Wedded To The Underworld

The Entrance

Lucien

Laughter floated through the air, polished shoes clicked against marble, and the scent of old money clung to every breath. It was a night built for appearances, for power disguised in velvet and champagne.

I played my part. Smiled where I needed to. Nodded at the right allies. Flattered the right wives.

But my mind was elsewhere.

Zia.

I'd walked into her room an hour ago and found her standing there in a robe, confused and barefoot, talking about clothes she didn’t have. I hadn’t listened.

It wasn't my job to play house with a girl I was forced to marry.

So I tossed her a card, and left her behind.

Don Giovanni has been at my neck ever since, for showing up without her.

Now, I half expected she'd show up late in some pitiful excuse for a dress, all nerves and apologies. Or not show up at all.

I'm so f****d.

Most people— although aware of my marriage— didn't know who she was. I was quite grateful for that.

But then the murmurs started.

Heads turned toward the grand doors, eyes widening, voices lowering to hushed admiration and thinly veiled jealousy.

And then I saw her.

At first, I didn’t even recognize her.

She walked in like she wasn’t entering a ballroom, but owning it. Like royalty. Like sin wrapped in silver and silk.

The gown clung to her body like it had been painted on. Each step revealed a slice of leg through a subtle slit, her heels clicking with unshaken confidence. Her skin shimmered under the chandelier's light, soft gold against the cool silver of the dress.

But it was her face that undid me.

She wasn’t the girl I remembered.

Not the quiet, awkward seventeen-year-old who used to trail behind Don Giovanni during my visits.

This woman had fire in her eyes. Chin tilted. Lips stained with that deep red shade that had no business looking that good on her.

Her jawline had sharpened with age, her gaze steadied, more deliberate. That mouth—Christ—that mouth looked like it could cut a man down or bring him to his knees, depending on her whim.

I couldn’t look away.

And for the first time since that wedding ring had been shoved into my hand, I realized something unsettling.

She was beautiful.

Not in the way other women I’d bedded were. Not surface-level, not temporary. Zia had a kind of beauty that could turn quiet and lethal with time. A kind of beauty that demanded to be noticed.

She didn’t even glance at me.

Walked right past the crowd, past the allies, past me, like I was no one.

She went to Don Giovanni first. Kisses him on both cheeks. I could see he was so proud of her. By the end of the night, looking like that, everyone was going to know she was my wife.

She took her seat beside me, sitting with so much confidence.

My jaw tightened. I couldn’t stop staring, couldn’t stop remembering that look in her eyes when I left her earlier. The fury. The challenge.

And now she sat beside me like I didn’t exist.

My hands clenched around my glass. I didn't understand why I was furious. I hadn't expected her to look that good.

Zia could give most of these women a run for their money.

When Rafael said earlier that she was beautiful- I didn't believe it. But I saw it now.

A waiter came and poured her champagne. Her fingers brushed the stem of the glass like it was the most delicate thing in the world.

Then, without turning to me, she said quietly—

"Seat saved."

My grip on my glass nearly slipped.

That low voice did something to me. It went straight to my d**k.

I didn’t say a word.

Couldn’t.

Because, for the first time in my adult life, I wasn’t in control.

And it had everything to do with the woman sitting close to me.

When the donations began, I lost sight of her. I knew it was her first time here. I had specifically asked her to stay put.

This wasn't her scene. I didn't want her getting mixed up and revealing what she wasn't supposed to in a moment of sheer ignorance.

I texted Rafael: Seen her?

A few moments later, he signaled for me across the room.

He stood near the bar, half-shadowed beneath the warm amber lighting, a glass of dark rum in his hand, untouched. His eyes—sharp, hawk-like—swept across the ballroom not with curiosity, but with calculation. Always watching. Always processing.

Where most men in this world wore their power in loud suits and louder mouths, Rafael wore his in silence. In stillness. In a measured way, he tilted his glass but rarely drank. In the razor-thin line of his mouth that rarely smiled but always knew more than anyone else in the room.

He was older by eighteen years, but we’d known each other long enough for age to matter less than history. He’d been my father’s right hand. And when the old man died, Rafael didn’t skip a beat before becoming Don Giovanni's again and soon mine.

Rafeal isn't just a consigliere.

He's my compass.

My shadow.

My last line of logic when emotion threatened to make a fool of me.

He wore a dark navy suit tonight, perfectly pressed, but not flashy. His tie was black. No pin. No watch. Not even a ring. Rafael didn’t need accessories to be remembered. He had a presence that made men stumble over their lies before they ever opened their mouths.

“Your wife cleans up well,” he murmured, as I stood beside him.

I didn’t look at him. “Don’t start.”

He chuckled—low and quiet. The kind of sound that said he knew exactly which buttons to push and how long it would take before I snapped.

“You didn’t expect that,” he said. “Admit it.”

“She wore a dress. That’s all.”

“She wore war paint,” he corrected, taking a sip now. “And walked in like a queen. I haven’t seen Don Giovanni smile like that in years.”

I finally turned my head to glance at him. His expression was unreadable, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

Rafael didn’t waste words. Didn’t pry unless he had a reason. Which meant if he was bringing her up—he’d seen something.

“I don’t have time to babysit someone who plays dress-up for attention,” I muttered.

“No. You just stare at her like you’ve seen a ghost that learned how to strut.”

I shot him a glare. He didn’t blink.

That was Rafael.

Honest when no one else dared to be.

Cold when I needed him to be colder than me.

And loyal—utterly, unquestionably loyal—to the Saints bloodline.

He was the last thread of both my father's and grandfather’s legacy that I trusted. The last man in this family I didn’t keep a gun pointed at—metaphorically or otherwise.

"Have you seen her?"

"Yeah. She's over there."

I turn to look at where he's pointing. She's in f*****g Selene's circle.

"Oh shit."

"That's right." Rafael said. Tilted his glass in a small salute and stepped away into the crowd again, vanishing back into the current of silk gowns and men with too many secrets.