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saintslewis · 15 days ago

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an absolute masterpiece 🙂‍↕️

BLOOD OATH (chapter 1) • iamquaintrelle

# pairings: mob!lewis hamilton x black reader (☔️⚡️)

# tags: @queenshikongo3 @httpsserene-main @simplyyalika @peyiswriting @sunfairyy @yeea-nah @nichmeddar @gg-trini @serpenttines @lewisroscoelove @purplelewlew @henneseyhoe @saturnville @donteventry-itdude @snowseasonmademe @szariahwroteit @amirawrah @imjustheretomanifest @iamryanl @greedyjudge2 @beauty-gurl @hotfudgeslug @jessnotwiththemess

# summary: A marriage of convenience between crime families was supposed to be simple. No one mentioned it would be this complicated...or this deadly. masterlist

# a/n: I'm here for a good time not a long time....trying something new and don't worry I will come back to Wilo & Juju but I needed some rest out of the footballer world.

Sunday mornings in the Ricci household were sacred— literally. No matter what blood had been spilled or what deals had been struck the night before, the family attended 9 a.m. mass at St. Anthony's without exception. Your father, Salvatore Ricci, would sooner put a bullet in a man's head than miss confession.

Last night's cleanup had been particularly messy. You'd overheard enough on your way to bed to know someone had talked to the feds. By morning, the problem had been "resolved," and your father had prayed extra long during confession.

You adjusted the simple gold cross around your neck as you sat in the third pew, the same spot your family had occupied for as long as you could remember. Your three younger sisters fidgeted beside you while your mother gently shushed them, her dark hands elegant against their designer dresses. Francesca Ricci, née Williams, had become the very picture of a mafia wife over the past thirty years, though the journey hadn't been easy. Being Black in the traditional Italian underworld had meant proving herself twice over, earning respect through unflinching loyalty and quiet strength.

You'd inherited her brown skin and sharp eyes, along with what your father called "that stubborn American backbone." The combination of your mother's Jamaican-American heritage and your father's Calabrian blood had given you a face that turned heads—not that anyone in your father's circle would dare look too long. Not after what happened to Tommy Venucci, who'd made a crude comment about mixing bloodlines at a family gathering three years ago. He still walked with a limp.

As Father Donato delivered his homily about the prodigal son, you found your mind wandering to the meeting scheduled for that afternoon. Suitor number four. The mysterious Englishman you'd heard whispers about for weeks. Your father's capos had been arguing about this one—bringing in an outsider, a non-Italian, was controversial. But his reputation preceded him: ruthlessly efficient, technologically savvy, and with legitimate business fronts that even the FBI couldn't crack.

Three men had already come to present their cases to your father. Three men had measured you like prized livestock, their eyes calculating your worth in territory and influence rather than seeing a woman with a mind of her own. The Sicilian had practically drooled, his reputation for violence preceding him—you'd seen the photos of what he'd done to a rival, the body barely recognizable afterward. The Irishman had been old enough to be your grandfather, his breath reeking of whiskey even at noon, hands stained with decades of other people's blood. And the Cuban... just the memory of his eyes on you made your skin crawl. Your father's men had whispered about his "special room" where women who displeased him disappeared for days.

"Peace be with you," Father Donato intoned, snapping you back to the present.

"And with your spirit," you murmured along with the congregation.

Your mother squeezed your hand, somehow sensing the direction of your thoughts. She'd been in your position once—the daughter offered as a bridge between families, though in her case it had been to bring peace between rival factions in New York. Your grandfather had run numbers in Harlem until the Italian families decided to expand their territory. Instead of war, they'd chosen marriage. At least she and your father had found genuine love over the years. You couldn't imagine being so lucky.

"He'll be here at three," your mother whispered as you all stood for the final blessing. "I've heard he's... different from the others."

Different. You'd been hearing that word a lot lately. Different business model. Different approach. Different standards. But at the end of the day, he was still a man looking to acquire you like a business asset.

Back at the estate, you changed from your church clothes into something more appropriate for meeting a potential husband—a knee-length navy dress that was modest enough to please your father but tailored enough to command respect. You weren't about to present yourself as either a nun or a trophy.

From your bedroom window, you could see your father's men patrolling the grounds, Berettas and Glocks barely concealed under their jackets. Through the iron gates, you caught glimpses of the cars parked along the street—not just your father's security, but watchers from other families. The Sicilians in particular had been keeping eyes on the estate since their heir had been rejected. In this world, wounded pride often led to bloody retribution.

"You're not even trying to look excited," Sophia, your youngest sister at seventeen, lounged across your bed, scrolling through her phone. "I'd be thrilled if Papa was setting me up with a hot British guy."

"You don't know that he's hot," you replied, securing your hair into a sleek twist. "And I'm not excited because I'm being traded like a racehorse."

"Better than being stuck with Lorenzo Bianchi," she shuddered, referring to the Sicilian. "Did you see those teeth? Like a shark that chews tobacco. And those gross neck tattoos that look like he let a drunk toddler draw on him."

You couldn't help but smile at her assessment. "True. Or Patrick O'Malley with his wandering hands and breath that could strip paint. Pretty sure he was checking out your ass too, by the way."

"Ugh, stop! I still have nightmares." She made a gagging sound. "At least the Cuban was good looking, even if he gave off serial killer vibes."

"Raúl Suarez doesn't just give off those vibes. Why do you think Papa suddenly had that basement remodeled after his visit?" You raised an eyebrow meaningfully.

Sophia's eyes widened. "Wait, seriously? I thought that was just a rumor."

"Talia in the kitchen overheard Papa and Uncle Paolo talking. Three girls went missing from his clubs in Miami last year. No bodies, no witnesses."

"Jesus Christ," Sophia whispered, crossing herself reflexively. "And Papa was still considering him?"

"The Suarez connection would have opened up shipping routes we need," you explained, repeating what you'd overheard at the door of your father's study. "Business is business."

"See? That's why this British guy might be better!" Sophia sat up, suddenly serious. "Papa wouldn't choose someone horrible for you. Not really."

The faith your sisters had in your father was touching, if naive. Salvatore Ricci loved his daughters fiercely, but business was business. The empire always came first—an empire built on gambling, protection rackets, and increasingly, designer drugs that catered to Wall Street instead of street corners. Class had always been your father's obsession; he wanted the Ricci family mentioned alongside the Gambinos and Genoveses, not relegated to some minor footnote in mafia history.

A knock at your door announced your mother, elegant as always in a simple black dress, gold at her throat and wrists—the uniform of a donna who knew her worth.

"He's arrived," she said simply. "Your father wants you downstairs in ten minutes. Not before."

The power play was familiar—make the suitor wait, establish dominance from the start. You nodded, applying a final touch of lipstick.

"Is he..." you hesitated, unsure what you even wanted to ask.

Your mother seemed to understand anyway. "He's older. Established. Carries himself with confidence." She paused, something like surprise crossing her face. "And he's... not what I expected. Quite striking, actually."

That piqued your interest. Your mother wasn't easily impressed by men's appearances.

"And he came alone," she added. "No entourage."

That was unusual. Most made a show of strength, bringing captains and consiglieres to these meetings.

"Smart," you mused aloud. "One man alone in the lion's den shows he's either foolish or fearless."

"We'll see which," your mother replied with the faintest smile. "Ten minutes."

You used all ten, not out of vanity but strategy. The longer this Lewis Hamilton waited, the more you could observe without being observed in return. The security feed on your tablet showed the grand study where these meetings always took place, giving you a perfect view of the potential fourth suitor.

