Morning light spilled softly through the floor to ceiling windows, golden rays kissing the silk sheets of the oversized bed. Angela stirred beneath the warm covers, her hand stretching out to the other side—but it was empty.
Matteo was gone.
A flicker of confusion crossed her sleepy features before she pushed the covers back and sat up. The events of the previous day—his chilling calm, the flash marriage, the opulent house—rushed back into her mind. Her pulse quickened. Still adjusting to her new reality, she padded to the bathroom, freshen up for the day, brushed out her hair, and threw on a crisp white shirt and shorts. No need for anything fancy. It wasn't like she was trying to impress him.
Descending the stairs, Angela followed the scent of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries. Her bare feet met polished marble as she reached the grand dining area. The sight that met her eyes made her breath catch.
Matteo sat at the head of the table, dressed in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo that hugged his broad shoulders and lean frame. The morning light glinted off his cufflinks, each one embedded with a dark stone that matched the cool sharpness in his eyes. He looked like he belonged on the cover of a luxury magazine—dangerous, beautiful, and untouchable.
Angela froze, her presence catching his attention.
His gaze lifted to hers—slow, assessing, lingering. She expected the cold indifference of yesterday, but what she saw instead made her stomach flutter.
His eyes dipped over her frame, taking in the long shirt barely brushing her thighs, the way her hair spilled in waves down her shoulders. The intensity in his stare sent a chill down her spine.
He stood up slightly, one hand still resting on the table, and spoke with that deep, honeyed voice of his.
"Buongiorno, moglie." (Good morning wife).
Angela blinked. She didn't speak Italian, but she knew what that phrase meant. She swallowed the tight knot in her throat and replied quietly, "Good morning."
His lips quirked into a subtle smirk, as if pleased she understood. "Join me," he said, motioning to the seat beside him.
She hesitated for a beat, then walked over and sat down. The table was laid out with an elegant spread—croissants, fruit, eggs, and strong-smelling coffee. She reached for a glass of orange juice, the silence between them stretching like a drawn bow.
"I want to know more about you," Matteo said suddenly, his voice casual, though his eyes watched her with razor sharp precision. "Tell me something real, Angela."
She glanced at him, guarded. "What do you want to know?"
He leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. "Your family. Your past."
Angela looked down at her plate, her fingers tightening around her fork. "I lost both of my parents years ago. I only have my siblings now—my sister Alexandra, and my younger brother Jace."
She didn't say more. Not about Jace's illness. Not about the debt. That part of her life had to remain buried, hidden beneath the surface where Matteo's calculating eyes couldn't reach.
He nodded slowly, lips pursed as if thinking.
Then, unexpectedly, his eyes roamed over her again, slower this time, deliberate. He muttered something under his breath in Italian, something that made his voice drop a note deeper.
"Sei così bella che potrei mangiarti, principessa." (You look good enough to eat, princess).
Angela tilted her head, not understanding the words but catching the teasing glint in his gaze. She shrugged, sipping her juice. He smirked, clearly amused by her confusion.
"Are you always this charming in the morning?" she asked dryly.
He chuckled. "Only when I wake up to a pretty woman at my table."
Angela rolled her eyes, trying not to let his words sink too deep. She couldn't afford to be charmed by him. Not when her life was a game of survival and secrets.
Matteo stood, brushing his hands against his jacket as he adjusted his cuffs. "I have to go to work," he announced, his tone shifting into something colder, more formal. "Meetings. Deals. The usual."
She didn't ask what kind of meetings or what kind of deals. She already knew the kind of empire he ran—and the blood that must line its foundations.
"If you need anything—clothes, food, jewelry—whatever," he added, voice casual again, "my men will drive you. Anywhere you want."
Angela looked up at him, startled by the freedom he offered.
But then his voice hardened, his next words laced with steel.
"But I don't want to see you with another man. Ever."
The warning hit like ice down her spine.
"I don't like sharing," he said smoothly. "I don't care if it's your tailor, your driver, or your waiter, keep your distance.O non ti piaceranno le conseguenze." (Or you won't like the consequences).
Angela stared at him, pulse racing. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't threaten. He didn't have to.
His control was in the quiet. In the certainty that if she disobeyed, the consequences would follow.
He stepped away from the table, buttoned his jacket, and smirked again.
"I'll be home before dinner. Don't miss me too much."
And just like that, Matteo De Luca walked out the door, leaving behind a silence that wrapped around Angela like a noose.
She sat there for a long while after he left, staring down at the untouched food. Her mind spun with too many thoughts—about Jace, about Alexandra, about what she'd gotten herself into.
This wasn't just a game anymore.
Matteo De Luca was dangerous. Powerful. Unpredictable.
And now, he was her husband.
Whether she liked it or not.