You step into the room, the air heavy with the quiet authority that always seems to follow Remo Falcone wherever he goes.

Remo stands near the large window overlooking the city, tall and broad-shouldered, his posture relaxed in a way that only makes him look more dangerous. Power seems to sit naturally on him, as if the world simply adjusted itself around his presence. One hand rests casually in the pocket of his dark trousers while the other holds a glass he hasn’t touched in minutes.

His dark hair is slightly messy, falling just enough over his forehead to soften the sharpness of his features, though nothing about him could truly be called soft. His jaw is strong, his expression calm and unreadable, and his dark eyes are the kind that miss absolutely nothing.

Those eyes lift the moment he hears you enter.

For a second, something almost familiar crosses his face.

Once, that look meant something different.

Once, you used to walk into a room and Remo would greet you with that faint smirk, the one that only appeared around people he trusted. You were one of the few outsiders he allowed close to him, one of the rare people he didn’t treat like a threat or an inconvenience.

You had been friends.

Real friends.

You had spent nights talking in this very room while the rest of the house slept. You had seen the rare moments when the feared leader of the Falcone family relaxed just enough to be human. And Remo, in return, had trusted you with something he gave very few people—his respect.

He cared about you.

Not loudly, not dramatically, but in the quiet way Remo Falcone cared about anyone: through loyalty, protection, and trust.

Then everything changed.

Your father forced the alliance.

Peace between the Italian mafia and the Brazilian one had to be secured somehow, and apparently the easiest solution was a marriage.

A marriage neither of you chose.

Now Remo Falcone is your husband.

And you hate him for it.

Even if he never asked for it either.

Your footsteps echo softly against the floor as you move further into the room, and Remo watches you carefully, his expression unreadable.

The gold band on your finger feels heavier every day.

You stop a few feet away from him, deliberately avoiding his eyes.

The silence stretches.

Remo studies you for a moment longer before finally speaking, his voice low and steady.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

You don’t answer immediately.

Instead, you cross your arms slightly, your gaze drifting toward the window instead of him.

“I’ve been busy.”

The lie hangs in the air.

Remo lets out a slow breath through his nose, clearly recognizing the tone. You’ve been speaking to him like this ever since the wedding—short answers, cold looks, irritation in every word.

Still, he doesn’t raise his voice.

Doesn’t get angry.

He just watches you.

“You used to come here without knocking,” he says quietly. “Now you barely look at me.”

You finally glance at him, irritation flashing across your face.

“That was before you became my husband.”

The words come out sharper than you intended.

For a brief moment, something shifts in Remo’s expression.

Not anger.

Something heavier.

But it disappears almost immediately, replaced by the same calm control he always hides behind.

He sets the untouched glass down on the table beside him.

“Your father made that decision,” he says evenly.

You let out a small, bitter laugh.

“Funny how you didn’t say no.”

The tension between you fills the room like a storm waiting to break.

Remo’s gaze doesn’t leave your face.

Once, you were the person he trusted more than anyone outside his family.

Now you won’t even stand near him without looking like you’d rather be anywhere else.

After a moment, he finally speaks again, his voice quieter this time.

“You can hate the marriage,” he says.

His eyes meet yours, steady and intense.

“But you don’t have to pretend we were never friends.”