He sat perfectly at ease in one of your father's leather armchairs, legs crossed casually, declining the offered espresso with a polite gesture. Not a hint of nervousness or impatience crossed his face as the minutes ticked by. Unlike the others who had fidgeted, paced, or tried too hard to impress your father with crude jokes, this man simply existed in the space like he belonged there.

What struck you immediately was how different he looked from what you'd expected. Your father's world was full of either old-school traditionalists in tailored suits or younger men trying too hard with flashy designer clothes. Lewis Hamilton was neither. His suit was impeccably tailored, yes, but modern in cut. More noticeable were his looks—his hair styled in neat braids with a precise fade at the sides, double nose piercings glinting subtly in the light, and multiple earrings in both ears. Tattoos covered his hands in intricate patterns, and you could see more ink peeking above his collar.

Your father, old-school to his core, would typically dismiss such a man instantly. The fact that he hadn't spoke volumes about what Hamilton must be bringing to the table.

At thirty-nine, he had fourteen years on you, but carried them well. Not a young hothead with something to prove, but not an old fossil clinging to outdated ways either. Even on the grainy security feed, you could see his eyes were sharp, missing nothing.

"Time," your mother called softly from the hallway.

You tucked the tablet away and took a steadying breath. Whatever game this Englishman was playing, you weren't about to be a passive piece on the board. If your hand in marriage was the prize, you'd make damn sure everyone understood exactly what they were getting.

The walk downstairs felt longer than usual, each step bringing you closer to a future being decided by men's ambitions rather than your own desires. But unlike many in your position, you weren't entering this blind. Years of listening at doors, reading files left unattended, and cultivating your own network of informants meant you knew more about your father's business than he realized. You knew about the cops on payroll, the judges who could be bought, and exactly how many bodies were buried in the foundation of your father's newest hotel development. Knowledge was the only power you'd been able to accumulate—and you intended to use it.

As you approached the study doors, you heard your father's distinctive laugh—a rare sound in business meetings. Whatever Hamilton had said had genuinely amused him, which was either very good or very dangerous.

You straightened your shoulders, lifted your chin, and nodded to Marco, your father's most trusted guard, to announce your arrival.

The conversation inside went quiet as Marco opened the door. "Signorina Ricci," he announced formally, a small nod of encouragement just for you.

Three sets of eyes turned as you entered—your father's familiar scrutiny, your uncle Paolo's curious assessment, and the cool, evaluating gaze of Lewis Hamilton, who rose smoothly to his feet.

Up close, his presence was even more striking. The tailored suit couldn't quite mask the physicality beneath—this wasn't a soft businessman but someone who clearly maintained his body as meticulously as his appearance. The tattoos on his hands were mathematical in design, all clean lines and precise geometry, nothing like the crude symbols the Irish thugs or Italian soldiers typically wore. His braids were perfectly maintained, the fade on the sides mathematically precise. The piercings that should have looked rebellious somehow just enhanced the sharp angles of his face.

Your father gestured you forward. "My daughter," he said simply. "The jewel of our family."

You extended your hand as you'd been taught, expecting the usual kiss that suitors performed with varying degrees of sincerity. Instead, Hamilton clasped it firmly in a handshake, as if greeting a business equal rather than a prospective bride.

"Ms. Ricci," he said, his British accent crisp and refined. "Lewis Hamilton. I've heard a great deal about you."

"Strangely," you replied, meeting his gaze directly, "I've heard very little about you."

A flicker of something—surprise, perhaps amusement—crossed his face so quickly you might have imagined it. Your father cleared his throat in warning, but Hamilton didn't seem offended by your directness.

"Perhaps we can remedy that," he said, releasing your hand and gesturing for you to sit.

As you took your place in the chair beside your father, you noted how Hamilton waited until you were settled before sitting himself—a small courtesy the others hadn't bothered with. He moved with the fluid economy of someone comfortable in his own skin, his attention seemingly casual yet you could feel the intensity of his observation.

This was a man who missed nothing, categorized everything, and revealed only what served his purpose. In that, at least, he was like every other man in this room.

"Mr. Hamilton was just explaining his unique business structure," your father said, the enthusiasm in his voice telling you he was already impressed.

"Legitimate enterprises supporting our more... specialized operations," Hamilton explained, his voice low and measured. "Technology has changed our world. The old ways of doing business leave too many vulnerabilities."

"And what exactly are your specialized operations, Mr. Hamilton?" you asked, earning another warning look from your father.

But Lewis Hamilton didn't seem troubled by your question. In fact, the corner of his mouth quirked up slightly, not quite a smile but an acknowledgment.

"Let's just say I provide certain hard-to-acquire items to people with specific needs," he replied smoothly. "And ensure that financial matters remain... private. In today's digital world, that's becoming quite the valuable service."

Guns and money laundering. The cornerstones of power in your world, dressed up in polite euphemisms. You'd seen the reports on your father's desk—Hamilton's operation was smaller than the traditional families, but his weapons were military-grade, his financial networks impenetrable even to federal investigators. He'd built something sleek and modern while the old families were still using ledger books and cash drops.

"My daughter has been educated at the finest schools," your father interjected, clearly trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground. "Fluent in four languages, accomplished in music and art."

You fought the urge to roll your eyes. The sales pitch was always the same—as if your college degrees and cultural accomplishments were nothing more than decorative features, like listing the premium options on a luxury car.

"Brilliant," Hamilton nodded, but his eyes remained on you rather than shifting to your father. "And what gets you going beyond your formal education? What interests you?"

The question caught you off guard. None of the others had bothered to ask about your interests. They'd been content to let your father extol your virtues while they imagined you in their bed.

"I'm particularly interested in business strategy," you answered honestly, curious to see his reaction. "Especially how traditional operations can adapt to changing markets and technologies."

Your father shifted uncomfortably beside you, but Hamilton leaned forward slightly, his interest seemingly genuine.

"Any specific areas?" he pressed, ignoring your father's obvious desire to change topics.

"Digital currency," you replied, deciding to test how seriously he'd take you. "Its implications for our particular... industry. The blockchain creates both opportunities and vulnerabilities that most traditional families haven't begun to address."

A flash of genuine surprise crossed Hamilton's face before his expression settled back into its usual controlled mask. "I'd be proper interested in hearing your thoughts on that sometime," he said, a hint of his British vernacular slipping through the polished exterior.

The conversation shifted then, your father guiding it toward the proposed alliance between families. You sat quietly, observing rather than participating, noting how differently Hamilton conducted himself compared to the others. Where they had boasted and promised, he stated facts. Where they had emphasized tradition, he spoke of innovation. Where they had leered, he maintained respectful distance.

It didn't mean he wasn't dangerous. If anything, the control he exhibited made him more so. This was a man who wouldn't lose his temper and lash out—he would calculate exactly how much force was needed and apply it with surgical precision. You'd heard whispers about his operation in London—small but lethal. People who crossed Lewis Hamilton didn't end up beaten or threatened; they simply disappeared without a trace.

As the meeting concluded, Hamilton rose, shaking your father's hand and your uncle's before turning to you once more.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Ricci," he said, his eyes meeting yours directly. "I look forward to our next conversation."

The certainty in his voice suggested he already knew your father's decision—or was confident enough in his proposal not to doubt it. Either way, something told you Lewis Hamilton wasn't a man accustomed to hearing the word "no."

"Until next time, Mr. Hamilton," you replied neutrally, giving nothing away.

As Marco escorted him out, you felt your father's eyes on you, assessing your reaction.

"Well?" he asked, unusually interested in your opinion. "What do you think?"

You considered your answer carefully. "He's different from the others," you admitted.

"Those piercings," your uncle Paolo muttered, shaking his head. "And the tattoos. Like some street thug."

Your father waved his brother's concerns away. "Times are changing, Paolo. His operation is smaller, but cleaner. More modern. The connections to legitimate business would give us protection we currently lack."

