BOUND BY BLOOD, STOLEN BY HIM

BRIDE OF LIES CHAPTER 1 The church bells rang out across Sicily, loud and triumphant, and Alessandra Voss walked down the aisle toward the man she had loved for eight years. Sunlight spilled through stained glass, painting the stone floor in rich washes of crimson and gold. Marco Moretti stood at the altar, tall and broad-shouldered in black, his raven hair catching the light, his face carved into that beautiful, unreadable mask. He was twenty-seven, heir to the Moretti empire — powerful, feared, impossible to truly know. And today, he was hers. Or so she had believed. Alessandra’s father walked beside her, his voice low and grave. “This alliance saves us, Alessandra. The Morettis protect our name, our lands, our future. You secure everything for all of us.” She knew that. She had always known the marriage was arranged — a bond between families, a joining of blood and power. But she had loved Marco since she was sixteen, since the day he had first looked at her across a crowded ballroom and spoken her name. So she had told herself: Alliances start with contracts. Love grows afterward. I will be his wife. I will be good to him. And one day… he will love me back. That was why she stood here — not just for duty, not just for her family. She was here because she believed she could turn a business deal into a love story. She reached the altar. Marco turned those icy blue eyes toward her. He did not smile. He did not glance at her gown, or her face, or the way her hands trembled around her bouquet. He simply took her hand — his grip firm, cool, impersonal — and faced the priest. The vows were spoken. “I take you, Alessandra Voss, to be my wife.” His voice was steady, smooth, perfect. There was no promise in it. No warmth. “To have and to hold. For better or worse.” Alessandra’s voice shook only once. “I take you, Marco Moretti. To love and to cherish. All the days of my life.” The gold ring slipped onto her finger, heavy and cold. Until death do us part. She turned, glowing with hope, and that was when she saw him. At the very back of the chapel, half swallowed by shadow, stood a man. Taller than Marco, broader, dressed in black that seemed to drink the light. A pale scar sliced across his left eyebrow and down along his jaw. And his eyes — deep, burning amber — were fixed on her. Only her. With an intensity so heavy it felt like a hand pressed to her chest, claiming what he had not touched. Alessandra shivered. She did not know him. Yet she felt certain: he had been watching her for a very long time. Then the moment passed. Marco turned his back before the procession began. He walked ahead of her, speaking in low tones to his men, leaving her to follow in his shadow. The first morning as his wife. Alessandra woke alone. The space beside her was cold, undisturbed. He had not come to bed until after she slept, and risen before she woke. She dressed in soft cream silk, pearls at her throat, and walked through the villa’s silent halls. Villa Oscura — the Dark Estate. Ancient stone, high ceilings, portraits of stern ancestors whose eyes seemed to follow her, judging. She found him on the terrace. Marco stood by the glass doors, wine in hand, sunlight gilding his dark hair. And beside him — too close, her hand resting lightly on his arm — was Giulia. Her best friend. Her maid of honor. The woman who had held her hand yesterday and whispered, “You are so lucky. I am so happy for you.” Giulia leaned in, her golden hair catching the light, emerald eyes bright and cruel. “…told you she would believe anything,” Giulia said, soft and sweet. “So gentle. So eager to please. It is almost a shame.” Marco did not step away. He tilted his head toward Giulia, and his cold face softened — the way it had never softened for Alessandra. “Let her believe it a little longer,” Marco answered. “She serves her purpose. The alliance holds. Her family stays loyal. And in return — I have you.” Giulia laughed, rising on her toes to kiss his jaw. “And you will never give her what is mine. You promised. She is your wife in name only.” “Always,” Marco said. Then he spoke the words that shattered her heart. “She is a transaction. You are my heart.” Alessandra’s breath caught. A floorboard creaked beneath her foot. Marco turned. His eyes locked with hers. No guilt. No surprise. Only cold, sharp annoyance that she had interrupted. Giulia did not step back. She turned slowly, saw Alessandra’s face, and smiled. Slow, deliberate, triumphant. Marco walked toward her. “Alessandra.” She stood frozen, ring burning on her finger. “Why?” Her voice barely made a sound. “You said… you would learn to love me.” Marco glanced back at Giulia, then returned his gaze to her. His expression did not shift. “I never said that. You hoped it.” His words were clear, cruel, absolute. “This marriage was never about love. It was about duty. Alliances. Family. You knew the terms — or you should have. You were convenient. She is everything.” Everything. Alessandra looked at the man she had loved for eight years. At the ring that bound her to him. At the best friend who had stood beside her at the altar and kissed her husband afterward. And then — movement. Down in the garden, beneath the cypress trees, stood him. The scarred man from the chapel. Half in shadow, broad-shouldered, watching her. Only her. He lifted a hand. Pointed first at Marco, then at Giulia. Then pressed his fist hard against his own chest. They are nothing. I am yours. Marco stepped in front of her, blocking the view. “Who are you looking at?” He glanced over his shoulder, frowned at the empty garden. “No one is there.” He turned back, voice dropping to ice. “Forget what you heard. You are my wife. You will behave as one. And you will remember your place.” He waited for her to bow her head. To apologize. To accept her chains. Alessandra looked at him — truly looked — and saw nothing but a stranger wearing the face she had worshipped. She stepped back. Away from him. “My place,” she said, quiet but steady, “is not here.” Marco’s eyes turned sharp. “Watch your words.” Alessandra turned and walked away. Past him. Past Giulia, still standing there, still smiling. She walked down the steps into the garden, toward the shadows where the amber-eyed man had stood. He was gone. But on the stone bench lay a single black rose. Tied to its stem was a scrap of parchment, written in ink black as blood: He married you for contracts. He loves her for pleasure. But I? I have waited for you since before he knew your name. Watch and wait, little captive. The game has only just begun. No signature. But she knew. Otto Moretti. The disgraced, exiled cousin. The man everyone said was dangerous, unstable, mad. He had returned. And he was not here to watch her break. He was here to pick up her pieces and keep them forever.