The Don's wife: A journey into becoming his.

Tuscany, Italy - 10 Am.

Luca didn't like detours. Especially ones that took him out of the city. But when Andrea Calvetti—his father's old associate and one of the family's most lucrative client requested a word at his estate in Tuscany, Luca obliged, out of respect or maybe curiosity.

Old money had a way of hiding new ambitions.

He arrived sharp. Black tailored suit. Clean-cut. Not a speck of hesitation.

The sprawling villa stood like a monument to wealth earned through shadows and blood. Andrea welcomed him with open arms—all wine-soaked smiles and the fake warmth of an aging consigliere.

Luca passed the estate's fortified gates, long driveways, white marble lions. Andrea sat beneath a pergola surrounded by lemon trees. A chessboard lay in front of him. A game mid-play.

"Let's go in, Luca. Steak's still warm and I've got a perfect gift for you."

He stood, smile like oil.

Luca followed, noting every face, every guard. His instincts were humming—something was off.

Not loud enough to register a threat. Yet.

The table was dressed to impress.

Steak grilled to perfection. Roasted vegetables glistening with oil. A decanter of Montepulciano breathing in the air between them.

They talked shop,

Shipments, Markets,Weapons hidden in coffee crates,Profits doubling.

Business as usual.

Until Andrea, fork halfway to his mouth, leaned in and said:

"You've got no woman in your life, Luca. A man like you should have a good one beside him. A partner... or something softer."

Luca's brow twitched. A muscle ticked in his jaw.

"I'd have liked that. But business is preferable to people."

Andrea laughed, but it didn't reach his eyes. Then he snapped his fingers.

"Then I have a surprise for you." Andrea said.

The double doors opened.

She entered.

Isabella.

Soft white dress,Delicate steps and Long dark hair pinned loosely.

She looked like a porcelain doll painted in restraint. But her eyes flicked over Luca like a scanner.

"My daughter," Andrea said, as if offering a bottle of rare wine.

"A gesture of goodwill. Perhaps you two could get acquainted, and help you achieve the seat of Don—permanently."

Luca met her gaze. Said nothing.

She gave a polite smile and extended her hand.

He took it,held it a moment too long and

Felt how her grip wasn't shy—it was measured.

Interesting.

Isabella was her father's knife. And her father wanted her to forge her path using Luca as the stepping stone.

Although Isabella was intelligent and resourceful, her soft demeanor hid a razor-sharp mind.

But Luca didn't like being cornered. Especially not by men trying to barter flesh.

He dropped her hand, shot Andrea a smiling look.

"Is this what you called me here for?"

His voice low and calm.

"Maybe—but you'll like this Luca," Andrea said with a chuckle.

"Think of it as a surprise."

Luca didn't respond.

But Isabella's image lingered—not for her beauty, but for her silence.

He made a decision.

"Then she's coming with me," he told Andrea.

"I'll keep her close... and decide what she's good for later."

"Really? That's nice," Andrea beamed.

"Isabella, I'm sure you want to go with him. Right?"

"Yes, Father," she said softly.

Luca stood.

"I'll be on my way."

"Have a nice trip," Andrea called after him.

Luca responded with silence.

As his driver pulled out of the estate, Luca couldn't shake the feeling that Andrea's gift was more than just goodwill.

But he was in on the surprise she might bring.He glanced at her delicate face beside him.

Let's see what kind of knife you really are

---

Celeste's Apartment – That Afternoon

Celeste Hart hadn't left her apartment in three days.

Not since the internal backlash at the DA's office over her surprise transfer. The air was thick with silence—but her mind buzzed.

She'd asked questions. Demanded answers.

But nobody would say why she was being moved.

It made her feel discarded. Unimportant.

She thought of her father—and wondered how her mother coped after he died.

The Moretti investigation?

Paused. At least officially.

Now she was working for him,Shadowing his paper trails, Cataloging dummy corporations.

It wasn't what she signed up for.