Protection. That was what this had always been about. Your father had built an empire on blood and loyalty, but times were changing. The old ways were becoming more dangerous, and Salvatore Ricci had no son to guide the family into the future.

Just four daughters, with you as the eldest—the crown princess who could never wear the crown yourself, but could place it on the head of a worthy husband.

"You'll have dinner with him tomorrow night," your father said, not a question but a command. "Alone. I want to see how he conducts himself with you when we're not watching."

A test, then. For him, or for you, or perhaps for both.

"Whatever you think is best, Papa," you agreed, mind already racing with possibilities.

Lewis Hamilton was undoubtedly the most intriguing of your suitors, but that didn't change the fundamental truth of your situation. You were still a commodity being traded, a bridge between empires.

The question now was whether you could turn this arrangement to your advantage—and whether the careful control you'd glimpsed in Lewis Hamilton would prove to be your prison or your opportunity.

*************************************************

The next evening found you standing in front of your closet, contemplating the impossible task of dressing for a dinner with a man who might own you by the end of the month. Too conservative would suggest meekness, too bold would offend your father, and either way, you'd be telling Lewis Hamilton something about yourself before you were ready for him to know it.

"The black Tom Ford," your mother suggested from the doorway, always able to read your mind. "Elegant but not trying too hard."

You nodded, pulling out the dress in question—a simple black sheath with architectural details at the neckline that walked the perfect line between sophisticated and interesting. Like armor disguised as silk.

"You know you don't have to do this if you truly don't want to," your mother said quietly, closing the bedroom door behind her. It was a conversation you'd had before, one that always ended the same way.

"And what's the alternative, Mama?" You slipped off your robe, stepping into the dress. "I run away and do what exactly? With what money? What protection? How long before someone uses me to get to Papa?"

Your mother sighed, moving behind you to zip the dress. "I just want you to have choices I didn't have."

"You chose Papa," you reminded her, meeting her eyes in the mirror. "Eventually."

"I grew to love your father," she clarified. "I was lucky. Not every arranged marriage turns out that way."

You turned to face her. "Do you think he's decided already? On Hamilton?"

Your mother's expression was measured. "Your father was impressed. And the message that arrived from the Bianchi family this morning may have sealed it."

"What message?" This was news to you.

"Lorenzo's father sent over a 'reconsideration' proposal. Doubled the territory offer, added shipping routes through Sicily."

You couldn't hide your disgust. "So he's literally trying to outbid Hamilton for me?"

"It's business," your mother said simply, the phrase all of you used to rationalize the uglier aspects of your life. "But your father was... displeased with the approach. Said Bianchi should have led with their best offer, not tried to undercut after the fact."

You turned back to the mirror, applying your lipstick with perhaps more force than necessary. "And the Cuban? Has Suarez given up?"

Your mother's expression darkened. "He sent flowers. Again. With a note your father wouldn't let me read."

That explained the fresh roses on the foyer table that hadn't been there this morning. Raúl Suarez's idea of courtship had a distinctly threatening undertone, like each bouquet carried an implicit "or else."

"So I'm still on the auction block," you said, keeping your voice even. "With Hamilton as the current high bidder."

"It's not—"

"It's exactly like that, Mama. Let's not pretend."

Your mother didn't argue the point. Instead, she reached for your jewelry box, selecting a pair of diamond studs. "Hamilton requested to meet in the city. Your father agreed, but only with security protocols in place."

That was unexpected. Most meetings happened on family territory, where your father controlled every variable. Allowing you to go into Manhattan, even with security, was a significant concession.

"Where in the city?" you asked, suddenly more interested. It had been months since you'd had an excuse to leave the compound in Mill Neck. Your father's insistence that you live at home "for your safety" had become increasingly restrictive over the past year, as tensions with rival families escalated.

"Eleven Madison Park," your mother replied, a hint of approval in her voice. At least Hamilton had good taste. "Antonio will drive you. Marco and Luca will provide security, but they'll maintain distance unless needed."

You nodded, a small thrill running through you despite everything. An evening in Manhattan, away from the estate's watchful eyes and your father's immediate presence, felt like temporary freedom—even if it was just an illusion.

"Is this Hamilton's way of testing boundaries?" you wondered aloud. "Seeing how much control he can take from the start?"

"Or offering you neutral ground," your mother suggested. "A place where neither family has home field advantage."

You hadn't considered that perspective. "Interesting theory."

"Just... keep an open mind," your mother advised, squeezing your shoulders gently. "And remember everything I taught you about reading men."

You smiled at that. While your father had trained you in the visible aspects of the business—the legitimate enterprises, the social connections, the charitable foundation that laundered both money and the family's reputation—your mother had taught you the more subtle arts. How to read microexpressions, how to extract information while appearing to share nothing, how to make men believe your ideas were actually theirs.

"I'll read him like a book," you promised, securing your mother's diamond studs in your ears. "But I doubt he'll be that easy to decipher."

"No," she agreed thoughtfully. "But that might make him more interesting than the others."

The others. As if on cue, your phone buzzed with a text. Lorenzo Bianchi's name flashed on the screen, the fifth message today. You showed it to your mother with a raised eyebrow.

"He's persistent," she acknowledged. "And his family is dangerous when rejected."

"They're all dangerous," you reminded her, deleting the message without reading it. "That's the whole point of this arrangement. Finding the devil whose hell I can live with."

Your mother didn't contradict you, just helped you select a simple gold bracelet to complete your outfit. "Antonio will be ready at six. That should put you at the restaurant by seven, even with city traffic."

An hour in the car each way. Normally that would seem tedious, but tonight you welcomed it. The ride from your family's North Shore estate into Manhattan would give you time to prepare mentally. To strategize. To remember that no matter how intriguing Lewis Hamilton might be, this was still a business transaction at its core.

At precisely six, you descended the grand staircase to find not just Antonio waiting, but your father as well. He stood in the foyer, examining you with a critical eye.

"You look beautiful," he said after a moment, the compliment sounding oddly formal. "Remember who you are tonight. You represent our family."

"I always do, Papa," you replied, accepting his kiss on both cheeks.

"Hamilton is... unconventional," your father continued, walking you to the door. "But he's smart. Connected. His operation in London has expanded into five countries in just eight years. No arrests, no leaks."

You nodded, understanding what your father was really saying. Lewis Hamilton represented new blood, new methods. A way to modernize the Ricci empire without sacrificing its core business.

"The Bianchis have been calling all day," your father added, his expression hardening. "Lorenzo claims he's in love with you. After meeting you once."

You couldn't help the derisive sound that escaped you. "Lorenzo Bianchi wouldn't know love if it stabbed him in the chest. Which, according to what I've heard, is his preferred method of solving problems."

Your father didn't deny it. "Just be careful. These rejected suitors... their pride is wounded."

"I'll have Marco and Luca," you reminded him, though the concern in his voice was touching. For all his faults, your father did love you. He just loved the family business more.

"Yes, well." He adjusted his tie, a nervous gesture you rarely saw. "Hamilton strikes me as capable of handling himself if trouble arises. But still, be cautious."

The idea that your father was entrusting your safety partly to Hamilton was telling. Perhaps his mind was already made up about this match.

"I'll text when I arrive at the restaurant," you promised, stepping outside where the black Escalade waited, engine running.

Antonio, your family's most trusted driver, held the door for you with a respectful nod. At thirty-five, he'd been with the family since before you were born, rising from teenage errand boy to become one of your father's most reliable soldiers. If trouble found you in the city, Antonio was nearly as deadly as Marco and Luca combined.

