Chapter 3 - The Bellini Estate
The gates of the Bellini estate in Lake Forest looked like the entrance to a fortress. Wrought-iron bars carved with the crest of a lion guarded a winding driveway bordered by ancient oak trees.
Inside the blacked-out interior of the Bellini Maybach, Sophie smoothed down the front of her dress for the hundredth time. It was a emerald-green silk gown Luca’s stylist had delivered to her tiny apartment three hours earlier. It hugged her curves, fell to the floor in heavy, shimmering folds, and left her shoulders completely bare.
"Stop fidgeting," Luca said beside her. He was dressed in a classic black tuxedo, looking terrifyingly handsome.
"I feel like a fake," Sophie admitted, her fingers tightening around her small evening clutch. "I smell like vanilla extract and floor wax. These people are going to see right through me."
Luca reached out, covering her hands with his own broad palm. The heat of his touch immediately grounded her frantic pulse.
"Listen to me," Luca said, his voice dropping to a low, commanding register. "The people in that house are sharks. My uncles, my cousins, my business associates—they will scan you for weakness the moment you step through the door. If you look nervous, they will bite."
"Comforting," she squeaked.
"You don't need to perform for them," Luca continued, leaning closer until she could catch the scent of cedarwood and costly cologne on his neck. "You only need to look at me. Let them think you are madly in love with me, and let them think I am entirely helpless against you."
"Helpless?" Sophie snorted. "You?"
"I can be very convincing," he whispered softly.
The car stopped. Marco opened the door.
When Luca stepped out and offered his arm to Sophie, the ambient noise of the estate—the clinking glasses from the terrace, the string quartet playing softly near the fountain—seemed to drop in volume. Servors in white jackets froze. Guests turned their heads.
Luca led her up the grand marble staircase into the main hall. Crystal chandeliers hung from painted ceilings, casting light on marble statues and oil paintings of ruthless-looking men.
"Ah, the prodigal grandson arrives!" a booming voice echoed across the room.
A broad-chested man with graying hair and a sharp mustache stepped forward, flanked by two younger men who shared Luca's dark features but lacked his calm composure. This was Uncle Mateo—Luca’s primary rival within the family's legitimate and illegitimate sectors.
"Mateo," Luca acknowledged coldly, not letting go of Sophie’s hand.
Mateo’s sharp eyes slid down to Sophie, landing instantly on the glittering ring on her left finger. His eyes widened slightly before a predatory smile crossed his face.
"And who is this charming creature?" Mateo asked, taking Sophie’s hand and kissing the air above her knuckles. "Luca, you haven't introduced us. We were beginning to think you were married to your spreadsheets."
"This is Sophie Bennett," Luca said, his arm sliding around Sophie’s waist and pulling her firmly against his flank. The intimacy felt so natural, so possessively intense, that Sophie’s breath hitched in her throat. "My fiancée."
The room seemed to lose two degrees of temperature. Mateo’s smile tightened around the edges.
"Fiancée?" one of the younger cousins sneered. "We haven't heard a word about a Miss Bennett. Which family are you from, my dear? The New York Bennetts? Or the construction group in Miami?"
Sophie felt a prickle of annoyance beat back her fear. She straightened her posture, looking the cousin dead in the eye.
"Neither," Sophie said clearly, her voice echoing over the quiet music. "My father was a mechanic and my mother was an elementary school teacher. I run a bakery. I make croissants, butter cake, and sourdough."
A few guests gasped quietly. Mateo laughed, though his eyes remained icy. "A baker? Luca, you brought a servant girl into your grandmother's house?"
Before Luca could respond—before the dark, lethal anger flashing in his eyes could turn into a physical threat—a soft, raspy voice called out from the top of the grand staircase.
"Mateo, shut your mouth before I have Marco throw you into the duck pond."
Everyone turned.
Standing at the top of the stairs, leaning on a silver-headed cane, was Nonna Rosa Bellini. She was eighty years old, tiny, dressed in elegant black lace, but her dark eyes were as sharp as surgical steel.
"Nonna," Luca said, his cold posture instantly melting into genuine warmth.
Sophie watched as the feared mafia boss stepped away from his rival and walked toward the stairs, offering his hand to the frail woman.
Nonna Rosa ignored Luca’s hand, stepped right past him, and walked straight down to Sophie. She stopped three inches away, staring up into Sophie’s face with intense scrutiny.
Sophie held her breath, refusing to shrink back.
Slowly, Nonna Rosa reached up, wiped a tiny, invisible speck of dust from Sophie's emerald gown, and looked at her hands. She lifted Sophie’s left hand, examining the ring, then looked back at Sophie’s face.
"You have flour under your fingernails," Nonna Rosa observed neutrally.
Sophie swallowed hard. "I tried to scrub it off, ma'am. Sourdough starter is stubborn."
Nonna Rosa’s eyes flickered. Then, a slow, radiant smile broke across her wrinkled face.
"A woman who works with her hands," Nonna Rosa declared loudly, turning to face the silent crowd of millionaires and mobsters. "Finally! My grandson brings home a real woman instead of another airheaded fortune hunter!"
Nonna Rosa wrapped her arm around Sophie’s elbow. "Come, child. Leave these boring men to talk about their money. You are going to tell me how to fix my lemon tart recipe."
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Sophie looked back over her shoulder. Luca was standing at the foot of the stairs, watching her with an expression she couldn't quite decipher. It was a mix of shock, relief, and something far more dangerous.
Admiration.
