The house was too quiet.

Serena knew the difference between peace and silence. Peace meant warmth. Silence meant something was wrong.

She pushed the front door open, a grocery bag clutched to her chest. The late evening light cast long shadows across the hallway, and the sound of low voices drifted in from the living room.

Male voices. One familiar. One… not.

She stepped forward, careful. And then she saw him.

A man sat on their couch like he owned it. Legs spread in dominance, one arm draped along the backrest. A tailored black suit hugged his frame like armor, his expression carved from stone. His dark eyes found her, and in that moment, the air felt colder.

Luciano De Luca.

The name hit her like a slap.

She’d heard it whispered. In news headlines. In the plotlines of stories she thought she’d made up. But he wasn’t fiction. He was very real, and he was sitting in her home like death itself had walked in.

Her father stood in front of him, head bowed. Not speaking. Not moving.

“Papa?” she said softly.

He didn’t look at her. “Go to your room, Serena.”

She blinked. “What’s going on—?”

“I said go!” His voice cracked—sharp and terrified.

Luciano’s eyes didn’t leave her. Not once. His stare was unreadable. Cold. But something else simmered beneath it. Calculation.

Serena’s fingers tightened around the bag before she slowly turned and walked to her room. She placed the groceries on her desk and sat on the edge of the bed, heart pounding.

Debt. That’s what this was about. It had to be.

The mafia didn’t make social visits.

Minutes passed. Then footsteps.

Her bedroom door creaked open. Luciano stepped in, shutting it behind him like it was his house. Like she already belonged to him.

“Pack your essentials,” he said, voice calm, cruel, and final. “You’re coming with me.”

Serena stood, spine straight. “What?”

He walked to her desk, placed a file down, and opened it.

A marriage certificate.

“You’re going to be my wife,” he said. “Your father owed me a debt he could never repay. You’re the price.”

She didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

He pulled a pen from his jacket pocket and placed it beside the paper. “Sign it.”

Her eyes dropped to the certificate. Her name already printed, waiting. Like this was always meant to happen.

Her chest rose and fell, steady and quiet. On the outside, she looked like a girl about to cry. But inside, stories bloomed.

This wasn’t the first villain she’d met.

She picked up the pen. And signed.

Luciano watched her with a flicker of something—maybe surprise, maybe interest. But before he could speak again, she lifted her eyes.

“I hope you’re ready,” she whispered. “Because you have no idea what you’ve invited into your world.”

He raised a brow. “You’re just a girl.”

She smiled—small, secret, dangerous.

“I’m a writer.”