed.
"No," he said after a beat. "But now I know."
Without another word, he turned his back to her, went to the other side of the bed, and began unbuttoning his shirt again, calmly, casually, as if nothing had just happened.
"Stay," he said over his shoulder. "We don't need to do anything. Not tonight."
Angela stared at him, wide eyed, heart thudding against her ribs.
He hadn't touched her.
And yet, somehow… she'd never felt more undone.
That night, Angela hardly slept.
She lay stiffly on the edge of the massive bed, her back to Matteo, her thoughts churning faster than the crashing waves outside their bedroom window.
This man, this Matteo was far more dangerous than she'd anticipated.
He was all charm and polished smiles in public, with the kind of cold control that made people obey without question. But behind that easy smile lived an arrogant, dominant bastard who didn't just expect to win,he knew he would. A man who commanded rooms and people with a glance. A man who didn't take no for an answer.
But Angela wasn't someone who backed down.
She never had, and she wasn't about to start now, not with him.
If he thought she'd be another obedient wife, another pretty piece of furniture to decorate his perfect life, he was going to be sorely disappointed. She had her own mission. Her own rules. She had sacrificed too much to get here—her freedom, her peace, her safety.
For her brother.
For Jace.
And for that, she'd fight fire with fire.
The room was dim, lit only by the moonlight pouring in from the wide windows. The air was quiet except for the slow, rhythmic hum of Matteo's breathing. She could feel the heat radiating off his body behind her.
Then he moved.
Without warning, he rolled over and pulled her into him.
Angela froze.
His strong arm slid around her waist, his chest pressing against her back. The weight of his arm was heavy, warm, and oddly grounding. She could feel his breath, soft and steady against her neck. His scent, spice and cedar filled her senses.
Her heart hammered in her chest like it was trying to escape her ribs.
Was he awake? Was this some new way of asserting dominance? She held her breath, tense and unmoving.
But then she heard it, the deep, even rhythm of his breathing.
He was asleep.
Genuinely, peacefully asleep.
Angela stared into the dark, her body still tense beneath the soft sheets. She could feel every inch of him pressed against her. It wasn't sexual, it was just there. Intimate. Real. The way his body curled around hers, like he was used to sleeping with someone beside him. Like this was normal for him.
It wasn't normal for her.
No man had ever held her like this. No man had ever been allowed to.
She should've moved.
She should've shoved him away, rolled back to her side of the bed and built the emotional wall she always did when things got too close. But somehow… she didn't.
She lay there.
Still, wide awake, heart racing.
And then, slowly, so slowly, her body relaxed.
Her breathing began to match his. The thundering pulse in her ears quieted. Her thoughts stopped spinning.
For the first time since she entered Matteo de Luca's world, her mind went quiet.
With one final, steady breath, Angela allowed herself the smallest surrender.
She closed her eyes.
And slept.