CHAPTER 2
1569 Words
A CROWN MADE OF FEAR
By the time Serafina learned how the empire pronounced her husband’s name, she had already learned how to fear it.
Outside the mansion, Don Alessandro Moretti was spoken of with reverence. Men lowered their voices when they mentioned him, as if they themselves could carry the problem. In newspapers—those few that dared to print his photograph—he appeared dignified, extremely clean in tailored suits, his hair swept back, his expression calm and controlled. A businessman. He is a rich man who help the poor and those in need. A man who donated to hospitals and churches and the occasional children’s foundation when the cameras were present.
To the city, he was a king who ruled with order.
To Serafina, he was something else entirely.
Her first official appearance as his wife took place three days after the wedding, at a charity gala held in a ballroom overlooking the harbor. The room shining with crystal chandeliers and polished floors, the air perfumed with expensive cologne and roses flown in from another country. Women wore gowns worth more than most people’s homes. Men laughed too loudly, drank too much, and spoke in half-sentences layered with implication.
Alessandro moved through the room with ease, a practiced smile curving his mouth. He shook hands, embraced allies, kissed cheeks. He placed a hand at the small of Serafina’s back, guiding her gently, proudly, as though she were something precious he had acquired.
“You look radiant,” one woman said, her diamonds catching the light as she leaned closer. “We’ve heard so much about you.”
Serafina smiled, the expression smooth and empty. “Thank you.”
Alessandro chuckled softly. “She’s shy,” he said, his tone affectionate. “But she learns quickly.”
The woman laughed, smile. “You’re a lucky man.”
Alessandro squeezed Serafina’s back just slightly—enough to remind her where she was, who she belonged to. She did not move. She had learned already that moving can cause invited attention.
They took their seats at the head table, surrounded by men who spoke of expansion and contracts, of ports and investments and rivals who needed to be handled delicately. Serafina listened without appearing to listen. She learned which names made Alessandro’s jaw tighten, which jokes pleased him, which men he trusted enough to smile at without calculation.
When the speeches began, Alessandro rose smoothly from his chair.
“My friends,” he said, lifting his glass. The room quieted immediately. “Tonight is about generosity. About giving back to the city that has given us so much.”
Applause followed, warm and eager.
“I am grateful,” he continued, “for the strength of our community, for loyalty, for family. And for my wife.” He turned toward Serafina, his gaze fond. “She has brought light into my life.”
The room sighed collectively. Some women dabbed their eyes. Cameras flashed.
Serafina felt the weight of every gaze settle on her like expectation. She smiled again, lowered her eyes modestly, played her role to perfection.
Later, when they returned to the mansion, the applause still echoed faintly in her ears.
Alessandro dismissed the staff with a wave of his hand. The house fell into its usual quiet—too quiet, like a held breath. Serafina removed her heels carefully, placing them side by side as she had been taught. Her feet ached, but she did not rub them.
“You embarrassed me,” Alessandro said.
She froze.
“I don’t understand,” she said softly, her eyes lowered.
“You spoke too little,” he replied, loosening his tie. “People might think you’re ungrateful.”
“I’m sorry,” she said immediately. Apologies came easily now. “I’ll do better.”
He studied her for a moment, his gaze sharp, assessing. Then he smiled—slow, thin.
“You will.”
He reached for her arm, his grip firm. He did not raise his voice. He never needed to.
By morning, Serafina knew exactly where the line lay.
In public, Alessandro was indulgent. He praised her elegance, her composure, her obedience. He gifted her jewelry in front of others, draped diamonds around her neck with possessive pride. He spoke of her as if she were proof of his refinement, evidence that power had not made him cruel.
In private, he reminded her of the cost of displeasing him.
Cruelty, she learned, did not always look like rage. Often, it was quieter than that. It lived in control—in withheld permissions, in expectations shifted without warning, in rules that changed according to his mood. It lived in isolation, in the way her phone calls were monitored, her visits limited, her world narrowed to the walls of the mansion.
Sometimes it lived in pain.