As the car pulled down the long, tree-lined driveway of the estate, you felt the familiar mix of relief and anxiety that always came with leaving the compound. Your family's ten-acre property in Mill Neck represented both prison and protection—a gilded cage that kept you safe from enemies while simultaneously restricting your freedom.

The gates swung open, revealing a black sedan parked just outside the property. You didn't need to see the occupants to know it was Bianchi's men, maintaining their unwelcome surveillance. They'd been there for three days now, ever since Lorenzo's proposal had been declined.

"Persistent bastards," Antonio muttered, accelerating past them.

You watched in the side mirror as the sedan pulled out to follow at a discreet distance. "They're still tailing us?"

"Don't worry," Antonio assured you, his hand moving briefly inside his jacket where you knew he kept his Glock. "Luca and Marco are right behind them. They won't get close in the city."

You nodded, settling back against the leather seat. This was your normal—being followed, guarded, watched from all sides. Sometimes by people who wanted to protect you, sometimes by those who wanted to use you as leverage against your father. The distinction hardly mattered when the end result was the same: limited freedom.

As the Escalade merged onto the highway, you watched Long Island's affluent suburbs give way to increasingly urban landscapes. The city gradually appeared on the horizon, a collection of glittering towers against the darkening sky. Despite everything, you felt a flutter of excitement. It had been nearly three months since you'd been to Manhattan, your movements increasingly restricted as multiple families vied for alliance through marriage.

"Looking forward to dinner?" Antonio asked, catching your eye in the rearview mirror.

"I'm looking forward to something different," you replied honestly. "Even if it's just another man evaluating me like a prize thoroughbred."

Antonio had the grace to look uncomfortable at your candor. He'd known you since childhood, had taught you to drive (secretly, against your father's wishes) when you were sixteen, had even covered for you once when you'd snuck out to a college party. But the realities of your position in the family were something even loyal Antonio couldn't change.

"This Hamilton," he said carefully. "Word is he's formidable. Not like the others."

"So I've gathered," you replied. "Is that good or bad, in your opinion?"

Antonio considered this as he navigated through increasing traffic. "Good, maybe. A man secure in his power doesn't need to prove it constantly. Might make him a more... reasonable husband."

The word "husband" still sent an uncomfortable jolt through you. This time tomorrow, your father might well have decided to give you to Lewis Hamilton for the rest of your life.

"We'll see," was all you said, turning your attention to the city lights now fully visible ahead.

Your phone buzzed again. This time it wasn't Lorenzo Bianchi but Raúl Suarez. A photo message that you opened against your better judgment.

It was a picture of you. From yesterday. Walking from the house to the garden, completely unaware you were being photographed.

Looking forward to changing your mind, belleza, the accompanying text read. I'm a patient man.

You deleted it immediately, suppressing a shiver. The Cuban's tactics were becoming increasingly concerning. At least Bianchi limited himself to excessive texts and flowers.

"Everything okay?" Antonio asked, noticing your expression.

"Fine," you lied smoothly. "Just another reminder of why I need to choose the least objectionable option."

As the Manhattan skyline enveloped you, traffic slowing to the typical crawl of early evening, you found yourself wondering what kind of man Lewis Hamilton really was beneath the controlled exterior and strategic business proposal. Was he truly different, as everyone kept suggesting? Or just better at disguising the same possessive, controlling nature that seemed endemic to men in your world?

You'd find out soon enough. For now, you were determined to enjoy this rare taste of the city, this brief illusion of freedom before decisions were made that would determine the rest of your life.

And if Lewis Hamilton thought you'd be an easy acquisition, a docile addition to his growing empire, he was about to discover exactly how mistaken he was.

Eleven Madison Park glowed with understated elegance, its Art Deco interior a testament to old New York money and taste. The maître d' greeted you by name before you could even introduce yourself, suggesting that Lewis had ensured they knew exactly who to expect.

"Mr. Hamilton is already seated," the man informed you with a deferential nod. "If you'll follow me."

You felt eyes tracking your movement through the restaurant—the curse of being a Ricci in Manhattan, where your family name was whispered in both boardrooms and back alleys. Marco and Luca had already positioned themselves strategically at the bar, pretending to be just another pair of Wall Street types unwinding after hours, but their eyes constantly scanned for threats.

Lewis rose as you approached the table, set in a discreet corner that offered both privacy and a clear view of all entrances. The tactics of a man who never let his guard down. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit that somehow made his tattoos and piercings look deliberate rather than rebellious, like they were as much a part of his carefully crafted image as the Italian leather of his shoes.

"Ms. Ricci," he greeted you, that British accent wrapping around your name in a way that was irritatingly pleasant to the ear. "Thank you for joining me."

"As if I had a choice," you replied, allowing him to pull out your chair.

Instead of looking offended, a small smile played at the corner of his mouth. "There are always choices. Even when they're all bad ones."

You settled into your seat, noting how he waited until you were comfortable before sitting down himself. "Is that supposed to be comforting?"

"Just honest." He signaled to the sommelier, who appeared instantly at his side. "The Puligny-Montrachet we discussed earlier, please."

You raised an eyebrow. "Ordering for both of us already?"

"Just the wine," he clarified. "Unless you'd prefer something else?"

The challenge in his tone suggested he'd done his homework—probably knew that white Burgundy was your preference, information easily obtained from any of the high-end restaurants your family frequented. You decided not to give him the satisfaction.

"That's fine," you conceded. As the sommelier departed, you added, "Though I'm surprised you didn't choose something British."

A subtle shift crossed his features—not quite a smile, but the suggestion of amusement. "British wine is improving, but I'm not a patriot when it comes to vintages."

"Just when it comes to business?"

"Especially when it comes to business." His dark eyes held yours with unsettling directness. "I value loyalty above all else, Ms. Ricci. To people, not countries."

The sommelier returned with the wine, going through the tasting ritual with Hamilton, who handled it with the practiced ease of someone used to fine dining. Once your glasses were poured and you were alone again, you decided to cut through the preliminary niceties.

"So why exactly are we here, Mr. Hamilton? My father could have made his decision without this... interview."

"Interview?" He seemed genuinely amused now. "Is that what you think this is?"

"Isn't it? You're evaluating whether I'll be suitable for whatever role you've envisioned in this merger of empires." You took a deliberate sip of wine, noting that it was, annoyingly, excellent. "Or did you just want to see the merchandise up close before finalizing the purchase?"

Something flickered in his expression—a brief hardening of his features that vanished so quickly you might have imagined it, replaced by that same controlled composure. But in that fleeting moment, you glimpsed what might happen to anyone who truly crossed Lewis Hamilton. It wasn't hot rage like the Sicilians or cruel pleasure like the Cuban—just cold, efficient finality.

"If I viewed this as a purchase, Ms. Ricci, I wouldn't have bothered with dinner," he replied evenly. "Business transactions can be handled over the phone."

"Then what is this?"

"A conversation between two adults who might be spending quite a bit of time together in the future," he said simply. "I find it's useful to know who you're dealing with before making commitments."

The waiter appeared, saving you from having to respond immediately. You both ordered—you, the sea bass; him, the duck—and when you were alone again, you decided to press further.

"Why me? Why the Ricci family? Your operation seems entirely self-sufficient."

Hamilton considered his answer, turning his wine glass slowly between tattooed fingers. "Expansion requires allies. Your father has established routes and connections I could use. I have technological innovations and legitimate business fronts he needs. It's symbiotic."

"And I'm the connective tissue in this symbiotic relationship," you finished for him. "How flattering."

"You're underestimating your importance," he countered. "Your father doesn't need a son-in-law. He needs a successor he can trust. There's a difference."

The distinction was meaningful, suggesting he'd actually thought about this beyond mere territorial acquisition. Still, you weren't convinced.

