CHAPTER ONE: THE DRESS WASN'T WHITE
They say every bride remembers her wedding day.
The scent of flowers. The warmth of her mother’s hug. The flutter of nerves wrapped in excitement, not dread.
I’ll remember mine too.
But not for any of those reasons.
The room feels very cold, even though the chandelier burns like fire from above me. A young maid stands behind me, smoothing the ivory silk over my shoulders, her hands trembling more than mine. I catch our reflections in the tall mirror—her face pale with fear, mine with something worse I can't seem to explain.
The dress fits perfectly well, almost like a cage. Tailored to perfection, cinched just right. But it doesn’t feel like mine. It feels like something I’ve been stuffed into, like a mannequin in a shop window, meant to look beautiful for a man who didn’t ask what I wanted—only took what he was owed.
“Signora,” the maid whispers, eyes wide, “should I bring you water?”
I shake my head slowly. My throat’s too tight to swallow anyway.
My fingers drift over the bodice of the gown—no lace, no sequins, just a clean cut of expensive silk, hand-selected by a man I haven’t even spoken more than five words to. Not since he leaned over my father’s casket and whispered: “He paid half in blood. You’ll pay the rest in vows.”
I didn’t scream then. I don’t scream now.
Instead, I sit.
There’s a pair of white heels on the floor, but I don’t move to wear them. I’ve always hated heels. They make you look taller, more powerful, more beautiful… and less able to run.
“Do I look like a bride?” I ask no one in particular.
The maid doesn’t answer. She’s already backing away, bowing before slipping out the door like I might explode if she lingers.
I stare at myself again. My hair is pulled back into a tight chignon. My lips painted a muted rose. I look elegant. Composed. Like someone about to walk into a luxury ceremony—not a cage made of diamonds and debt.
There are no flowers.
No guests.
No music.
Only silence and the weight of what I’m about to do.
Marry Vincenzo Moretti.
Mafia heir. Billionaire. Judge, jury, and executioner in a thousand-dollar suit.
I barely know him. But I know his reputation—the way people flinch when they hear his name, the blood that trails behind his last name like perfume. And now, thanks to the man who gave me life—and left me with nothing—I belong to him.
My father, Lucas Torres, died under suspicious circumstances six months ago. Heart attack, they said. But hearts don’t just give out like that when they’re desperate to live. When they’re still clawing through old ledgers and hollow bank accounts, trying to protect their daughter from the consequences of choices made in silence.
He owed Vincenzo millions.
And I had no means to repay it.
Except off course, to give myself away to him.
The door opens again. I don’t need to turn to know who it is.
His presence fills a room like fire in a closed hallway. Calm, silent… suffocating.
“Is it time?” I ask.
There’s a pause. Then, his voice—smooth and steady, as if this is just business.
“It is.”
I stand slowly, my hands shaking. He doesn’t offer his arm. He simply walks ahead, expecting me to follow.
And I do.
Because what choice do I have?
The hallway is long and lined with flickering sconces. Every step I take echoes off the marble like a drumbeat to a funeral. My own. At the end of the corridor, double doors open into a dimly lit room where the ceremony will happen.
It’s not a church. There’s no priest. Just a man in a gray suit holding a legal document and waiting to pronounce two strangers bound by ink and silence.
I blink hard. I won’t cry. Not now. Not for this.
Vincenzo stands beside the makeshift altar. He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t smile. He just watches the man with the papers like it's another business deal he's closing, and not a marriage.
“Sign here,” the man says to me, turning the contract toward me.
I glance at the thick gold band waiting beside the pen. It’s too big for my hand. Too heavy for my heart.
My fingers hesitate.
“You don’t have to love me,” Vincenzo says gently, just loud enough for only me to hear. “You just have to belong to me and obey me.”
My throat burns. I signed anyway.
The pen glides too easily over the paper.
He takes the pen next, scribbles his name with zero hesitation. Then he picks up the ring, slides it onto my finger.
No kiss.
No words.
Just a man claiming what was promised.
A debt paid in vows.
And just like that, I became Mrs. Monalisa Moretti.
Not because I wanted to.
But because no one ever gave me a choice.
