Luca’s POV

I saw her before she ever knew I existed.

She was standing in the rain, barefoot on broken pavement outside the church near Palermo’s east quarter. Soaked to the skin, shivering, holding a plastic grocery bag like it was her entire life packed in ten rupees’ worth of plastic.

She wasn’t begging.

She wasn’t crying.

She was just there. Like silence made into flesh.

Eyes down. Skin dusky and warm despite the cold. A bruise barely healing on the side of her jaw. A soft, vulnerable mouth that looked like it hadn’t smiled in years.

And for reasons I couldn’t name—

I wanted to ruin her.

Not break her like I do the world. No.

I wanted to own her. Fold her into me.

To make sure that no other man ever found her softness. That no one ever thought they could be her rescue.

Because that right belonged to me.

I told Mamma the next morning. Showed her the girl’s name from the orphanage file.

“I want her,” I said simply.

Mamma raised an eyebrow. “As what?”

“A maid.”

She smiled softly. “You want to test her first.”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to.

Mamma’s been running this family longer than I’ve been drawing breath. She sees everything. Even the lies we tell ourselves.

“I’ll bring her,” she said. “You’ll see soon enough.”

—

The day Ira walked into the mansion, I didn’t speak to her.

I watched. Observed. Let her shadow cross my study twice before I even said her name out loud.

She moved like someone afraid of her own footsteps. Her eyes flinched before her mouth did. And that silence—the one I saw in the rain—hadn't left her. It clung to her like a second skin.

And I liked it. Too much.

The first time she dropped a tray in front of me, I nearly laughed.

Not because she was clumsy.

Because she looked at me like I had just sentenced her to death.

No woman had ever looked at me like that before.

Not with desire. Not with awe.

With fear.

And I realized in that moment—

Fear suited her.

---

This morning, when I saw her laughing with Matteo, I almost killed the boy on the spot.

It wasn’t just the sound of her laughter.

It was how free she looked.

She didn’t smile like that in my presence. She barely breathed in my presence.

So why should that kitchen dog get a moment of her softness?

A smile I hadn’t earned?

I dragged her into the hallway. Pressed her against the cold stone wall. Told her plainly—

“You don’t laugh like that in my house. Not for other men.”

She flinched, but she didn’t fight. She never does.

That’s part of what makes her dangerous.

I warned her.

I gave her a chance.

And when I saw her smile again that evening—with the same softness, the same spark—I knew what I had to do.

She needed to learn.

That innocence isn't protection.

That beauty isn’t freedom.

That in this house—obedience is survival.

—

She cried after the first strike.

Not loud. Just a sound like something cracking in her throat.

I told her to count.

And she did.

All the way to twenty.

Her body was trembling by the end, legs useless beneath her. Her back was marked in red, delicate skin etched with consequences.

She didn’t beg. Not once.

Even when her voice broke, even when she collapsed, she never begged.

And that—

That made me angrier than anything.

Because I wasn’t supposed to care.

But when I left the room, the image of her curled on that cold floor followed me like a ghost.

—

I returned two hours later.

I told myself it was just to make sure she hadn’t passed out. That I couldn’t afford death on my conscience tonight. Not before business.

But when I opened the door, what I saw made me pause.

She had fallen asleep.

In pain. On that floor.

One hand clutching her waist. Hair a mess. Lips parted slightly like she'd fallen into unconsciousness, not rest.

My throat tightened.

I knelt down and gathered her in my arms. Her body was light—too light, like no one had ever fed her enough. She whimpered softly in her sleep, but didn’t wake.

I carried her to my bedroom.

Laid her gently on the bed.

She didn’t stir.

I stood there for a long moment. Watching her.

Her face was beautiful—delicate. Skin like dusk and rose petals, lashes long enough to kiss her cheeks. Her body curved subtly beneath the thin slip, bruises blooming across her back.

My fingers hovered near the cabinet where the ointment was.

I almost reached for it.

Almost applied it gently to her skin.

Almost let her believe I gave a damn.

But I couldn’t.

Because if she knew I cared… she might think she mattered.

And if she thought she mattered, I’d lose

control.

I turned instead, pulled on my coat, and walked out.

I had business to handle.

And a girl sleeping in my bed who would never smile for another man again.