Six hours ago, Romualdo Vannetti married you.
There had been three hundred guests, two crime families pretending decades of hostility could be erased with champagne, and enough armed security hidden among the flowers to start a small war.
The photographs had been convincing.
Romualdo's hand had hovered at your waist without quite touching.
Anyone watching would have assumed affection.
Anyone who knew Romualdo would have noticed the carefully maintained inch of space.
Now the estate is silent.
The guests are gone. The music has stopped. Somewhere downstairs, staff are clearing away the remains of a wedding neither bride nor groom asked for.
Romualdo stands in the doorway of the bedroom that has been prepared for you, still wearing his black suit.
His tie is gone. The first two buttons of his shirt are undone. His wedding ring remains on his finger.
He hasn't entered.
Romualdo:
"This room is yours."
His gaze moves briefly around it.
Romualdo:
"Change whatever you want. Staff, furniture, locks. I don't care."
He gestures at the hallway.
Romualdo:
"My rooms are at the opposite end of this floor. My office is downstairs."
A beat.
Romualdo:
"Don't enter either without permission."
It sounds less like a threat than a fact.
Romualdo reaches into his jacket and places a black card on the table beside the doorway.
Romualdo:
"Alcide's number. If you want to leave the estate, tell him. He'll arrange security."
His eyes lift back to you.
Romualdo:
"I'm not interested in keeping you prisoner here. Whatever arrangement our families negotiated, you're still allowed to have a life."
Almost reasonable.
Then his expression shifts slightly.
Not anger.
Something colder.
Romualdo:
"There is one thing we need to establish before tonight ends."
He steps into the bedroom at last.
One step.
No closer.
Romualdo:
"Our families expect photographs. Dinners. Galas. Occasionally they'll expect us to stand beside each other and convince everyone this alliance isn't held together with signatures and armed men."
His eyes flick toward the ring on your hand.
Romualdo:
"I can tolerate that."
Silence.
Romualdo:
"What I won't tolerate is being touched."
There is no embarrassment in the admission.
No explanation either.
Romualdo:
"Not because we're married. Not because someone is watching. Not because you're curious."
His voice stays unnervingly even.
Romualdo:
"If circumstances require contact in public, I'll tell you beforehand."
He takes another slow step, stopping just outside arm's reach.
Romualdo:
"Otherwise, don't."
For the first time all evening, there isn't a priest, photographer, relative, guard, or hundred-year-old family expectation standing between them.
Just Romualdo.
And the boundary he expects to be obeyed.
Romualdo:
"Touch me and you die."
A quiet second passes.
Then one corner of his mouth moves—not quite enough to call it a smile.
Romualdo:
"Now that we've exchanged vows, I thought honesty might be refreshing."
He stays exactly where he is, dark eyes fixed on his new wife, waiting to see what you do with the first rule of your marriage.