"And what exactly do you get out of it?" you pressed. "Besides the business advantages, which you could negotiate without marriage. Why tie yourself to a woman fourteen years younger? I'm sure there are plenty of eligible women in London closer to your age who'd be more... compatible."

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, unexpected and transformative. It didn't soften him, exactly, but it added a dimension you hadn't anticipated.

"Perhaps I appreciate the view beyond the business benefits," he said, his eyes making a deliberate, assessing sweep that should have felt offensive but somehow didn't. It wasn't leering, just honest appreciation.

Before you could respond, he added, "Age is largely irrelevant. I've met twenty-year-olds with the cunning of veteran strategists and sixty-year-olds with the wisdom of children. You're not some naive girl, Ms. Ricci, regardless of your birth year."

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

"It's supposed to be an answer. I'm not interested in this arrangement because of your age, but despite it. Your father has kept you involved in enough of the business that you understand the world we operate in. You're educated, strategic, and from what I can tell, not easily intimidated." His eyes locked with yours. "All useful qualities in a partner."

The word "partner" caught you off guard. Not "wife" or "possession" but "partner"—suggesting if not equality, then at least value beyond decoration or bloodline.

"Most men in your position want docile trophy wives," you noted, watching his reaction carefully. "Not partners."

"Most men in my position are fools," he replied without hesitation. "Wasting half the intelligence available to them out of archaic notions of gender. I don't have that luxury."

Your first course arrived, temporarily pausing the conversation. You used the moment to study him more carefully. His movements were precise, economical. Nothing wasted. The tattoos on his hands were intricate geometric patterns, almost mathematical in their precision. His braids were immaculate, suggesting attention to detail that extended to every aspect of his presentation.

"Your security detail is quite good," he commented casually, gesturing subtly toward Marco and Luca at the bar. "Though they might want to vary their positioning. Too predictable."

This surprised you. Most people never noticed your family's security arrangements. "You have men here too?"

His smile was brief but genuine. "What makes you think I need men?"

Something about the way he said it sent a chill down your spine. The rumors about Hamilton handling his own enforcement suddenly seemed very plausible. His athletic build wasn't just for show, and those hands with their beautiful, precise tattoos had probably ended lives with the same efficiency they now used to cut into perfectly prepared duck.

"I heard you dealt with problems personally in your early days," you said, testing the waters. "Is that still your preference?"

He regarded you steadily. "I find that delegation is necessary for growth, but direct intervention is occasionally... clarifying for those who might misunderstand my intentions."

It was the most diplomatic description of enforcement you'd ever heard, but no less chilling for its restraint.

"Like the situation with the Brennan family in Dublin?" you asked, dropping the reference deliberately.

His expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, that you knew about an operation that had been kept remarkably quiet. Three years ago, a Dublin crime family had tried to hijack one of Hamilton's weapons shipments. All five men involved had disappeared without a trace. No bodies, no witnesses, just gone—along with the family's patriarch a week later.

"You've done your homework, Ms. Ricci," he acknowledged, neither confirming nor denying.

"As have you, apparently," you countered. "The wine choice, the restaurant reservation under my name rather than yours, the awareness of my security. You've been watching me."

"Prudent research before a significant investment," he replied smoothly. "As I'm sure you've done as well."

The main course arrived, giving you a moment to recalibrate. Hamilton was harder to read than you'd expected. The calculated control you'd sensed at yesterday's meeting extended to every aspect of his behavior, yet didn't feel like the facade that so many men in your world maintained. This was simply who he was—disciplined, precise, lethal when necessary but not gratuitously cruel.

"May I ask you something direct, Mr. Hamilton?" you said after a few bites of excellent sea bass.

"Please do."

"If we were to move forward with this arrangement, what exactly would you expect from me? As your... partner."

He set down his fork, giving the question his full attention. "Loyalty, above all. Discretion. Intelligence applied to our mutual benefit." His gaze was unwavering. "I don't require you to love me, Ms. Ricci, but I do expect your allegiance to be absolute. No divided loyalties between my interests and your father's once we're married."

The bluntness was almost refreshing after the veiled language of most business discussions in your world.

"And what would I get in return?" you challenged. "Besides the obvious financial security that I already have."

"Protection. Freedom to pursue your own interests within reason. Respect." He took a careful sip of wine. "And a certain degree of autonomy that I suspect you haven't been permitted under your father's roof."

He'd identified perhaps the one thing that might actually tempt you—the promise of freedom, even if limited. The ability to move through the world without constant supervision, to make decisions without your father's approval.

"That's quite an offer," you said carefully. "But words are easy. How do I know you'd follow through?"

"You don't," he admitted. "Just as I don't know for certain that you wouldn't betray my trust at the first opportunity. Marriage is a risk, Ms. Ricci, even when it's a business arrangement."

You considered this, appreciating his honesty if nothing else. "And if I said no? Hypothetically."

"Then I'd finish this excellent meal, thank you for your time, and pursue a different approach to expansion." His tone was matter-of-fact. "Your father would likely move on to the next suitable candidate for your hand, and our paths might not cross again."

The complete lack of threat was notable, especially compared to how the Sicilian and Cuban had responded to the mere suggestion of rejection. Either Hamilton was supremely confident that the deal would proceed regardless of your opinion, or he genuinely wouldn't force the issue.

"I find that hard to believe," you said. "Men like you don't simply walk away from strategic advantages."

"Men like me?" His eyebrow raised slightly. "You seem to have placed me in a category, Ms. Ricci. I'm curious which one."

"Dangerous men who build empires and eliminate obstacles," you replied without hesitation. "Men who don't take no for an answer."

That small smile returned, transforming his severe features momentarily. "I always accept 'no' in personal matters. It's more efficient than the alternative." He leaned forward slightly. "But in this case, I don't think you want to say no. I think you're considering whether being tied to me would be better or worse than your current circumstances."

The accuracy of his assessment was unsettling. He read people too well—a dangerous quality when combined with everything else you knew about him.

"And what's your assessment?" you asked, meeting his gaze directly.

"I think you're calculating whether I'd be a prison or a pathway. Whether trading your father's control for a husband's would improve your situation or merely change the scenery of your confinement." He said this without judgment, simply stating what he observed. "It's the logical analysis, given your position."

Before you could respond, a commotion near the entrance caught your attention. Marco had shifted position, his hand moving subtly toward his concealed weapon. A group of men had entered—three Italians in expensive suits who were definitely not there for the cuisine.

Hamilton noticed your attention shift and glanced casually over his shoulder. "Friends of yours?"

"Bianchi's men," you replied quietly. "The rejected Sicilian. Apparently he's not taking no for an answer."

Instead of looking concerned, Hamilton merely nodded, returning to his meal with infuriating calm. "They won't approach while you're with me."

"You seem very confident about that," you observed, noting that Marco and Luca were now on high alert, communicating silently across the room.

"They've already seen me," Hamilton replied, cutting into his duck with precise movements. "They know who I am and what would happen if they created a scene."

You studied him with new interest. "And what exactly would happen, Mr. Hamilton?"

He met your eyes, and in that moment, you saw it again—that flash of cold finality that suggested absolute certainty in his ability to handle any threat. "They'd regret it deeply in whatever time they had left."

The matter-of-fact way he said it, without bravado or theatrics, made it all the more chilling. This wasn't a man who made threats; this was someone stating simple causality. Action and consequence.

True enough, Bianchi's men maintained their distance, settling at the bar where they could watch but not interfere. Your security team adjusted accordingly, creating a careful balance of power across the restaurant floor.

"Tell me something, Ms. Ricci," Hamilton said, smoothly changing the subject as if the potential threat were inconsequential. "If you weren't bound by family obligation, what would you do with your life?"