He never struck her face. He was careful about that. Faces were for the public. What happened beneath clothing belonged to the marriage, to privacy, to ownership.
Serafina learned to read the signs. The clink of ice in his glass meant she should stay silent. The absence of music in the house meant she should remain in her room. The sound of his footsteps stopping outside her door meant she should brace herself.
And yet, at every event, he played the devoted husband flawlessly.
They attended operas, charity auctions, diplomatic dinners. He laughed easily, charmed effortlessly. He spoke of tradition and honor, of protecting what was his. People admired him for his restraint, for the stability he brought to an otherwise violent world.
“If only all men were like Don Alessandro,” someone said once, watching him guide Serafina through a crowded room.
She smiled, because smiling was safer than screaming.
It was during one such evening—a private dinner with allied families—that Serafina first truly understood the depth of his cruelty.
A young woman sat across the table, barely older than Serafina had been at her wedding. She was someone’s niece, brought along as decoration, her eyes bright with nerves. She laughed too loudly at one of Alessandro’s jokes, spilling a bit of wine onto the tablecloth.
The room fell silent.
Alessandro’s smile did not fade. “Careful,” he said lightly. “This tablecloth is imported.”
“I’m so sorry,” the girl stammered, reaching for her napkin.
Alessandro waved a hand. “It’s nothing.”
The conversation resumed. Laughter returned. But Serafina noticed the way Alessandro’s eyes lingered on the girl, thoughtful, displeased.
Later that night, Serafina heard screaming.
It came from the lower level of the mansion, muffled but unmistakable. She sat up in bed, her heart pounding, her hands twisting in the sheets. The sound stopped abruptly, replaced by silence so thick it rang.
The next morning, the girl was gone.
No one mentioned her again.
At breakfast, Alessandro sipped his coffee, calm and composed. “You didn’t sleep well,” he observed, glancing at Serafina.
“I’m fine,” she said.
He smiled. “Good.”
Fear became the crown he wore most comfortably.
And the city never saw it.
Weeks passed. Serafina perfected her performance. She spoke when prompted, laughed at appropriate moments, wore what she was told. She became a fixture at Alessandro’s side—beautiful, quiet, uncontroversial. People admired her restraint. They mistook her silence for grace.
Only one man did not.
Luca Romano watched from the edges of rooms, his presence unobtrusive but constant. He stood near walls, near exits, near Alessandro. He spoke rarely, but when he did, it was with purpose. Serafina noticed that Alessandro listened to him—really listened.
Once, during a dinner, Alessandro raised his voice sharply at a server who had brought the wrong wine. The man froze, pale.
“It’s fine,” Luca said calmly, stepping forward. “I’ll handle it.”
Alessandro waved him off with irritation but allowed the interruption. Luca met the server’s eyes briefly, gave a slight nod. The man hurried away, spared.
Serafina noticed everything.
Later that night, as Alessandro berated her for a perceived slight she hadn’t known existed, Serafina thought of Luca’s voice—steady, controlled, unafraid.
Alessandro’s cruelty escalated not in spectacle, but in precision. He tested boundaries, enforced obedience, reminded her repeatedly of her place. He never doubted his authority. Why would he? The empire reinforced it at every turn.
“You are mine,” he told her once, his hand tightening around her wrist. “Everything you have comes from me. Remember that.”
She remembered.
She remembered during long, sleepless nights. During mornings where she dressed carefully, checking herself in mirrors for signs she needed to hide. During events where she smiled until her cheeks ached, standing beside a man the world revered.
Serafina began to understand something vital: Alessandro did not rule with love, or even loyalty.
He ruled with fear—refined, curated, invisible to those who benefited from it.
And she wore that fear like a second skin.
By the time she realized how deeply it had settled into her bones, it was already too late to imagine a life without it.
Outside the mansion, the city continued to praise Don Alessandro Moretti.
Inside, Serafina learned that crowns were not made of gold
They were made of terror—polished until they gleamed, and heavy enough to break the necks of those forced to wear them.
- Writer
