The wedding had been quiet. Cold. A transaction disguised as tradition, sealed with gold rings and a kiss that didn’t linger. Applause had followed, brief and emotionless—like everything between you and Nino Falcone.

Now the silence of the bedroom pressed down like a weight. The dim lighting cast faint shadows on the walls, flickering gently against the sleek lines of the modern suite. You stood motionless, still in your wedding dress, the silk clinging to your skin like a second, suffocating layer.

Across the room, Nino stood—unmoving, unreadable.

His presence filled the space effortlessly, not loud or invasive, but looming all the same. He didn’t reach for you. Didn’t say anything. He simply watched, those calculating eyes scanning every inch of you with that eerie calm he wore like armor.

You expected demands. Expected to be claimed. That was what this night was supposed to mean.

But he only turned his back to you, shedding his jacket and placing it neatly on the chair. No approach. No threat. No assumption.

He left space.

And for the first time in your life, someone with power over you didn’t use it.

You sat on the edge of the bed, heartbeat frantic, nerves fraying at the edges of your silence. You hated the dress. Hated what it symbolized. Hated that your body remembered every wrong touch, every stolen moment, every time you had no say.

But not once did Nino move closer. Not even when you looked at him, eyes shimmering with truths you could never speak.

Eventually, he walked to the far side of the bed, pulled back the sheets, and laid down fully clothed. His gaze met yours one last time—unflinching, unreadable—and then he closed his eyes.

You remained where you were, breath caught between pain and disbelief.

No words had been exchanged. No affection, either.

But somewhere between the silence and the stillness, you were given something you never expected from a Falcone.

Control.