THE DEVIL'S VOW

The air was thick with the scent of white roses and blood.

Alessia Romano stood at the entrance of the grand cathedral, her fingers curled into fists beneath the delicate lace of her veil. The Romano legacy draped across her shoulders like a noose—one she never asked to wear. The dim candlelight flickered against the ornate gold of the altar, illuminating the hundreds of faces watching her—some expectant, others triumphant, but most indifferent.

None of them cared that she was walking to the altar as a prisoner.

Her heart slammed against her ribcage as her gaze lifted to him.

Dante Salvatore.

The man who would become her husband in a matter of minutes.

The Devil himself.

Dressed in a tailored black suit, he stood at the altar with an air of absolute authority, his broad shoulders squared, his stance unyielding. His gaze—dark as the void—rested on her with no emotion, no warmth. He did not smile. Did not soften.

Why would he?

This wasn't a wedding. It was a war treaty written in flesh and ink.

Alessia had been raised to be a queen. The perfect mafia heiress. She had played her role with grace, with obedience, because that was what was expected of her. Until today.

Until her father had signed away her freedom with a stroke of a pen.

Her grip on the bouquet tightened, nails pressing into her palm hard enough to draw blood. But she would not show fear. Not in front of them. And certainly not in front of him.

Her father's words echoed in her mind.

"You are to marry Dante Salvatore. This is not a request, Alessia. This is an order."

She had fought. She had screamed. She had sworn she would rather die than marry a Salvatore.

Yet here she was.

Her heels clicked against the marble floor as she walked down the aisle, each step feeling like a descent into hell. She could feel the weight of a hundred stares drilling into her, the silent acknowledgment of an empire watching her sacrifice herself for their survival.

Halfway down the aisle, she lifted her chin, forcing her spine straight.

If she was going to be a pawn in this game, she would play the role on her terms.

She reached the altar, her father's grip on her arm tightening before he released her into Dante's waiting hands.

His fingers wrapped around hers—firm, unyielding, ice-cold.

Her pulse pounded.

Dante didn't look at her immediately. Instead, he focused on the priest, his jaw set, expression unreadable. He was a man who had seen war, who had dealt in death, and now he would claim her as his possession.

Alessia swallowed the resentment burning in her throat.

The priest began the vows, but she barely heard them.

"Do you, Dante Salvatore, take Alessia Romano to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

Dante didn't hesitate.

"I do."

The words were cold. Final. Like a signature on a contract of war.

Her chest tightened.

"Do you, Alessia Romano, take Dante Salvatore to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

Silence.

The room held its breath.

Her father shifted beside her, a silent warning.

Dante turned his head then, the first flicker of interest in his dark eyes. His grip on her hand tightened—a silent dare.

"Say it."

It wasn't a request.

Alessia lifted her gaze, holding his with defiance. A muscle ticked in his jaw, and for the first time, she saw it—the barely restrained power, the control, the danger.

This man could kill her with one command.

But she would never kneel.

With a slow, deliberate breath, she parted her lips.

"I do."

The room exhaled.

Dante slid a ring onto her finger—heavy, cold, a shackle disguised in diamonds.

"You may kiss the bride," the priest announced.

Alessia's stomach clenched.

Dante moved then, one calloused hand sliding to her waist, pulling her in with effortless strength. The moment their bodies touched, her breath hitched.

His other hand grasped her jaw, tilting her chin up.

She thought he would kiss her softly, for show.

He didn't.

His lips crashed onto hers with brutal possession, a kiss meant to claim, to brand. A kiss that told her and the entire room that she belonged to him now.

Alessia wanted to fight him. Wanted to bite down, to push him away. But he was too strong. Too sure of his control over her.

He broke the kiss as suddenly as he had begun it, his lips brushing against her ear.

"You are mine now, Alessia."

The words sent a shiver down her spine.

The crowd erupted into applause.

A false celebration.

A mockery of love.

Dante released her, turning toward the guests with a small, victorious smirk. She lifted her chin higher, masking the burn of humiliation.

But she felt it.

She felt the first taste of defeat.

She had lost today.

But the war between them was far from over.

Later That Night – The Wedding Night

The grand estate was silent as Dante led her through the dimly lit corridors. The weight of what was about to happen pressed down on her chest.

She would not cry.

Would not show weakness.

They entered the bedroom. The moment the door clicked shut, Alessia turned to face him, her heart hammering.

"I will never love you," she spat, voice sharp as a blade.

Dante merely smirked.

His gaze roamed over her—slow, deliberate, dangerous.

"You mistake me for a man who needs love," he murmured, stepping closer. "I don't need your love, Alessia."

She stiffened as he reached for her veil. With agonizing slowness, he slid it back, revealing her face completely.

"I only need your loyalty."

Her breath caught.

His hand brushed against her jaw, but this time, his touch was… different.

Not gentle.

Not cruel.

Just watching. Studying. As if he was trying to understand what made her defy him.

Alessia lifted her chin, refusing to let him see her fear.

"You will never have my loyalty," she whispered.

Dante's smirk widened.

"Then this marriage will be very entertaining."

And with that, he turned away, leaving her alone in a marriage forged in war and betrayal.

Alessia stood in the darkness, staring at the man who had just become her husband, her captor, her enemy.

And she swore—if Dante Salvatore thought he had won, he was gravely mistaken.