Wedded To The Underworld

Diamond and Defiance

Zia

Several knocks on the door woke me up. I didn't remember how I fell asleep, but I did remember how the hours had crawled by as I wandered the hallways, looking at the delicate and brilliant pieces of art that adorned the walls.

I was exhausted.

Just great.

The knock came again.

I opened the door to find Ana standing there, a slight look of worry on her face.

"Good evening, ma'am."

"Evening..." My voice sounded hoarse. I cleared my throat. "Evening Ana. Drop the ma'am."

"Are you ready?" she asked.

Confusion clouded my face. "Ready? Ready for what?"

"The Camorra fundraiser event."

Realization hits me. Lucien had mentioned it this morning.

"Okay, um—I forgot. I'll get ready."

I could tell she was uncomfortable. I frowned.

"Mr. Lucien has requested your presence."

Requested my presence?

"I need to dress up. Go tell him."

"He's not here yet. But he called to request you wait downstairs for him."

"What the—? The event is until 7pm, and it's just...6:25pm?!" I glanced at the clock in horror. My eyes widened. "What? Is that correct?"

"It is."

"Holy— I'm not dressed yet."

I moved away from the door, letting Ana in.

Shit. s**t. s**t.

I rushed to shower and by the time I was out, I heard the sound of his car outside.

"Shit."

"He's already here," Ana said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Wrapped in a towel, I opened my luxurious wardrobe— and sighed.

Luxurious it was— so luxurious, extravagant even. You could create another room out of this space alone. Blue and red accents lights, compartments for everything— clothes, shoes, perfumes, bags— for everything. Gilded handles, velvet-lined drawers, full-length mirrors that caught your every insecurity.

But did the clothes inside match the grandeur?

Huge. Fat. Nope.

Joggers. Baggy jeans. Faded t-shirts and oversized shirts. Nothing remotely luxurious or elegant. Certainly nothing befitting the title of Mrs. Saint.

Clearly not something suitable for a Camorra fundraiser.

I opened the last drawer for the third time. Praying for a miracle. Nothing. Not a single gown, not a single evening dress — not even a pair of damn heels worthy of a dinner at a five-star restaurant, let alone one of the most important events of the year.

How had I been so stupid to assume something would be prepared for me?

The clock ticked mercilessly towards 7 p.m. My heart started racing as I ran my hands through my hair, pacing the bedroom in my robe. And then— I heard him.

No knock. Just the sound of the door being pushed open.

Lucien stepped in, already dressed in a tailored black suit that clung to his body like it had been sculpted there. He looked devastating, indifferent, and every bit the arrogant mafia prince I’d just been forced to marry.

His sharp gaze swept over me once, slow and cutting.

"Still in a towel?" I could hear the annoyance in his voice.

I was fully aware I was in a towel. I gulped.

“You’re not ready. And it's almost 7.p.m."

“I—” I started, stepping forward. “Lucien, I didn’t have—”

He turned to Ana— who immediately took a step back. "Why isn't she ready?"

She bit her lip too hard. Obviously, it was my fault.

"I don't have an outfit. And I over—"

He didn’t wait for my explanation. With a flick of his wrist, he pulled out a sleek black card and tossed it onto the bed like it was a punishment.

“You have one hour. Figure it out. And pray, Romano, that you at least have a reasonable fashion sense.”

He stepped towards me, stopping just inches from me. "Don't embarrass yourself."

I nearly scoffed.

Embarrass him.

Oh! He really thought little of me, huh?

He turns to leave.

“Lucien—” I called back.

He was already walking away, like this moment didn’t even graze the surface of his attention.

“Just save a seat for me,” I called after him, lifting my chin even though my chest burned.

He didn’t respond. Didn’t look back.

The door shut behind him, and for a moment, I stood frozen— staring at that little piece of plastic on the bed like it was a dare.

I sat down and took a deep breath.

Alright then.

He wanted me to show up alone? Fine.

He wanted me to fail and embarrass myself? I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

But everyone else in that room?

They were going to remember me.

I squared my shoulders, letting out a slow breath again as a fire sparked lto ife inside me.

“He’s going to wish he’d stayed to watch me walk in,” I whispered.

Tonight, I was going to look breathtaking.

Not for him. Not anymore.

For me.

I turned to Ana.

"We've got an hour Ana. Let's go shopping."

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

I found the boutique tucked away on a quiet corner near the Piazza. The kind of place with no name on the glass and only one client inside at a time. Old money. The kind Lucien belonged to.

"Oh my God. There's a place like this?" Ana asked, clearly surprised I knew about it.

Being Don Giovanni's care nurse had its perks. I smiled inwardly.

The staff didn’t ask questions. They saw the black card, saw my face, and understood.

"Please, I have thirty minutes."

"That's okay. What look would you like?" asked the slim blonde with a perfectly sculptured face.

"I want to look unforgettable."

She smiled. "We'll need more than thirty minutes."

"That's okay."

They didn’t disappoint.

Ana squealed when she saw me, raining down praise. I couldn't keep up.

A floor-length gown in liquid silver that clung to every curve and caught every light. My hair was swept up in a soft, regal knot that revealed my collarbones and the delicate shimmer of diamonds gracing my ears and wrist. Lips painted the color of crushed roses.

I looked like I belonged here. Like I’d been born to.

Cameras clicked as I walked through the entrance. I felt the weight of every gaze — some surprised, some appraising, others narrowing with envy.

Let them look.

Let them wonder what kind of woman Lucien Saint had married.

The Camorra Fundraiser wasn’t just a social event—it was a declaration.

Once a year, the most powerful families in southern Italy gathered under the banner of charity, raising millions for carefully chosen “public” causes—hospitals, heritage restorations, education. But beneath the crystal chandeliers and designer gowns, the truth was unspoken yet well understood:

The fundraiser was a political maneuver. A place where alliances were strengthened, enemies were monitored, and power was flaunted under the disguise of generosity.

The event served a dual purpose: to polish their public image, and to redistribute illicit wealth in a way that maintained loyalty among local institutions. Politicians, police chiefs, and judges all received invitations—not as guests, but as warnings.

No deal was signed there, no threat spoken aloud, but the ballroom became a chessboard. One misstep, one insult, and the entire balance of power could shift.

I had always gone with Don Giovanni for his fittings but never attended. This was my first Camorra fundraiser.

The ballroom swelled with music and chatter, chandeliers dripping from the ceiling like icicles. I spotted Don Giovanni first, seated at the center table, his eyes lighting up when he saw me. Beside him, half-turned in conversation, was Lucien.

And then he saw me.

Good.