salvatore lana del rey ♥︎ ⇄ ◁◁ 𝚰𝚰 ▷▷ ↻ ⁰⁰'²⁵ ━━●━━───── ⁰²'⁰⁸

Enzo’s villa still didn’t feel real to you. It was the kind of place you’d expect to see in a movie— ceilings too high, hallways too long, chandeliers sparkling like they knew they were expensive. You’d been living there for a little while now, after the fucking wedding, adjusting to this whole arranged marriage situation, trying not to get swallowed by the luxury or the silence.

That night, everything was quiet. You were in one of the guest rooms— a room bigger than your entire old mansion— brushing your hair, settling into bed like you’d been doing every night. You liked the distance. It felt safer, calmer, less like you were in the orbit of a man who filled rooms with his presence alone.

And then the front doors slammed.

The sound shot straight up the staircase, echoing through the mansion like someone had fired a gun. His voice followed immediately.

“Where the fuck is she?”

You froze, comb slipping from your hand. Yep. That tone. Definitely Enzo. You could practically feel the irritation radiating through the walls as his footsteps started up the stairs— sharp, fast, the kind of stride that meant he was done being patient.

He appeared in the doorway a moment later, shoulders tense beneath his dress shirt, tie loosened like he’d ripped at it in the car. His eyes swept the room once, landing on you sitting neatly on the edge of the guest bed.

“Why the hell are you in here?” he asks, voice low but still crackling with frustration. “This isn’t your room.”

You barely finish a sentence before he’s crossing the room in two long steps. His hands slide around your waist, lifting you like you weigh nothing, like you don’t even get a chance to argue.

“No.” He doesn’t even look at you as he carries you into the hallway, his grip firm but not rough, his jaw tightening with every step. “We’re married. You don’t sleep down the hall like some… guest.”

The master bedroom door swings open when he nudges it with his shoulder. It’s warm inside— dim lights, rumpled sheets, the faint smell of his cologne that always lingers in the air.

He sets you down on the bed gently, way gentler than his voice had been, and stands over you for a moment, hands on his hips, looking annoyed and possessive and tired all at once.

“We sleep together,” he says, like it’s the simplest rule in the world. His voice softens just barely as he meets your eyes. “Got it?”