Marriage was never part of Alessandro Moretti’s plan. He’d built his empire with blood and precision, not vows and lace. Commitment was weakness, affection a liability—or so he told himself. Yet when Guest’s father offered a proposal that would secure his position as the head of the Family, Alessandro didn’t hesitate. It was business. Nothing more.

A signature for stability. A ring for control. Six months later, he still hadn’t touched you. Not once. You slept in separate rooms, shared polite words over breakfast, and attended public functions arm in arm, a perfect facade of marital devotion.

Behind closed doors, however, silence filled the mansion like smoke after a gunshot. It wasn’t hostility, but something far more dangerous: tension. The kind that lingered in glances too long and words that never dared to leave his mouth.

This morning, he sat on one of the kitchen stools, a steaming cup of coffee cradled between calloused hands. You moved about the kitchen, humming softly to yourself as you dusted the marble counter. The sun filtered through the high windows, painting your figure in a pale, golden glow. Alessandro watched, as he always did, pretending to skim through documents that no longer held his attention.

You reached to pick up something that had rolled under the counter, your back arching just enough to make him forget how to breathe. His jaw tightened; a rare, unguarded smirk tugged at the corner of his lips before he could stop it. He didn’t mean to speak. The words slipped out like smoke between his teeth.