Chapter 15 A PAKHAN.
\~~~RAINA.
It has been a week since I marry Luciano in my sister’s place, and honestly… it has been peaceful.
Well, peaceful only because Luciano has been out of the house for almost the entire week. I have been alone, sleeping in that huge room and an even bigger bed.
Oh, yayy.
Okay.
The excitement ended the moment Luciano walked back in, because God, I had almost forgotten the cold air this man carries around him.
The room instantly dropped ten degrees, and my mood went from one hundred to zero real quick.
He hadn’t even said when he was leaving. He just walked out that morning without a word and didn't return until four whole days later. No messages, nothing nothing. The only sign of life was the debit card he had dropped on the dressing table to use if needed.
It has been an hour since he returned and I finally returned to the room because my back is aching from sitting on the living room couch, and the moment I step inside the bedroom, he glances at the wall clock and say,
“The makeup and fashion team just arrived. Get ready.”
I blink at him and then turn around to see if someone else is behind me.
Then I check if maybe he has AirPods in and is talking to someone else entirely.
“Do you hear me?” he asks again, like I am the crazy one.
“A… a fashion and makeup team… for?” I ask, my voice small.
He didn’t answer me, and before I can push further, a knock comes at the door.
I turned around, confused, and since I was already standing next to it, I opened it slowly.
And then… women rushed in like a small army.
Two of them roll in a clothing rack stuffed with dresses wrapped in clear protective covers, like whatever is in there is more expensive than my life.
Another woman carries smaller bags that look like accessory cases.
And then the makeup artists enter with their giant black boxes, dropping them gently on the floor with professional precision.
One of them steps forward, bows deeply, and says,
“Good evening, Madam Moretti.”
Madam… Moretti.
Oh, God.
I almost turn around to check if Talia is behind me.
But no.
They meant me.
And Luciano just stands there, watching my confusion with that cold, unreadable face of his like this is all normal.
Like this ridiculous makeover team is just another Tuesday.
Luciano didn’t spare the scene a second glance. He simply moved to the couch across the room, sat down, and opened his laptop as if a whole glam squad hadn't just marched into the bedroom.
He didn’t look at me, or them.
He just scrolls, types, and minds his cold, heartless business like this is a normal evening routine.
Meanwhile, the women get straight to work.
One takes my hand gently and pulls me toward the chair.
Another starts unzipping bag after bag filled with makeup brushes, foundations, powders, and things I don’t even recognize.
The clothing team begins unwrapping dresses, their fabrics shimmering under the chandelier.
Someone else works on my hair, tugging, brushing, and curling.
A nail technician holds my hand and files my nails so fast that I think sparks might fly.
Nobody asked me anything, nobody explained anything!
They just spun me around, tilted my chin, lifted my hair, and pressed my shoulders down like I am a mannequin being prepared for sale.
And Luciano?
He is browsing through that goddam laptop like I am not surrounded by five women transforming me into a life-sized doll.
———
The minutes… or hours… or whatever the hell that time is supposed to be eventually pass.
My legs are numb, my back stiff, and my face probably layered with more products than I have ever owned in my whole life.
Finally, one of the women steps back, smiles politely, and places her hands on my shoulders.
“Madam Moretti… you may turn now.”
They turn me around slowly.
And when I face the mirror, I freeze.
I don’t like how I look one bit.
No, I hate how I look so much that I could choke.
It is as though the theme of wherever Luciano is taking me is let’s see who can outdo the devil.
My makeup is every shade of black known to mankind. Dark eyeshadow, darker eyeliner, and the darkest mascara that probably exists on Earth.
Although, well, it is pretty as hell. Beautiful, even. But it isn’t made for a person like me. I am not the type to look like a gothic goddess on a random weekday.
Only my lipstick is left nude, and I almost send the makeup artist a thank-you note in my head for that tiny mercy.
Oh, and can we not talk about my outfit?
I am dressed in the darkest shade of black known in the universe.
A floor-length gown, fitted like a second skin from my torso down to my hips, then flaring out in a rich, dramatic fall. The material glowed subtly like onyx dipped in moonlight and every small movement sent ripples of shadow gliding across the dress.
The bodice hugs my breasts and waist, sculpting me into something impossibly feminine and dangerously elegant. Thin, detailed embroidery runs across the corset, forming patterns that look more like warnings than decorations.
Then a slit runs all the way up my thigh, high enough to make me question if these people have ever heard of decency.
My hair is styled into the prettiest updo I have ever had, and soft curls are pinned back with silver adornments shaped like delicate daggers and roses.
And the heels?
Tall silver stilettos that could be doubled as weapons if needed.
And for the first time, I believe I look the part of a mafia boss’s wife.
No, scratch that. I look like the mafia don herself.
And I absolutely hate it.
The women finally finish fussing over me. One by one, they pack up their luggage, then, with a final synchronized bow, they bid their goodbyes and exit the room.
Luciano finally stands up from the couch, closing his laptop with a soft snap before turning fully toward me.
If he is fascinated with how I look, I honestly can’t tell.
His expression doesn’t shift, not even a millimeter. No awe, no shock, no annoyance. Nothing. Just that cold, unreadable face that always makes me want to throw something at him.
He glances at his wristwatch instead.
“It is time.”
He is wearing a perfectly tailored black suit, the kind that screams power without trying. His hair is slicked back with that annoyingly effortless accuracy, every strand in place like it fears him.
“Where are we going?” I ask, lifting my hands slightly in disbelief at the dress, the makeup, and the whole unnecessary performance. “I don’t understand the need for this charade.”
Luciano didn't blink.
“You are the wife of a mafia don,” he says calmly. “A pakhan. Tonight, you will officially announce yourself, and play that part.”
My stomach drops.
Of course.
Of course, this psycho would drag me into something like this.