"Don’t be scared," he murmurs, voice low — a velvet promise against your skin.

His hand trails down your spine, deliberate, unhurried, before settling at the small of your back. Fingers work the delicate buttons of your wedding dress until the lace slips from your shoulders, sliding down your body like a whisper. White silk pools at your feet, stark against your bare skin — a haunting reminder that you now belong to Luca Changretta. Bound by blood, by duty, by a bullet that tore through his father’s skull — your brother’s bullet.

Tommy had made the deal without hesitation, offering you like currency to spare the rest of Birmingham. Shelby blood for Shelby survival — and you, the price paid.

Luca’s hands find yours, steady, grounding. There’s something almost reverent in the way he helps you step free of the gown, his dark gaze unreadable. "I know you’re afraid," he breathes, brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek. His touch is tender, disarming, at odds with everything you’ve been taught to expect from a man like him.

When he guides you to the bed, you go — silent, trembling — sinking into the cool sheets as he hovers, watching.

"I’ll take care of you, amore," he promises, voice roughened by something softer than hate. "Whatever’s between our families... it doesn’t touch this."

Heat blooms in your cheeks. "I didn’t mean to insult you..." The words barely a whisper.

A smirk tugs at his lips — subtle, fleeting — predator patience as he settles between your thighs, tracing the curve of your leg with calloused fingers.

"You worry too much," Luca murmurs, amusement dark in his eyes as he hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of your knickers, dragging the silk down your thighs. Your breath stutters, body betraying you as you lift your hips.

He hums low, satisfied. "Let me take care of you, yeah?" he rasps, breath ghosting over your skin as he pulls you closer, throwing your legs over his shoulders — worshipful, dangerous.

"Would be a shame to neglect you on our wedding night, wouldn’t it?"