I used to believe invisibility was my greatest defense.
I had spent most of my life perfecting the art of being unseen.
Not invisible in the literal sense-people knew I existed. They passed me on the street, spoke my name, looked at me when courtesy required it. But I learned early how to shrink my presence, how to fold myself into the background so thoroughly that no one thought to look twice.
If no one noticed me, no one could use me. If I stayed quiet, small, careful, I could survive the edges of dangerous spaces without being dragged into their center. That belief had followed me my entire life-through my father's chaos, through whispered arguments and unpaid debts, through nights when survival meant not being seen.
Invisibility was survival.
If my father's creditors didn't notice me, they couldn't use me. If strangers didn't remember my face, they couldn't follow me. If danger didn't register my existence, it would pass me by.
That belief had kept me alive.
Luciano De Luca destroyed that illusion the moment he claimed me.
And now, standing in the center of his world, I was beginning to understand a terrifying truth:
I had never been invisible.
Not to him.
Not to his enemies.
Not to the world that watched power shift around his name.
And definitely not to the men who would kill to hurt him through me.
I had only been unimportant- until i wasn't.
The change didn't come all at once.
It revealed itself in fragments, in subtle shifts that only someone living inside the mansion would notice. Doors opened before I reached them. Guards who once watched me with polite indifference now tracked my movements openly, their attention never straying far.
When I entered a room, conversations softened. When I left, voices resumed-but never quite the same.
I wasn't being ignored.
I was being monitored.
And worse-I was being accounted for.
Luciano didn't explain the changes.
He didn't announce new rules or issue fresh warnings. He simply adjusted the world around me as if it were his to rearrange-which, I was learning, it was.
Breakfasts were moved later if I slept in. Meetings were relocated if I lingered near certain corridors. Staff deferred to me in ways that felt unnatural, uncomfortable.
I wasn't given authority.
I was given consideration.
And in Luciano's world, that was far more dangerous.
I realized how deep it went the morning I overheard two men arguing in Italian near the west hall.
Their voices dropped the moment they noticed me.
One of them bowed his head slightly-not out of respect, but calculation.
"Scusa," he murmured, stepping aside.
I stood frozen as they walked away.
That wasn't courtesy.
That was recognition.
The days after the attack passed in a strange, suspended tension.
Security doubled. Then tripled. Guards rotated in tighter formations. New faces appeared-harder eyes, sharper movements. The mansion became a living thing, alert and coiled, every corridor humming with readiness.
And me?
I became the center of it.
Not openly. Not dramatically. But subtly, unmistakably.
Doors opened faster when I approached. Conversations stopped mid-sentence. Orders were rerouted, schedules rearranged, meetings postponed-not announced, just adjusted around my presence.
It was unsettling.
I wasn't locked away.
I was prioritized.
Luciano didn't come to me immediately after that night.
Not in the way I expected.
There were no confrontations. No punishments. No speeches about obedience or safety. Instead, he watched-from across rooms, from the far end of corridors, from behind unreadable silence.
Always watching.
Always calculating.
When he finally spoke to me again, it wasn't in anger.
It was in strategy.
"You'll attend dinner tonight," he said calmly one evening, standing near the window of his study. "With the council."
My heart stuttered.
"The council?" I echoed. "Your men?"
"Some of them."
"You've never-"
"I know."
That was all he said.
No explanation. No reassurance.
Just a decision that shifted the ground beneath my feet.
Dinner was formal.
Long table. Crystal glasses. Low voices carrying conversations layered with threat and ambition. The air tasted like tension and expensive wine.
Luciano seated me at his right.
Not beside him.
At him.
The message was unmistakable.
Eyes flickered toward me-some curious, some assessing, some openly hostile. Men who ruled territories, who ordered executions, who had never needed permission to take what they wanted.
And yet-
None of them spoke out of turn.
None of them addressed me directly without first acknowledging Luciano.
I wasn't a guest.
I was a declaration.
"You're quiet tonight," one of them finally said, a silver-haired man with sharp eyes and a voice like gravel. "Does she speak?"
Luciano didn't look at him.
"She listens," he replied. "Which is why she's still alive."
The table fell silent.
I swallowed hard, my pulse roaring in my ears.
That wasn't protection.
That was warning.
As the night stretched on, I began to understand something terrifying.
They weren't measuring me.
They were measuring him through me.
Every glance I received wasn't about curiosity-it was about leverage. About weakness. About whether Luciano De Luca had finally chosen something that could be used against him.
And the realization made my stomach twist.
I wasn't invisible.
I was exposed.
Later, when the dinner finally ended, Luciano escorted me out himself. His hand hovered near my back-not touching, not guiding, but close enough that everyone saw it.
The doors closed behind us.
The silence was immediate.
"You didn't have to do that," I said quietly.
"Yes," he replied, "I did."
"You made me a target."
"I made you untouchable."
I laughed softly, without humor. "Those aren't the same thing."
He turned to face me then, his expression dark but controlled.
"They are in my world."
That night, sleep refused to come.
My thoughts spiraled, replaying glances, words, silences. Every moment pointed toward a truth I wasn't ready to face.
Luciano wasn't just protecting me.
He was anchoring me to him.
Publicly. Strategically. Permanently.
And the more visible I became, the more dangerous it was to ever leave.
The proof came the next morning.
A message arrived while I was having breakfast-a folded note delivered discreetly by one of Luciano's men. No name. No signature.
Just four words written in precise ink:
You're closer than you think.
My breath caught.
This wasn't a threat.
It was acknowledgment.
Someone had seen me.
Luciano was furious when he found out.
Not loud. Not explosive.
Cold.
He read the note once, then folded it carefully, as if handling something delicate.
"They're testing boundaries," he said. "Seeing how far they can reach."
"Because of me," I whispered.
"Yes," he said without hesitation. "Because of you."
I waited for resentment.
It didn't come.
Instead, he stepped closer, his presence overwhelming.
"You should understand something now," he said. "You are not collateral anymore."
"What am I, then?"
His gaze dropped briefly to my lips before returning to my eyes.
"Influence."
The word terrified me.
That afternoon, I stood on the balcony overlooking the estate, watching guards move with precision below. Every step they took, every order they followed-it all traced back to one man.
And now, somehow, to me.
Luciano joined me quietly, standing close enough that our arms brushed.
"You were never invisible," he said softly, almost to himself.
"I didn't want to be seen," I replied.
He glanced at me, something unreadable passing through his eyes.
"Neither did I," he admitted. "Until I met you."
The confession felt dangerous.
Not romantic.
Reckless.
That night, lying awake, one truth settled deep into my bones:
In Luciano De Luca's world, being seen meant being claimed.
And I had crossed that threshold without realizing it.
I wasn't hidden.
I wasn't protected quietly.
I was marked.
And the moment the world realized how much I mattered to him-
Everything would change.