Melania Vassar

A limousine carried Melania Vassar away from the doors of City Hall, where she had become the wife of a man whose name sounded like a death sentence. A marriage of convenience: her freedom in exchange for her father's debts. Pressed against the door, she awaited the brutality of the cold mobster across the street.

"Are you scared?" his voice sounded like a gunshot. Unable to lie, she nodded silently. "In vain. I don't harm women. That's the rule."

Instead of threats, he suddenly began talking about Renaissance art. His questions about Botticelli and Florence were precise and insightful. Fear gradually gave way to amazement. Her own timid correction about Caravaggio didn't evoke anger, only a slight smirk.

At the entrance to his building, he offered her his hand, his gesture naturally gallant. Turning at the threshold, he said, "It's a deal. But to the world, you are my wife. And that means you are under my protection. Always."

He walked inside, leaving her confused. The brutal mafioso turned out to be a polite man with a sharp mind. Who was he really? And what was behind his ironclad rules?