Ep~5: Rules of His World

The morning sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, scattering golden patterns across the crimson silk sheets. Anaya sat at the edge of her new bed, her back straight, her mind restless. The silence of the villa was eerie, broken only by the faint murmur of guards exchanging words outside.

Her entire world had changed in a single day. Yesterday, she had been a daughter, confused, reluctant, resistant. Today, she was a wife. A wife to Adrian Moretti, the man whispered about in hushed tones across Italy’s underworld.

Her fingers brushed the mangalsutra resting at her throat. Was it a symbol of love? Or a leash binding her to a man she barely knew?

A knock on the door startled her. The sound was sharp, deliberate. She turned, clutching her dupatta closer.

“Come in,” she said cautiously.

The door opened, revealing Adrian. He stood tall in a crisp black shirt rolled at the sleeves, his dark hair slightly tousled, his presence commanding without effort. His gaze swept over her, calm, but assessing.

“You’re awake,” he said. Not a question, but a statement.

“I didn’t sleep much,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

A flicker of something, guilt? concern? passed through his eyes, but it was gone before she could decipher it. He stepped further into the room, closing the door softly behind him.

“Then it’s better you get used to the rhythm of this house,” he said. “My world doesn’t allow for much rest.”

Anaya frowned. “Your world?”

Adrian’s jaw tightened. He motioned for her to follow him. “It’s time you see it for yourself.”

They walked through the east wing, a part of the villa Adrian had forbidden her from entering the previous night. Now, he opened the doors wide, revealing rooms alive with tension.

Men in suits sat around polished mahogany tables, papers and weapons spread before them. Maps of territories lined the walls, red marks slashed across rival zones. Conversations halted when Adrian entered, every head bowing slightly in respect.

Anaya’s stomach clenched. This wasn’t just a home. It was the beating heart of an empire.

“Boss,” one of the men greeted, his voice steady but laced with nervous energy.

Adrian nodded, then turned slightly to Anaya. “This is my world,” he said simply. “A world that doesn’t forgive weakness.”

Anaya’s lips parted, her breath uneven. “And you… you want me here? In the middle of this?”

His eyes locked with hers, unwavering. “I want you to understand. If you are mine, then you live in my world. No illusions. No hiding.”

A sudden bang shattered the silence, a gunshot in the distance, echoing through the villa’s walls. Anaya flinched, her hand flying to her chest.

Several men rushed out of the room, armed and alert. Adrian, however, didn’t move. He remained still, his expression unreadable, as if such chaos were routine.

Anaya’s voice shook. “Is that what you call safe?”

Adrian finally turned to her, his gaze burning with intensity. “Safe doesn’t mean peaceful, Anaya. It means alive. And as long as you’re with me, you will be alive.”

She stared at him, caught between anger and something dangerously close to trust.

Later that evening, she found herself on the balcony of her chamber, the olive branch still glowing faintly in the dim light. She traced its leaves with trembling fingers.

Behind her, the door opened. She didn’t need to turn to know it was Adrian, his presence filled the air before he spoke.

“You’re angry,” he said.

She whirled to face him, her eyes blazing. “Of course I’m angry! You brought me into this… this kingdom of guns and shadows without asking me! You made me your wife, but I don’t even know who you truly are.”

His jaw clenched. For once, he didn’t mask his emotions. He stepped closer, the distance between them shrinking with each word.

“You want to know who I am?” His voice was low, rough. “I’m the man who built this empire when I was eighteen. I’m the man who decides who lives and who dies in this city. I’m the man who carries blood on his hands so you can sleep in silk sheets without fear.”

Her heart pounded. His words were meant to terrify, yet beneath them lay a raw truth, a truth that made her chest ache.

Her voice softened, trembling. “And who are you to me, Adrian?”

For the first time, he faltered. His eyes, so often hard and unyielding, flickered with vulnerability. He reached out, his hand brushing against her cheek.

“To you,” he whispered, “I don’t want to be the mafia king. I want to be… your husband.”

The touch lingered, electric, dangerous. Anaya’s breath hitched. She wanted to pull away, to resist the pull of the man who lived in shadows. But her heart, traitorous, fragile, leaned into his warmth.

Before either of them could speak, a guard appeared at the doorway. “Boss,” he said urgently, “we have a situation. Romano’s men have crossed the south border.”

Adrian’s hand dropped instantly, his face hardening into the mask of a leader once more. He nodded once. “Prepare the cars. No one enters without my word.”

Then he turned to Anaya, his voice softer but firm. “Stay here. Don’t step outside, no matter what you hear.”

And with that, he was gone, swallowed into the night of his world, leaving Anaya standing alone on the balcony, torn between fear and the terrifying realization that her heart was beginning to belong to him.

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