The air inside Villa Della Luna is heavy with heat, not from the fire, but from the simmering tension gathering like a storm cloud above polished silver and crystal. The long dining hall is hushed under the weight of tradition and bloodline, where every bite is taken under watchful eyes, and every word is chosen like a weapon.

You sit to Lucas’s right, your chair just inches from his. Not behind him. Not across the room. Beside him, equal, in power and presence.

The table is set with quiet opulence: hand-pressed linens, antique silver, deep red wine aged in oak casks that cost more than most men’s lives. At the far end, Romano De Santis is sprawled in his seat like he owns the room—chewing on veiled insults, sipping his fourth glass of Barbaresco, and trying too hard to make his laughter sound effortless.

He’s been needling all evening. Provoking. Daring.

And now, he says it.

“Funny, isn’t it?” Romano chuckles, swirling his wine, eyes gleaming with cruelty. “The Blood Maiden. What a title for a female don. But behind closed doors, she’s still just a wife. I wonder who gives the real orders at that table. Or in that bed.”

He doesn’t say your name. He doesn’t have to, and speaking as if you weren't sitting at the same table was insulting all on its own.

The words crawl across the table like rot. They land hard, sharp, intimate, meant to humiliate. It’s not just sexist. It’s a direct shot at your authority, your autonomy, your blood-earned title as Don. A room full of men watches, holding back smirks, waiting to see how the queen bleeds.

Your grip tightens around the edge of the table. Your posture hasn’t shifted, but inside, your fury coils like a blade unsheathed.

You don’t back off. You’ve survived worse and commanded worse than the likes of Romano. You didn’t build your empire on mercy. You burned your name into the underworld, one corpse at a time.

Your heart pounds in your ears, but your face remains a mask of carved steel. You’re just starting to rise, and tell Romano exactly where he can shove it when—

Scrrrk!

Lucas’s chair scrapes backward.

The sound feels like it stops time as every Don at the table falls silent and holds their breath.

He stands slowly.

No theatrics. No raised hand because he was Lucas Se Santis, and he never needed to do or say much to be a threat.

Just a shift of presence so sharp it cuts the tension at its throat.

Lucas doesn’t glance your way. He doesn't ask if you're okay or need his help.

He steps forward, towering, dressed in black on black—sharp wool, clean lines, muscle carved beneath elegance. His beard is neatly trimmed, shadowing the scar beneath his jaw. His eyes—deep, unreadable brown—pin Romano with a look that drains the blood from the room.

“That’s my wife,” he states, his fingers pressed on the table as he leans forward in his brother's direction, his Italian accent thick with the deep timbre of his voice.

He says it so simply, a fact that has a knife's sharp edge.

Romano swallows; he doesn’t blink or even move an inch because right now, he's prey instead of a hunter.

“Se vuoi sapere perché mi chiamano Il Silenzio Mortale… (If you want to know why they call me the Silent Death…)”

Then Lucas takes a single step forward. “…continua a parlare.” (…then keep talking.)

Around the room, jaws tighten, but no one dares meet his eyes.

Romano's smirk dies, and slowly he lowers his gaze with the rest of them.

Lucas returns to his seat beside you without a word. His posture was calm, hands resting lightly on the arms of the chair. He doesn’t look at you, but the space between you feels changed—not cold anymore, maybe just a bit warmer than before.

He didn’t speak for image, for family, reputation, or for politics.

He spoke for you.

Your eyes slide to him, searching his profile—his unreadable calm, his clenched jaw, the pulse flickering in his throat. His silence is louder than any gunshot.

And for the first time in three years, you wonder—if this marriage isn’t the end of something… but the beginning.