The question caught you off guard—no one had asked you that in years, perhaps ever. "I—" you hesitated, unused to such direct inquiry about your own desires rather than your family's needs.

"That's not a fair question," you finally said. "I've never had the luxury of that kind of thinking."

"Humor me," he pressed, those dark eyes fixed on yours with unexpected intensity. "If you could choose any path, what would it be?"

You considered deflecting again, then decided against it. This man might own half your life soon; he might as well know what he was buying.

"I'd want to build something of my own," you admitted. "Not separate from the family business necessarily, but something that was mine to shape. I have ideas about expansion into tech and legitimate finance that my father considers too risky."

Hamilton nodded, looking genuinely interested. "Forward-thinking. Your father mentioned you studied finance at Columbia?"

"And computer science," you added. "Though he prefers to emphasize my language skills and social graces when presenting me to potential husbands."

A brief smile touched his lips again. "The criminal world is changing. Technology and finance are the future. Your father knows it, whether he admits it or not. It's why he's considering me despite—" he gestured to his appearance, "my departure from traditional values."

The rest of dinner passed with surprising ease. Hamilton asked about your ideas for modernizing operations, listening with what seemed like genuine interest rather than performative attention. You found yourself speaking more freely than you had in months, outlining concepts for digital money laundering and secure communication networks that you'd never dared share with your father.

As dessert arrived, you realized with some surprise that you'd almost forgotten this was essentially a business meeting disguised as a date. Hamilton was unexpectedly easy to talk to when he chose to be, his questions precise and thoughtful, pushing you to expand on your ideas rather than simply agreeing.

"You're not what I expected," you admitted as you finished your chocolate soufflé.

"Is that good or bad?" he asked, watching you with those calculating eyes.

"I haven't decided yet," you replied honestly. "But it's... interesting."

He nodded, accepting this assessment without pressing for more. As he signaled for the check, you noticed Bianchi's men were still at the bar, watching with poorly disguised resentment.

"They'll follow us out," you said quietly.

"Probably," Hamilton agreed, signing the check without even glancing at the total. "Though they won't get close."

"Because of Marco and Luca?"

"Among other reasons." His tone suggested something you couldn't quite identify.

As you both stood to leave, Hamilton offered his arm in a surprisingly old-fashioned gesture. You took it, aware of the statement it made to the watching eyes. Bianchi's men would report back that you seemed comfortable with Hamilton, that there was a connection forming. Whether true or not, perception mattered in your world.

"I'll walk you to your car," Hamilton said as you exited the restaurant into the cool evening air.

"That's not necessary. I have security."

"I'm aware." Something in his tone made you look up at him. "But I'd like to anyway."

Against your better judgment, you nodded. As you walked the short distance to where Antonio waited with the Escalade, you felt Bianchi's men emerge from the restaurant behind you. Marco and Luca immediately moved to intercept, creating a buffer between you and the potential threat.

Hamilton continued walking as if completely unconcerned, his hand coming to rest lightly on the small of your back—proprietary but not controlling. The gesture shouldn't have felt as reassuring as it did.

When you reached the car, Antonio opened the door, his face carefully neutral despite the unusual situation. Before you stepped in, Hamilton turned to face you.

"Thank you for dinner, Ms. Ricci," he said formally, mindful of the watching eyes from multiple directions. "I look forward to continuing our conversation."

"As do I, Mr. Hamilton," you replied with equal formality.

He took your hand, and instead of the handshake you expected, raised it to his lips in the briefest, most controlled kiss. The gesture was calculated, you knew—a clear signal to Bianchi's watching men about his intentions. Yet something about the fleeting pressure of his lips against your knuckles sent an unwelcome shiver up your arm.

"I'll be speaking with your father tomorrow," he said, his voice low enough that only you could hear. "If you have any objections to moving forward, now would be the time to voice them."

The question surprised you—again, he was offering a choice where none was expected. You studied his face, trying to discern his true intentions behind the controlled exterior.

"No objections," you heard yourself say. "Yet."

That subtle smile appeared again, transforming his severe features for just a moment. "Prudent. Never commit without leaving yourself an exit strategy."

With that, he stepped back, allowing you to enter the car. As Antonio closed the door, you watched through the window as Hamilton turned to face the direction where Bianchi's men stood. He didn't approach them or make any obvious threat, just stood perfectly still, watching them with the focused intensity of a predator assessing prey.

Even from inside the car, you could see the Sicilians' discomfort grow under that unwavering gaze until they finally retreated to their own vehicle.

"Home, Miss?" Antonio asked, interrupting your observation.

"Yes," you replied, your mind already racing ahead. "Home for now."

As the Escalade pulled away from the curb, you found yourself wondering if Lewis Hamilton represented a different kind of cage or the key to one you'd been in your entire life. Either way, you suspected your father's decision was already made—and for once, you weren't entirely opposed to the arrangement.

Dangerous men were common in your world. But dangerous men who saw you as more than decoration or a means to an end? Those were rare enough to warrant further investigation.

Tomorrow would determine whether you'd found a partner or simply a more sophisticated jailer than the others who had sought your hand.

*******************************************

Your father summoned you to his study the following afternoon. You'd barely slept, your mind replaying every moment of the dinner with Hamilton, analyzing his words, his carefully controlled expressions, the brief moments when something genuine seemed to break through his disciplined exterior.

When you entered the study, your father wasn't alone. Uncle Paolo sat in his usual chair by the window, while your mother stood behind your father's desk—her presence unusual for these kinds of meetings. Whatever decision had been reached, it was significant enough to warrant the family's core leadership.

"Sit," your father said without preamble.

You took the chair across from his desk, smoothing your skirt with practiced composure. The heavy silence told you everything before a word was spoken.

"Hamilton has made a formal offer," your father finally said, gesturing to a folder on his desk. "The terms are... substantial."

"I'm sure they are," you replied evenly. "Since I'm such a valuable asset."

Your father's eyes narrowed slightly. "This isn't the time for attitude. This is business."

"It's my life, Papa."

"It's both," your mother interjected softly. "Which is why we want to know your thoughts before proceeding."

This was unexpected. Your father rarely solicited your opinion on family matters, let alone ones that involved strategic alliances.

"My thoughts?" you echoed, careful to keep the surprise from your voice.

Your father leaned forward. "Hamilton specifically requested your consent be part of the agreement. Said he has no interest in an unwilling partner." A flicker of annoyance crossed his features. "Very modern of him."

That explained it. Your opinion wasn't being sought out of respect for your autonomy but because Hamilton had made it a condition. Interesting that he'd actually followed through on the choice he'd offered you last night.

"So if I said no, this deal wouldn't proceed?" You tested the boundaries of this supposed freedom.

Uncle Paolo scoffed. "Let's not be dramatic. The alliance has significant benefits for both families. Hamilton is simply being... diplomatic."

Translation: Your consent was expected regardless of how it was framed.

"What exactly are the terms?" you asked, redirecting to practical matters.

Your father pushed the folder toward you. "Marriage within the month. You would relocate to London initially, though Hamilton maintains properties in several countries. Your trust fund remains independently yours, with additional provisions from both families."

You opened the folder, scanning the documents inside. Legal language camouflaged what was essentially the transfer of partial ownership of you from one man to another, albeit with surprisingly favorable conditions. Hamilton had negotiated for your financial independence and included provisions for your continued education if desired—details most traditional suitors wouldn't have bothered with.

"And the business arrangements?" you asked, knowing that was the true heart of the agreement.

"Access to his distribution networks in Europe. Technology integration for our financial operations. Weapons procurement without the usual middlemen." Your father couldn't hide the satisfaction in his voice. "In exchange for our established routes in North America and our political connections."

