Chapter 1 - The Fall
The morning air of Lake Forest was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and old money as my cab rolled through the wrought-iron gates of the Duca estate. I was thirty-four years old, plus-size, and fresh off the emotional wreckage of a two-year relationship with Ethan Cole, a man who treated my self-esteem like a DIY renovation project. When Rosa Duca’s cream-colored, embossed letter arrived offering a ninety-day marriage arrangement with her infamous grandson, Lorenzo, I should have thrown it out. Instead, curiosity got the better of me—or perhaps just a stubborn refusal to let fear dictate my life anymore.
Stepping into the marble foyer of the Duca mansion, my suitcase by my side, I felt completely out of my depth. The grand hallway boasted soaring ceilings, a sweeping staircase, and an Oriental rug that apparently had a personal vendetta against my right heel. As I took my first step, my heel caught. My suitcase rolled. I pitched forward into open space.
Panicking, I reached out for the closest thing to steady myself: a heavy, black silk necktie.
I yanked. Hard.
A sharp gasp of surprise echoed through the cavernous space as I slammed directly into a wall of solid muscle, nearly strangling the most feared man in Chicago.
“If you’re going to murder me, Mrs. Carter, I’d prefer you wait until after the wedding,” a deep, calm voice rumbled above me.
His voice was entirely devoid of panic, which somehow made it worse. I looked up. Lorenzo Duca was thirty-eight, standing around six-foot-five, built like a linebacker dressed for a federal indictment. Dark hair, a trimmed beard, and eyes so dangerously serene they made my stomach flip. Behind him, one of his security guards turned toward the wall, his shoulders visibly shaking with suppressed laughter.
“I’m not murdering you. I’m falling,” I stammered, my face burning. “There’s a difference. Technically.”
I tried to step back, but my shoe betrayed me again. Before I could crash headfirst into the polished marble, Lorenzo’s large hands caught me securely around the waist. His grip was firm, effortless, and entirely steady. In the background, a gorgeous blonde woman—Bianca Romano, as I would later learn—watched us with a cold, predatory smile that suggested she had already placed bets on how fast I would fail.
“Do I get three falls before you send me home?” I muttered, breathless.
The guard behind us made a muffled choking sound. Lorenzo stared down at me, his expression unreadable, until one single corner of his mouth twitched upward.
“You smiled,” I accused, pointing a finger at his chest.
“No,” he replied smoothly.
“You absolutely did.”
That first chaotic encounter shattered every preconceived notion I had about the legendary crime boss. Later that evening, Rosa Duca—a fierce seventy-nine-year-old matriarch who commanded the room despite standing barely five feet tall—presided over a tense dinner where the ghost of Lorenzo’s past rejections hung heavy in the air. Six women had come before me. Six women had walked away. When Rosa asked if I had heard the whispers about her grandson, I didn’t flinch.
“I’ve heard people with too much money gossip worse than women at a church bake sale,” I replied bluntly.
Rosa cackled with delight. Lorenzo merely watched me, his dark eyes searching mine for any sign of genuine fear or disgust, finding neither.
Later that night, Lorenzo carried my suitcase up to a grand bedroom himself, handing me a heavy brass key.
“One key?” I asked, holding it up.
May you like
“Yours,” he said quietly. “Nobody enters unless you permit it. Not housekeeping. Not Marco. Not me.”
The gesture caught me completely off guard. My ex, Ethan, used to copy my apartment keys without asking, invading my privacy under the guise of love. Here, a man half of Chicago feared was offering me absolute autonomy. As he turned to leave, I watched his broad back disappear down the dimly lit corridor, realizing that the real mystery of Lorenzo Duca wasn't why six women had left him—it was what secrets he was guarding behind those locked doors.
