BECAUSE OF HIS SIZE, THE MAFIA BOSS WAS REJECTED BY EVERY WOMAN

The private chapel of the Villa Moretti was built in 1640 out of dark gray volcanic stone quarried from the upper slopes of Mount San Primo. It sat perched on the edge of the second terrace, overlooking the black, mirror-like waters of Lake Como five hundred feet below, surrounded by ancient cypresses that swayed against the rising evening wind.

Inside, the chapel smelled of beeswax, frankincense, centuries of damp masonry, and the faint, bitter scent of wild rosemary drifting through the narrow lancet windows.

I stood before the small marble altar in my traveling clothes—a cream wool sweater that had a smudge of flour on the left cuff, dark denim trousers, and a pair of flat leather boots that had seen three winters of Chicago snow.

Beside me stood Luca Moretti.

He had removed his overcoat, standing in his charcoal waistcoat and crisp white dress shirt, the cuffs unbuttoned and turned back twice over forearms thick as cedar fence posts, heavily corded with muscle and crisscrossed with old, pale blade scars. He didn't look at the altar; he looked straight ahead at the carved wooden crucifix mounted on the stone wall, his posture so rigid he looked like a statue that had been dragged inside to support the vaulted roof.

Father Tommaso, an ancient priest with trembling hands and a faded purple stole draped over his worn cassock, held the Latin lectionary with visible difficulty. Every time his eyes drifted from the sacred text to Luca’s towering frame, his voice hitched, skipping words like a scratched vinyl record.

"Signor Moretti," the old priest whispered in Italian, then quickly corrected himself into heavily accented English for my benefit. "The... the vows of mutual consent. Do you have the ring?"

Luca didn't flinch. He reached into his waistcoat pocket, pulled out a heavy band of unadorned, twenty-four-karat yellow gold, and held it in his palm.

The ring was massive—not a delicate piece of modern jewelry, but an antique heirloom cast with the roaring lion of the Lombardy maritime league, thick and heavy as an industrial bearing.

He turned toward me.

The hesitation returned. It was subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone who didn't know how to look for it, but I saw it: the slight stiffening of his shoulders, the momentary pause before his hand reached for mine. He was waiting for me to pull back. He was waiting for me to look at his scarred, massive knuckles, compare them to the delicate fingers of the men I had grown up with, and realize the sheer, physical disparity between us.

I didn't wait for him to close the distance.

I reached out, took his right hand in both of mine, and pulled it toward my chest.

His skin was rough, calloused from handling weapons, timber, and heavy machinery, hot as the iron doors of my deck ovens. His hand was so large that my two hands could barely wrap around his palm, my fingers looking like pale birch twigs against his weathered, Mediterranean olive skin.

"It's cold in here, Luca," I said softly, my voice cutting through the hollow silence of the stone vault. "Put the ring on before the priest freezes to death."

A sharp intake of breath escaped Father Tommaso.

Luca’s slate-gray eyes snapped to mine. The darkness behind his gaze—that ancient, defensive armor he wore like an executioner’s cloak—flickered.

Slowly, with an exquisite, terrifying gentleness that felt almost agonizing to watch in a man of his size, Luca took the gold band between his thumb and forefinger and slid it over my left ring finger.

The ring was too large. It spun loosely against my knuckle, heavy and cold.

"I will have it sized in Milan tomorrow," he murmured, his deep baritone vibrating through the small chapel.

"Don't bother," I replied, curling my fingers into a fist to keep the heavy gold from slipping. "A piece of yarn wrapped around the back will hold it until I gain weight on your pasta. Now say your part."

Father Tommaso cleared his throat, raised his trembling hand, and murmured the final benediction in Latin: "Ego vos in matrimonium coniungo... in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen."

The ceremony was over.

Six minutes. No flowers, no organ music, no guests crying into linen handkerchiefs. Just a broken baker, an immovable mob boss, and an old priest who looked like he had just survived an artillery strike.

"You may kiss the bride," Father Tommaso whispered, backing two steps toward the sacristy door as if clearing a blast zone.

Luca looked down at me.

He didn't move. He stood there, six-foot-six of iron and shadow, his hands resting at his sides, his jaw clenched so hard the muscles along his temples knotted.

"I don't force women to kiss me, Sophia," he said, his voice flat, devoid of warmth, returning to that cold, protective distance.

"Good," I said. "Because I have terrible balance and if I lean up too fast I’ll probably dislocate my hip."

I reached up, grabbed the heavy wool lapels of his waistcoat with both hands, hauled myself onto the tips of my boots, and pulled him down toward me.

He didn't pull back, but he didn't lean in either; he remained rigid, bracing his weight so he wouldn't crush me. I pressed my lips against the scarred corner of his lower lip.

His skin tasted of cold mountain air, bitter espresso, and salt.

For half a second, his body remained an immovable pillar of stone. Then, as my fingers tightened against the wool of his vest, a low, ragged sound rumbled deep in his chest—a vibration that went straight through my ribs. His large hand rose, hesitated for a microsecond in the air, and then his palm settled flat against the small of my back, holding me upright with a warmth that felt like opening an oven door in the dead of a Midwestern winter.

When I dropped back onto the soles of my boots, my face was burning, my heart thumping an erratic, furious rhythm against my ribs.

Luca stood looking down at me, his eyes dilated, the slate-gray completely swallowed by dark, molten fire.

"Marco," Luca said without breaking eye contact with me.

"Yes, Signor Moretti?" Marco answered from the back of the nave.

"Show my wife to the master wing."