BECAUSE OF HIS SIZE, THE MAFIA BOSS WAS REJECTED BY FIVE FIANCÉES WHO CALLED HIM A MONSTER — UNTIL A CLUMSY AMERICAN BAKER AGREED TO BECOME HIS BRIDE AND UNCOVERED THE DEADLIEST SECRET IN MILAN!

By midnight, the villa had settled into a tense, watchful quiet. Double security patrols roamed the perimeter walls, their flashlights sweeping the dark alpine waters below. Dante’s visit had drawn the battle lines, and everyone in the Moretti household knew that the upcoming Gala in Milan would be the ultimate testing ground.

I couldn't sleep.

I wandered into the sprawling private library on the second floor, looking for something to read. The room was illuminated only by the warm glow of a roaring stone fireplace.

Sitting on a low leather stool near the hearth was Luca.

He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of dark lounge trousers. In the firelight, the true extent of his physical history was laid bare.

His back and left shoulder were covered in thick, pale, interwoven burn scars—the horrific remnants of an explosive blast that had clearly almost taken his life. He was attempting to apply a specialized medicinal balm to a tight, inflamed patch of scar tissue between his shoulder blades, his large reach struggling with the awkward angle.

He heard the soft scuff of my slippers on the hardwood floor and immediately reached for a linen shirt resting on the arm of the chair, his posture stiffening in defensive shame.

"Don't," I said softly, stepping into the warm glow of the fire. "Please, Luca. Don't hide from me."

Luca froze, his hand hovering over the shirt. He kept his back turned to me, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as if trying to shield me from the sight of his ruined skin.

"It isn't pleasant to look at, Sophia," he murmured, his voice thick with old, unhealed pain. "The other women... they couldn't even stand to look at me in broad daylight, let alone see the wreckage beneath the clothes."

I walked across the Persian rug until I stood directly behind him. Without saying a word, I reached out and gently took the jar of medicinal balm from his hand.

I scooped a small amount of the soothing cream onto my fingertips.

Then, with gentle, deliberate care, I pressed my hands against his scarred back.

Luca flinched violently at the first contact, his entire muscular frame locking like iron. But I didn't pull away. I began to massage the balm into the tight, fibrous tissue, using slow, rhythmic, soothing circles.

Under my hands, I felt the impossible tension in his body slowly melt away. A long, shuddering breath escaped his chest.

"How did it happen?" I asked softly, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Six years ago," Luca answered quietly, staring into the flickering embers. "A car bomb outside our warehouse in Genoa. My father was killed instantly. I managed to pull Elena from the burning wreckage, but the fuel tank ruptured before I could clear the blast radius. I spent four months in an induced coma and another year learning how to walk again."

"You saved your sister's life," I said, leaning down slightly, my chest brushing against his uninjured shoulder as my hands continued their gentle work. "These aren't ugly, Luca. These are the marks of a man who would walk through fire to protect the people he loves."

Luca turned his head slowly, looking up at me over his shoulder. In the amber light of the hearth, his grey eyes were dark with an overwhelming, vulnerable intensity that took my breath away.

"You don't look at me with disgust," he whispered, his voice trembling with a raw emotion he could no longer conceal. "Every day I wait for you to wake up and realize you made a terrible mistake. Every day I expect you to ask for a ticket back to America."

I set the jar of balm down on the mantle.

I stepped around the stool until I was standing between his parted knees. I reached down, placing both of my hands gently on his rugged, bearded cheeks, forcing him to look directly into my eyes.

"Listen to me, Luca Moretti," I said firmly, my thumbs caressing his cheekbones. "I am not going anywhere. I don't care how big you are. I don't care about your scars. And I certainly don't care about what five foolish women thought. You are my husband. And I am proud to be your wife."

A ragged sound tore from Luca's throat.

His large hands came up, gripping my waist with a fierce, desperate possessiveness. He pulled me down into his lap, burying his face into the crook of my neck, his broad shoulders shaking faintly as he held me against his heart.

I wrapped my arms around his neck, tangling my fingers in his dark hair, holding the mountain of a man while the fire crackled in the dark.

When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were blazing with a passion so profound it made the room spin.

"Sophia," he breathed my name like a prayer.

He leaned up and captured my lips in a kiss that was entirely different from the chapel. It was slow, deep, hungry, and devastatingly tender. His mouth moved over mine with reverent worship, his large hands cradling me as if I were the most precious, fragile treasure in the entire world.