A week passes.
I expect a summons to Luca's office. His bedroom. Another cold confrontation about the chaos I've caused between his brothers. Every morning I brace myself for steel-gray eyes and cutting words.
Instead, he finds me at breakfast and says simply: "Do you ride?"
I blink at him, coffee cup halfway to my lips. "Ride?"
"Horses." A ghost of something that might be amusement crosses his face. "Do you ride horses?"
"No. Never been on one in my life."
"Then I'll teach you." He sets down his napkin and stands. "Meet me at the stables in an hour."
He's gone before I can respond.
The stables are immaculate—of course they are. Everything Luca touches is controlled, pristine.
White fences, gleaming wood, the scent of hay and leather and something earthy underneath. Horses watch me pass with liquid dark eyes, their coats brushed to impossible shine.
Luca waits at the far end, holding the reins of a massive black stallion. The animal is beautiful and terrifying—all coiled muscle and barely contained power, yet perfectly calm under Luca's hand.
"This is Dante," he says, stroking the horse's neck. "He's spirited, but he respects authority."
"He's enormous."
"He won't hurt you. I won't let him." Luca's gray eyes meet mine.
He lifts me into the saddle himself, hands firm on my waist, and I gasp at the height. The ground seems very far away. Before I can panic, Luca swings up behind me.
His chest presses against my back. His thighs bracket mine, hard muscle on either side. His arms reach around me to hold the reins, caging me completely in the circle of his body.
I'm surrounded by him—his warmth, his scent, his quiet strength.
"Relax," he murmurs against my ear, and I shiver. "Fighting it only makes it harder. You have to surrender to the motion."
"Is that horse advice or life advice?"
"Both." I can hear the slight smile in his voice. "Ready?"
He clicks his tongue, and Dante begins to move.
The first few minutes are terrifying. Every shift of the horse's body threatens to unseat me, and I grip the saddle with white-knuckled hands.
But Luca's arms stay steady around me, his body moving with the horse's rhythm, and gradually I learn to follow.
"That's it," he says, voice low. "Let your body learn."
His hands guide mine to the reins, patient and methodical. When I tense at a stumble, his voice drops: "Trust me. Let go."
We ride through the estate grounds—rolling hills and forest paths and meadows I never knew existed beyond the mansion walls.
The afternoon sun filters through ancient oaks, dappling everything in gold. It's beautiful. Peaceful. A world away from auctions and arrangements and the weight of impossible choices.
And through it all, Luca holds me. Not possessively, like Matteo. Not protectively, like Santo. Just... present. Solid. A wall I can lean against without fear of collapse.
“Come visit me this evening.” Luca stuns me with an unexpected request. “Let's continue our trust exercises.”
***
His bedroom is exactly like him—stark, minimal, nothing unnecessary.
Dark walls, clean lines, furniture that speaks of quality rather than ostentation. A massive bed dominates the space, draped in charcoal silk. No photographs. No personal touches. Just controlled elegance.
Luca stands by the window when I enter, still in his riding clothes—black shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms corded with muscle. The setting sun paints him in shades of gold and shadow.
"You came," he says.
"You didn't give me much choice."
"I gave you every choice." He turns to face me fully. "You could have said no. You could have stayed in your room. You chose to be here, Gianna."
He's right. I hate that he's right.
"You did well today," he continues, crossing toward me with deliberate steps. "You learned to surrender."
"Is that what this is about? Teaching me to surrender?"
"No." He stops in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "This is about seeing if you can."
His hand rises to my face, fingers tracing my jaw with featherlight precision. Down my neck. Along my collarbone. Learning the landscape of my skin.
"My brothers have had you," he says, voice deceptively calm. "Santo made love to you. Matteo fucked you. And now you're wondering what I'll do. Which version of passion I offer."
"And what version is that?"
"Control." His fingers find the zipper at the back of my dress. "Complete, total control. Not because I take it—because you give it."
The zipper slides down. Cool air kisses my spine.
"I won't touch you until you ask," he continues, easing the fabric off my shoulders. "Won't kiss you until you beg. And I won't let you come until I decide you've earned it."
The dress pools at my feet. I'm standing before him in nothing but black lace.
"And if I don't beg?"
That thin smile curves his lips. "Then this will be a very long night."
He guides me to the bed, laying me down like a specimen to be studied. Then he stands back, still fully dressed, and simply... looks.
His eyes travel over every inch of me. Cataloguing. Memorizing. Finding every sensitive spot, every weakness, without touching at all.
"Beautiful," he murmurs. "But you already knew that."
He removes his shirt slowly, deliberately, letting me watch. His body is lean and powerful, scarred in places—a map of violence survived. Then he joins me on the bed, still in his trousers, and begins.
Luca learns my body methodically.
His mouth finds the hollow of my throat, and I gasp. He notes my response, files it away, moves to test another spot.
The curve of my breast. The sensitive skin below my navel. The inside of my wrist. Each touch is precise, controlled, designed to map my every weakness.
"Please, touch me," I whisper when his fingers skate along my inner thigh but don't go higher.
"I am touching you." His smile is devastating. "Be specific."
He removes my underwear completely. And then he truly begins his study—fingers and tongue exploring every inch while I writhe beneath him, desperate for more.
He brings me to the edge with his mouth, tongue circling my clit until I'm gasping—then pulls away. Does it again with his fingers, curling inside me until my walls flutter—then stops.
"Please, Luca… I can't… I need—"
"What do you need?"
"You inside of me. Please."
"That's what I wanted to hear."
He sheathes himself inside me in one slow, deliberate stroke. My back arches off the bed, a sob tearing from my throat—not from pain, but from the overwhelming relief of finally being filled.
He doesn't pound into me like Matteo. Doesn't make love like Santo. He takes me with controlled, devastating precision—deep strokes that make me feel owned in a way roughness never achieved.
His eyes stay fixed on my face, missing nothing, watching every flicker of pleasure cross my features.
"Come for me," he commands when I'm trembling on the edge. "Now."
I shatter completely. Every wall I've built crumbles as the orgasm tears through me, and I surrender everything—my pride, my control, my very self.
Afterward, I lie trembling in his arms. The first time I've seen Luca hold anyone. His fingers trace my face, my lips, my jaw, and something cracks behind those steel-gray eyes.
"You're becoming a problem I don't know how to solve."
I don't know if it's a warning or a confession. Maybe both.