Sofia had never felt smaller than she did standing in Alessandro Moretti's home.
The black marble floors, the echoing silence, the armed men at every corner—it was like stepping into another universe, one made entirely of fear and money. The kind of place where you didn't walk too loudly or breathe too deeply.
And yet, here she was. The literature graduate from Palermo with shaking hands and shoes too soft for this world.
She followed Alessandro silently through a corridor lined with abstract art and impossibly high ceilings. He didn't look back to check if she was keeping up. He didn't say a word.
He didn't need to.
The weight of his presence alone was enough to crush her thoughts into a single thrum of I don't belong here.
When they stopped in front of a tall door, he turned the handle and pushed it open. The room inside was large, elegant, cold. The color palette was all muted greys and stone whites. A four-poster bed dominated the space, flanked by windows with sheer curtains that danced in the breeze.
"This is your room," he said, his voice clipped. "You'll stay here until the engagement announcement."
Sofia looked around, clutching her hands in front of her. "It's beautiful."
"It's functional," he corrected. "Dinner is at eight. Someone will bring you suitable clothes."
Her cheeks flushed. "What's wrong with the clothes I brought?"
He finally looked at her—really looked at her—and she wished he hadn't.
"You dress like a convent girl," he said flatly. "We'll be in public often. People will talk. I don't need anyone questioning why I'd marry someone who looks terrified to wear red."
Sofia opened her mouth, then closed it again. What was she supposed to say? That she wasn't trying to impress him? That she didn't know what colors were allowed in this strange, sharp world?
He stepped back toward the doorway. "You'll be safe here. But you'll follow my rules. No wandering. No questions. No lies."
"I wasn't planning to lie to you," she said softly.
Alessandro paused, one brow lifting. "Everyone lies eventually."
And with that, he was gone.
---
Sofia sat at the edge of the bed for a long time, staring at the suitcase someone had placed near the armoire. Her phone had no signal. The silence was thick, the kind that presses on your chest when you're alone somewhere you shouldn't be.
She touched the edge of the bedspread. It felt like silk. Everything in this room screamed money and luxury, but it still felt more like a cage than a comfort.
She'd thought she'd cry. But there were no tears left. Just exhaustion and a dull ache in her ribs that wouldn't go away.
A knock interrupted her spiral.
When she opened the door, a young woman stood there holding a tray. She had dark hair pulled into a tight bun and wore a tailored black dress that made her look both professional and untouchable.
"Miss Bellini," she said. "I'm Francesca. I'll be your personal assistant while you're staying here."
Sofia blinked. "My... assistant?"
Francesca stepped inside and placed the tray on the coffee table. "Your schedule, wardrobe, meals, and transportation will be handled through me. If you have questions, you can ask—but I can't promise I'll answer them."
That last line was said without humor.
Sofia gave a small nod. "Thank you."
Francesca looked her over critically. "Mr. Moretti asked that you be fitted for new clothing. I'll bring the designer tomorrow morning."
Sofia's stomach twisted. "Is it necessary?"
"Yes."
That was it. No explanation. No apology. Just a simple, unshakable fact.
Sofia lowered herself into the chair beside the tray, her hands trembling slightly as she lifted the teacup. "Do you know him well?"
Francesca tilted her head. "Alessandro?"
"Yes."
There was a pause—long enough for Sofia to regret asking.
"He doesn't let people know him," Francesca said finally. "Not really."
"Has he ever been... engaged before?"
Francesca blinked at her. Then shook her head. "You're the first."
That didn't comfort her. If anything, it only made her feel more like a pawn on a chessboard she didn't understand.
After Francesca left, Sofia sat alone in silence, staring out the window as the sun dipped low behind the hills of Sicily. She wondered if her father was sitting in his office with a glass of brandy, proud of himself for selling her off like cattle. She wondered if her mother would have fought harder, if she were still alive.
She wondered what Alessandro saw when he looked at her.
Weakness?
A problem?
A nuisance?
Or something else he couldn't quite name?
---
Dinner was served in a room that looked like it belonged in a palace—long, gleaming table, massive chandelier, silver cutlery she was afraid to touch.
Alessandro was already seated when she arrived, dressed in another dark shirt that made his eyes seem even colder. She took her place at the far end of the table, not sure if she was allowed to speak.
He didn't say anything for a long time.
Finally, he set his fork down and spoke.
"You're not what I expected."
Sofia looked up, startled. "I'm not?"
"No," he said simply. "I thought they'd send someone louder. Someone who'd pretend to be a socialite. Play the game."
She wasn't sure whether to be insulted or relieved. "I don't know how to play."
"That's clear."
Silence stretched between them.
She took a breath. "I didn't ask for this."
"Neither did I."
"Then why agree?"
His gaze met hers, sharp and unreadable. "Because I had to."
"Because of the inheritance?"
He stilled.
So she had guessed correctly.
"The family council doesn't trust anyone unmarried with power," he said, voice lower now. "They believe a man who has nothing to lose is dangerous."
Sofia frowned. "Isn't that exactly what you are?"
A beat.
Then, surprisingly—a smirk.
"Exactly."
For a moment, just a moment, he didn't look like a villain. He looked like a man carrying the weight of an empire on his shoulders and doing his best not to collapse beneath it.
"You don't have to be cruel," she said softly.
Alessandro tilted his head. "I'm not cruel. I'm careful."
"There's a difference?"
"Yes. One gets you killed. The other keeps you alive."
---
Later that night, Sofia lay in bed staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep.
She heard footsteps pass her door once. Then stop.
She held her breath.
The footsteps resumed and faded down the hall.
She wasn't sure if she felt relief or disappointment.
---
The next morning, Francesca woke her before dawn with coffee and a firm "Get dressed. You're meeting Alessandro's aunt."
Sofia blinked sleepily. "His aunt?"
"She's an old Sicilian. She'll ask questions. Don't say anything stupid."
"What counts as stupid?"
Francesca offered a faint smile. "Anything honest."