But she was adapting, Learning to trust her instincts and making tougher calls.

A message blinked on her screen:

Dinner at 5? Don't forget.

She'd sent it hours ago. No reply.

But it was marked read.

That was Luca—distant, unreadable, always in control.

She thought back to her childhood.

A family that valued justice.

Parents who marched, rallied, fought.

She'd seen what organized crime did to communities.

So she chose law. Chose to fight.

God help me, she thought, because now I'm neck deep in what I swore to destroy.

At 5:00 p.m. sharp, a knock at the door.

She opened it to a black-suited driver. Silent. Stone-faced.

And she smiled.

Luca got the message. He just wasn't going to admit it.

---

Dinner.

The restaurant wasn't fancy, It was calculated precise, Like everything Luca touched.

Neutral décor,Ambient lighting and Empty tables—except theirs.

She tried to break the silence.

"Thank you... for accepting my invitation."

He didn't look at her. Just sipped his drink.

"Sure. But I wasn't aware I was invited. My assistant just informed me."

Her throat tightened.

"Still... thank you."

He finally looked at her.

Cold, Sharp.

"Don't flatter yourself, Celeste. You're here because I'm paying you. That's all."

Her hands clenched, her posture stiffened.

"Luca, what is wrong with you? I'm just trying to be grateful."

He stared. Something unreadable behind his eyes.

Long silence.

Then:

"Gratitude implies weakness. I don't tolerate it from anyone."

Celeste leaned back, jaw tight.

"So what do you tolerate? Loyalty? Fear? Silence?"

He leaned forward.

"Results."

Then he stood. Tossed euros on the table.

"Keep talking like that to me, Celeste... and there will be consequences."

He walked out.

But in his mind, a quiet warning flashed:

She's getting too comfortable.

Celeste sat there, flushed and furious.

When she went to pay, the waiter stopped her.

"The bill's covered. Mr. Moretti already paid."

It didn't soften the blow.

It made her angrier.

---

Unknown warehouse - that night

The room stank of gasoline, blood, and fear.

Ten men knelt on the concrete.

Blindfolded. Wrists bound.

Some missing fingers. One missing a leg.

They'd been headed to a brothel—pockets full, spirits high.

Then a van pulled up beside them. Silent.

Gas masks. Chloroform. Blackout.

Now, they heard only footsteps.

Slow. Heavy. Approaching.

A metal chair scraped the ground.

It stopped in the center.

Luca sat.

The blindfolds were ripped off.

And panic set in.

The fear was thick.

One of them pissed himself.

Luca didn't speak.

Just studied them.

His machete—steel handle, custom grip, name engraved—rested across his knees.

"Do you know why you're here?"

One man—shaved head, thin—spoke up:

"No—but what the fuck, man?! You just grab people off the street?"

Crack.

Luca's boot shattered the man's wrist.

The scream echoed through the warehouse.

Luca crouched, face inches from the man's.

"Don't insult my intelligence. I asked a question."

The machete dropped.

That was the last thing the man saw.

Blood painted the floor.

"Now," Luca said, turning to the rest, "who's ready to answer my question?"

The men whimpered. Guessed.

Wrong answers earned screams.

Fingers disappeared. One by one.

Luca stood.

"Last chance before I start pulling teeth."

The second man sobbed. The third stayed frozen.

Luca sat again.

"Let me help. You touched what's mine."

"Oh God—we didn't know, sir! We swear!"

The machete cut the air, landing on something that sounded like flesh

Then

Another scream.

"Try again."

A trembling man finally shouted:

"Is it... is it about the girl? Celeste Hart?!"

Luca paused.

Turned.

Smirked.

"Now we're getting somewhere."

He walked slowly. Deliberately.

"So tell me..."

"Why did you touch what's mine?"

One man didn't cry.

Didn't flinch.

Luca noticed him. Eyes flashing.

Defiance.

Luca smiled.

He'd just volunteered to be an example that night.