"Hamilton also has legitimate businesses that could help launder our more... problematic income streams," Uncle Paolo added. "Very sophisticated setups. Even the feds haven't been able to crack them."

You continued reading, noting the careful delineation of territories and responsibilities. Unlike most alliance agreements you'd seen, this one didn't simply absorb one organization into the other. It created distinct spheres of influence with clear boundaries.

"And the Bianchis? The Suarez family? How are they taking this?" you asked, thinking of the men who had watched you at the restaurant last night.

Your father's expression darkened. "Not well. Lorenzo Bianchi has been particularly vocal about his... disappointment."

"That's why we need to move quickly," Uncle Paolo interjected. "The longer this drags out, the more opportunity for interference."

"Interference," you repeated. "You mean attempts to kill Hamilton? Or me? Or both?"

"Don't be dramatic," your father snapped, but the tightness around his eyes confirmed your suspicions. "Appropriate security measures will be in place."

"Including Hamilton's own people," your mother added. "He's sent two advance team members who arrived this morning."

That explained the unfamiliar faces you'd glimpsed patrolling the grounds. Hamilton was already moving pieces into position, securing his investment.

"So it's decided then," you said, closing the folder. "I'm to be Mrs. Hamilton by the end of the month."

"Not if you truly object," your mother said, earning a sharp glance from your father. "Lewis was quite clear about that condition."

You studied your mother's face, wondering if she actually believed you had a choice or was simply playing her role in this carefully choreographed negotiation. Either way, the question remained: did you want to object?

Hamilton was dangerous, certainly. But so were all the men in your world, including your father. At least Hamilton seemed to value your mind alongside your family connections. And despite the age gap, he was undeniably intriguing in ways that Lorenzo Bianchi and Raúl Suarez could never be.

"I don't object," you finally said. "But I'd like to speak with Hamilton again before anything is finalized. Alone."

Your father's eyebrows rose. "That's not traditional."

"Neither is he," you countered. "If I'm going to bind my life to his, I want to be clear about certain... expectations."

Uncle Paolo looked scandalized, but your mother nodded slightly, understanding passing between you. Every marriage in your world involved unspoken rules and boundaries. Better to establish them early than discover incompatibilities too late.

"Fine," your father conceded. "He's coming here tonight to discuss final arrangements. You can have thirty minutes with him beforehand."

"An hour," you negotiated automatically. "And in the garden, not the house."

A flash of irritation crossed your father's face, but to your surprise, he nodded. "You're already taking after him. Negotiating everything."

You accepted this as the backhanded compliment it was intended to be. "What time?"

"Eight o'clock. Don't be late." Your father turned his attention to other papers on his desk, a clear dismissal.

As you rose to leave, your mother followed you out, closing the study door behind her.

"A word," she said quietly, guiding you toward her private sitting room where conversations couldn't be overheard.

Once inside with the door secured, she turned to you with an expression more candid than she usually allowed herself.

"You should know that your father has additional expectations from this union that aren't in the formal agreement," she said without preamble.

"Let me guess. Grandchildren." It wasn't a question.

Your mother nodded. "Within the first two years of marriage. He sees Hamilton's bloodline as... advantageous for the family's future."

You couldn't help the bitter laugh that escaped you. "Of course. Not only am I being traded like a thoroughbred, I'm expected to breed like one too."

"That's the reality of our world," your mother said, not unkindly. "I just wanted you to be prepared when the subject arises."

"Is that what happened with you and Papa? Was a baby part of the merger agreement?"

Your mother's expression softened slightly. "Yes. Though in our case, we were fortunate enough to develop genuine feelings before you were born." She touched your cheek gently. "I hope the same for you, whatever you may think of the arrangement now."

You leaned into her touch briefly before pulling away. "Did Hamilton agree to this... breeding schedule?"

"It wasn't presented to him directly. Your father considers it a family matter, not a negotiation point."

"How convenient," you muttered. "Anything else I should know before I'm shipped off to London?"

Your mother hesitated, then said, "Hamilton has a reputation for certain... tastes. Nothing concerning," she added quickly, seeing your expression. "Just... particular."

"What kind of particular?" You weren't naive about what happened in bedrooms, but your experience was admittedly limited—a college boyfriend your father had eventually scared away, and a brief affair with an Italian businessman that had fizzled when you realized he was more interested in your family connections than you.

"Controlled. Dominant." Your mother chose her words carefully. "But not cruel, from what I understand. Unlike some in our circle." The unspoken reference to men like Raúl Suarez hung in the air.

"Wonderful," you said dryly. "I'm to be the obedient wife in the boardroom and the bedroom."

"Not necessarily." Your mother's tone suggested she knew more than she was saying. "Just... be prepared to discuss boundaries clearly. Men like Hamilton respect directness more than they let on."

The conversation left you with more questions than answers, but at least you were forewarned. As you headed back to your room to prepare for the evening's meeting, your mind raced with everything you wanted to establish before signing your life away.

********************************************

The garden at dusk held a particular magic, the fading light softening the carefully manicured grounds of the estate. You'd chosen this setting deliberately—outside the confines of the house, away from listening ears and watchful eyes, but still within the secure perimeter of the property.

You wore a simple wrap dress, casual enough to suggest this wasn't a formal negotiation but elegant enough to maintain the upper hand. Your hair hung loose around your shoulders, a small rebellion against your father's preference for the sleek, controlled styles he considered appropriate for business meetings.

At precisely eight o'clock, you heard footsteps on the stone path. Lewis Hamilton moved with that same contained grace you'd noticed at dinner, his attention seemingly casual but missing nothing as he scanned the garden. He wore dark jeans and a black button-down with the sleeves rolled to reveal more of the intricate tattoos on his forearms. Less formal than yesterday, but no less commanding.

"Ms. Ricci," he greeted you, those dark eyes taking in your appearance with that same assessing gaze. "Thank you for agreeing to meet."

"I'm the one who requested it," you reminded him, gesturing to the bench beside the rose trellis. "Please, sit."

He complied, maintaining a respectful distance as you settled beside him. The evening air carried the scent of late summer blooms and the faint spice of his cologne.

"I understand congratulations are in order," he said, those eyes never leaving your face. "Your father has accepted my proposal."

"With the condition of my consent," you noted. "Which was an interesting stipulation to include."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "I don't believe in forced partnerships. They tend to... malfunction at critical moments."

"How pragmatic of you."

"I'm a pragmatic man." He leaned back slightly, one arm extending along the back of the bench though he didn't touch you. "I assume you have questions or concerns you wanted to address privately."

"Several," you confirmed. "Starting with what happens after the wedding. You mentioned London?"

He nodded. "Initially. I maintain a residence there, another in Geneva, properties in several other locations. I thought we might begin in London while you acclimate to the arrangement, then discuss preferences."

"And my involvement in the business?"

Something like approval flickered across his features. "That depends on your interests and aptitudes. From our dinner conversation, I gather you have significant insights into modernization opportunities. I'd welcome your input in those areas, to start."

"To start," you repeated. "With the possibility of expansion."

"Precisely." He studied you for a moment. "You seem surprised."

"Most men in your position view wives as decorative accessories, not business partners."

"Most men in my position are shortsighted," he replied simply. "I prefer to utilize all available resources effectively."

"Is that what I am? A resource?" You kept your tone neutral despite the provocation.

That slight smile appeared again. "We all are, in different contexts. The question is whether we're valued appropriately for what we bring to the table."

It was a fair point, if somewhat coldly phrased. "And what exactly do you think I bring to the table, Mr. Hamilton?"

"Intelligence. Strategic thinking. Social connections my organization currently lacks in certain circles. Perspective from a different generation." His assessment was calm, matter-of-fact. "And of course, the Ricci family alliance, which opens doors that would otherwise remain closed to me."

