Bound To My Mafia Husband

Chapter Two Ultimatum

The morning sunlight burned through the sheer curtains of Luca Giordano’s bedroom, golden and cruel, reminding me that the night’s events weren’t a nightmare I could wake from.

I sat on the edge of the bed, staring down at my hands. They trembled slightly, though I wasn’t sure if it was from fear, shock, or exhaustion. My apartment in Brooklyn had never felt so far away — or so safe.

I wasn’t in Brooklyn anymore.

I was in Manhattan, in the penthouse of the city’s most feared family, and I was, for all intents and purposes, their newest member. Mrs. Giordano.

The words tasted bitter in my mouth.

I heard a soft click behind me before I could think, and the door opened just a c***k. He didn’t knock. He never knocked.

“Up?” Luca’s voice was quiet, steady, and measured. He stood there in the doorway, a dark silhouette against the city skyline. His suit hung like armor, his tie perfectly straight, hair still flawless despite the late hour. He didn’t smile, and that was worse than any frown.

I didn’t answer.

He walked into the room with slow precision, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning me like I was fragile glass. “You understand why this is necessary?” he asked, stopping a foot away from the bed.

“I understand your terms,” I said softly. My voice felt hollow, even to me.

He studied me a moment longer, then came closer, stopping so he could look me in the eye. “This isn’t a game, Elena. It’s life and death. Your brother’s life.”

“I know,” I whispered.

His dark eyes softened just a fraction — enough to make me question if he ever softened for anyone at all. Then his jaw tightened, his hands dropping to his sides. “Do not make me regret this.”

“I won’t,” I said. And I didn’t want to lie. I wouldn’t lie. Not now.

⸻

Breakfast arrived like a formal announcement of reality: a tray with a perfectly cooked omelet, fresh fruit, and a glass of orange juice. I stared at it like it was alien food. I didn’t have the appetite to eat.

He came back from whatever business called him into the penthouse, moving with a quiet authority that made everyone else in the room seem like shadows. “You’ll eat,” he said.

“I’m not hungry,” I muttered.

“You will,” he replied evenly. “In this house, in this family, hunger is weakness. And weakness gets punished.”

I froze at the last word, my stomach twisting in knots. Punished how? I didn’t even want to imagine.

He ignored the effect his words had on me, as if I were a chess piece and he had no emotional attachment to the consequences. “We’ll leave in an hour. I want you dressed and ready. First appearances matter, Elena. You are no longer just my brother’s sister. You are my wife in the eyes of the city.”

I swallowed hard, every ounce of rebellion I had fighting to escape. “And if I refuse?” I asked, more daring than I felt.

His eyes darkened. “Refusal is not a word in my family’s language. Matteo would die before lunch.”

The truth was brutal, a knife twisting in my chest. I wanted to run, to scream, to throw myself from the balcony and erase this nightmare. But I couldn’t. Not if it meant Matteo’s blood was on my hands.

So I obeyed.

⸻

The hour passed in a blur of preparation and careful observation. A stylist came in — not a friend, not a maid, but someone who smelled faintly of smoke and danger and silk. She fussed over my hair, my makeup, my dress, every detail a command from Luca himself.

“You look… adequate,” he said, appearing suddenly behind me. I jumped. He didn’t need to touch me; his presence alone was enough to make my skin crawl.

“Thank you?” I said, uncertain.

“Not for gratitude,” he said, eyes lingering on my reflection in the mirror. “For survival.”

The words sank in. Survival wasn’t just Matteo anymore. Survival was me.

⸻

The drive to the Giordano estate on the outskirts of the city was silent. My hands rested in my lap, clutching the small purse I’d brought, feeling like a child being led to the gallows. Luca drove, his expression unreadable, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the console.

At one point, I tried to speak. “Luca…”

He didn’t look at me. “Yes?”

“Do… do you ever make exceptions?”

“Exceptions?” His tone was curious, almost amused. “To what?”

“To… everything,” I said, voice shaking. “Do you ever let someone go without consequences?”

He glanced at me, just briefly, and the faintest shadow of something like regret flickered across his face. Then it was gone. “Life is full of consequences, Elena. You’re just realizing it now.”

I wanted to argue. I wanted to scream. Instead, I stayed silent, feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders.

⸻

When we arrived, the estate was everything I’d feared and more: wrought iron gates, high stone walls, cameras everywhere, men who looked like they had been trained to kill before they could talk. And behind it all, Luca’s power radiating like a storm threatening to break.

Inside, my introduction was swift and formal. The family’s inner circle nodded at me, some with curiosity, some with barely concealed disdain. And through it all, Luca’s eyes never left mine.

“You’ll live here,” he said, voice low, as we walked through the halls. “You’ll follow my rules, learn the boundaries, and stay alive. Fail, and it won’t be Matteo’s death you’ll regret.”

I nodded, lips dry.

“And Elena?” He stopped, tilting his head. “I am not cruel for pleasure. I am cruel for necessity. Do not forget that.”

I swallowed hard. “I understand.”

He walked on, leaving me trembling, my reflection in the polished floors a pale ghost of the girl who had walked into this nightmare just twenty-four hours ago.

I realized then that survival would take more than obedience. It would take strategy, courage, and perhaps… a willingness to see the man behind the steel mask.

I hated him already. And somehow, I knew that hatred would be the first thing to betray me.