A BRIDE FOR THE DEVIL

The silk of my wedding dress feels like cold ash against my skin. I stand before the full-length mirror in the dim holding room of the cathedral, staring at the stranger looking back at me. The ivory gown is exquisite a masterpiece of delicate lace, long sleeves, and a high collar that conceals the furious beating of my pulse. To anyone else, I look like a pristine, breathtaking Italian bride. To myself, I look like a lamb dressed for the slaughter. "You look beautiful, Elena," a voice smooth as oil breaks the silence. I don't flinch as my cousin, Matteo Moretti, steps into the room. He walks up behind me, his reflection joining mine in the glass. He places his heavy, manicured hands on my shoulders, squeezing just tight enough to remind me of the invisible chains wrapped around my ankles. "Your father would be proud," Matteo murmurs, his eyes tight with a theatrical sort of grief. "He always knew you would be the one to save this family." My father. A cold, familiar fire flares in my chest at the mention of him. Ten years. It has been ten years since my father’s body was delivered to our doorstep in a pine box, his blood staining the cobblestones. I was only fourteen then, but I remember the whispers that followed. The Romanos did it. The ruthless, untouchable Romano family ordered the execution to assert dominance over our territory. Since that day, our family’s influence has decayed into nothing but debt and desperation. And now, Matteo has traded me away to settle those debts. To Luca Romano. The eldest son. The heir. The monster. "I am ready to do my duty, Matteo," I say, keeping my voice sweet, soft, and perfectly compliant. "Good girl," Matteo smiles, patting my shoulder before stepping back. "Luca Romano is a cold bastard. He doesn't speak much, and he has no mercy. But if you play the dutiful, submissive wife, you will survive. Do this for the Moretti name." "Of course." I offer him a gentle, practiced smile. But as Matteo turns his back to walk toward the door, my smile vanishes. I slip my hand down into the heavy folds of my silk skirt, my fingers brushing against the hidden slit I carved into the lining earlier that morning. There, strapped securely to my inner thigh, is a small, silver stiletto blade. Matteo thinks he is selling me into slavery to save his skin. He doesn't know that I have spent the last ten years cultivating my patience like a weapon. I am not walking down that aisle to be a victim. I am walking in to find the evidence, learn their secrets, and bleed the Romano empire dry from the inside out. The heavy oak doors of the room creak open, and a guard nods. "It's time." My heart hammers against my ribs, a wild, frantic rhythm, but I force my posture to remain regal. I take a deep breath, smoothing down the front of my gown, ensuring the blade is completely hidden. The walk down the cathedral corridor feels like an eternity. The air inside the sanctuary is thick with the scent of burning incense and expensive cologne. The pews are packed, split down the middle. On the left sit the remnants of my family nervous, broke, and looking at me with pity. On the right sit the Romanos clad in immaculate black suits, stone-faced, and radiating an aura of lethal power. I keep my eyes pinned straight ahead, refusing to look at the crowd. And then, I see him standing at the altar. Luca Romano. My breath catches in my throat. The rumors and grainy photos do him no justice. At thirty-two, he is a towering figure of dark, dangerous perfection. His black hair is styled sharply, and his tailored tuxedo clings to broad shoulders and a powerful chest. But it is his face that makes the blood freeze in my veins. His jawline is sharp as glass, his lips pressed into a hard, unyielding line. He doesn't look like a groom. He looks like an executioner. As I reach the altar, Matteo takes my hand and places it into Luca’s. The moment our skin meets, a violent jolt of electricity shoots straight up my arm. His hand is large, warm, and calloused the hand of a man who knows exactly how to wrap his fingers around a throat. His grip isn't gentle. It closes around my hand with a sudden, tight possessiveness that makes me gasp quietly. I force myself to look up, meeting his eyes for the very first time. I expect to see cruelty. I expect to see mockery, or the bored gaze of a man taking a trophy. Instead, I find myself staring into a pair of dark, obsidian eyes so intense, so focused, that it feels like he is stripping away my flesh and looking directly at my soul. There is a raw, consuming heat hidden beneath the icy surface of his gaze. It wasn't the look of a stranger. It is the look of a man who has been waiting for this exact moment for a very, very long time. He doesn't say a word. He doesn't smile. He just stares down at me, his thumb brushing over the back of my knuckles with a slow, deliberate pressure that feels less like a comfort and more like a warning. He knows, a panicked voice whispers in the back of my mind. He knows what you are.