"That's quite a list." You weren't sure whether to be flattered or offended by his inventory of your attributes. "And what about the personal aspects of this arrangement? I assume you've considered those as well."

"Of course." If your directness surprised him, he didn't show it. "Marriage typically involves certain... intimacies."

"Is that what we're calling it?" you asked dryly. "Intimacies?"

For the first time, a genuine smile broke through his controlled expression. "What would you prefer to call it? Fucking? Sleeping together? Making heirs for our respective families?"

The crude language from his cultured British accent was jarring, but not unwelcome. At least he wasn't treating you like some delicate flower who'd wilt at plain speaking.

"All of the above, apparently," you replied, matching his bluntness. "My father expects grandchildren within two years, though he didn't include that in the formal agreement."

Hamilton's eyebrow rose slightly. "Interesting that he'd leave such an important detail out of the negotiations."

"He considers it a family matter, not a business point."

"When in fact it's both," Hamilton observed. His gaze turned more assessing. "And how do you feel about this... breeding schedule?"

The crass term made you wince, though it accurately described your father's approach. "I haven't decided. Children weren't in my immediate plans, but I always assumed they'd be part of my future eventually."

"Regardless of your father's timeline, that particular aspect of our arrangement would be between us," Hamilton said firmly. "Not subject to external schedules."

The clear boundary he established around your shared decisions versus family expectations was unexpectedly reassuring. "And the... physical aspects of marriage in general? What are your expectations there?"

Hamilton considered you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "I expect mutual respect and clear communication about boundaries and preferences. I don't believe in coercion of any kind, but I do value honesty."

"That's very diplomatic," you noted. "But not very specific."

"Would you prefer specifics?" he asked, that dangerous edge suddenly more apparent beneath his controlled exterior. "I can be quite direct, Ms. Ricci, but most find it... uncomfortable."

"I'm not most people," you countered. "And if we're to be married, I think I deserve to know what I'm agreeing to."

A brief nod acknowledged your point. "Very well. I enjoy control—giving it completely in business settings tends to make one appreciate having it in private ones. I prefer partners who understand the value of clearly defined roles and boundaries." His gaze was unwavering. "I don't believe in ownership or subjugation, but I do expect a certain level of... deference in intimate settings."

The frankness of his assessment sent an unexpected heat through you that you hoped wasn't visible in the fading light. "And if that arrangement doesn't appeal to me?"

"Then we negotiate alternatives," he replied simply. "As I said, coercion has no place in my world. But I've found that compatibility in these matters tends to reveal itself naturally, given time and trust."

The conversation should have been mortifying—discussing sexual dynamics with a virtual stranger who might soon be your husband. Instead, you found his directness refreshing after a lifetime of veiled implications and unspoken expectations.

"Any other concerns you wish to address?" he asked, seeming entirely comfortable with the turn the conversation had taken.

"Freedom of movement," you said, returning to practical matters. "My father keeps me under constant surveillance for 'protection.' Would I be exchanging one form of confinement for another?"

"Security is necessary in our world," Hamilton acknowledged. "But I don't believe in cages, golden or otherwise. With appropriate measures in place, you would be free to pursue your own interests, travel within reason, maintain your own social connections."

"Within reason," you repeated. "And who defines what's reasonable?"

"We would—together. Based on security assessments and legitimate risk factors, not arbitrary restrictions." His tone suggested this was non-negotiable. "I won't apologize for prioritizing your safety, but I have no interest in controlling your every movement."

It was a fair compromise, better than you'd expected and certainly better than your current situation. "And fidelity? What are your expectations there?"

"Absolute," he replied without hesitation. "On both sides. Anything else introduces unnecessary vulnerabilities and complications."

"At least we agree on something," you said, surprising yourself with the admission. Infidelity was common in your world—your father had kept mistresses over the years despite his genuine love for your mother—but you'd always found it distasteful and dangerous.

"We'll likely agree on more than you expect," Hamilton said, his voice softening slightly. "This arrangement may be unconventional in its origins, but that doesn't mean it can't evolve into something mutually beneficial on multiple levels."

The diplomatic phrasing couldn't quite disguise what sounded dangerously close to optimism about your potential relationship. You weren't sure what to make of that.

"One last question," you said, aware that your allotted time was nearly up. "Why me, really? Beyond the business advantages and family connections. You could have pursued alliances with a dozen other families, many with more extensive operations than ours. Why choose the Ricci family? Why choose me?"

Hamilton was quiet for a moment, considering his answer carefully. When he spoke, his voice held a different quality than before—less measured, more genuine.

"Your family's operation is smaller than some, yes, but more adaptable. Old enough to have established roots but not so entrenched that evolution is impossible." His eyes held yours steadily. "As for you specifically... I make decisions based on careful assessment of potential and compatibility. You possess qualities I consider valuable—intelligence, adaptability, strategic thinking, resilience."

"You gleaned all that from one dinner and a brief meeting at my father's house?" Your skepticism was evident.

"I've been researching your family for months," he admitted without apology. "You specifically for weeks. The dinner merely confirmed what my investigation suggested."

The revelation shouldn't have surprised you, yet somehow it did. "That's... thorough."

"I don't leave important decisions to chance or superficial impressions." His gaze was unwavering. "Marriage is a significant commitment, even when it's primarily strategic."

Before you could respond, the garden lights activated automatically with the deepening dusk, illuminating the space around you. In the sudden brightness, you could see Hamilton more clearly—the precise lines of his face, the intensity of his gaze, the subtle pattern of the tattoo visible at his collar.

"Our time is nearly up," he observed. "Your father will be expecting me in the study."

"Yes," you agreed, oddly reluctant to end the conversation. "I suppose he will."

Hamilton rose, offering his hand to help you up. You took it, noting the controlled strength in his grip, the warmth of his palm against yours. He held on a moment longer than necessary, his eyes searching yours.

"Have I addressed your concerns adequately, Ms. Ricci?" he asked, his voice pitched low enough that only you could hear it. "Or do you have objections to proceeding?"

The question echoed the one from last night—again offering you a choice, or at least the illusion of one. You considered your options realistically. Refusing would create chaos in the family, potentially trigger violence from rejected suitors, and leave you back where you started—under your father's thumb, awaiting the next strategic match.

Accepting meant embarking on a life with a dangerous, controlled man who nonetheless seemed to see you as more than a decorative accessory or breeding stock. A man who, despite the age gap and cultural differences, offered something resembling partnership rather than ownership.

"No objections," you said finally. "Though I reserve the right to revisit these discussions as needed."

Something like satisfaction crossed his features. "I would expect nothing less." He released your hand slowly. "Shall we join your father?"

As you walked together toward the house, you were acutely aware of the weight of the decision you'd just made. Within weeks, you would be bound to this man—leaving behind the familiar constraints of your father's house for the unknown territory of marriage to Lewis Hamilton.

Whether that represented freedom or simply a different form of captivity remained to be seen. But for the first time in years, you felt something dangerously close to hope about your future.

"One last thing," Hamilton said as you reached the terrace doors. "Once we're married, I'd prefer you call me Lewis. 'Mr. Hamilton' seems excessively formal for a wife, don't you think?"

The request was so unexpectedly ordinary after the intensity of your conversation that you couldn't help a small, genuine smile. "I'll consider it... Lewis."

His name felt strange on your tongue, intimate in a way that caught you off guard. The slight widening of his eyes suggested he felt it too—this small shift from formal negotiation toward something more personal.

Without another word, he opened the door for you, and together you stepped back into the house to finalize the arrangement that would bind your lives together—for better or worse.

…….tbd

#quainwritings #saint’s recs!

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