THE DEVIL'S VOW

The silence in the Salvatore estate was deafening.

Alessia stood in the center of the grand bedroom—her prison—staring at the massive, ornate mirror that reflected a woman she barely recognized.

Her wedding dress was gone. In its place, a silk nightgown clung to her form, a reminder of the intimacy she refused to share with the man she now called husband.

Dante Salvatore.

A name whispered in fear, spoken in hushed tones in the dark corners of the underworld.

The Devil himself.

Her hands curled into fists at the thought.

She had spent the entire evening locked in this golden cage, waiting. Waiting for him to come to her. To claim his new bride. To take what this twisted contract had given him.

But Dante never came.

Instead, he had left her alone on their wedding night, an act that felt more calculated than merciful.

He was toying with her.

Testing her.

And she hated him for it.

A gust of wind rattled the window. The estate, surrounded by thousands of acres of vineyards, was eerily silent at this hour. But Alessia knew better.

It wasn't truly silent.

It was watched. Guarded. Controlled.

Dante had placed his men everywhere. Not to protect her.

But to ensure she didn't escape.

Her pulse thrummed with a fury she could barely contain.

She wouldn't be a prisoner.

She refused to be his possession.

The moment the funeral was over, she would find a way out of this marriage. Even if she had to burn everything down to do it.

A sharp knock at the door jolted her from her thoughts.

She tensed.

Then, before she could respond, the door swung open.

And there he was.

Dante stood in the doorway, tall and powerful, his presence swallowing the air in the room. He was still dressed in his black suit, the jacket unbuttoned, the crisp white shirt rolled up at his forearms, veins flexing beneath golden skin.

He looked unbothered. Relaxed.

Like he hadn't just destroyed her life.

Alessia lifted her chin. "What do you want?"

Dante smirked—a slow, infuriating curve of his lips.

"You're awake," he mused.

She crossed her arms, refusing to acknowledge the way his presence suffocated the room.

"Did you expect me to sleep soundly?"

His gaze swept over her, assessing, calculating.

"No," he admitted. "I expected you to fight sleep the same way you fight everything else."

Alessia's jaw tightened.

"I have nothing to say to you."

Dante stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

"You sure about that, wife?"

Something about the way he said wife made her stomach turn.

She wasn't his.

Not now. Not ever.

She turned away, walking toward the window, but she wasn't surprised when she heard the quiet click of the lock behind her.

Trapped.

Her body went rigid as Dante's footsteps echoed against the marble floors, slow and unhurried.

"Why are you here?" she demanded, refusing to face him.

Silence.

Then—

"Tomorrow, we bury your father."

Alessia's breath caught.

A cold weight settled in her chest.

She had spent the entire day pretending she was fine. Pretending that her father's death didn't shatter her into a thousand pieces.

But now, standing here, with the man she blamed for everything, the reality crushed her.

Her father was gone.

And tomorrow, she would stand over his grave as the world watched.

As his enemies whispered.

As his killers walked free.

Her nails dug into her palm. "I don't need you to remind me."

Dante's gaze burned into her back.

"You'll stand beside me," he said, voice even, cold. "And you won't cry."

Alessia turned sharply. "Excuse me?"

Dante took a slow step toward her, calm as ever. "You are no longer just Enzo Romano's daughter. You are my wife. And tomorrow, they will look to you. They will measure your strength."

Her chest burned with resentment.

"My strength?" she whispered. "You stole my father's empire, forced me into this marriage, and now you think you can tell me how to grieve?"

Dante's gaze didn't waver.

"Yes."

Her rage exploded.

She closed the distance between them in an instant, lifting her hand to strike him.

Dante caught her wrist mid-air.

His grip was firm—not painful, but unyielding.

Her breath came hard, fast. She was close enough to feel his warmth, to see the mocking gleam in his dark eyes.

"Hit me if it makes you feel better," he murmured. "But it won't change a damn thing, Alessia."

She yanked her hand back, furious.

"I hate you."

Dante chuckled, shaking his head.

"No, you don't," he murmured. "Not yet."

Her breath hitched.

The arrogance. The sheer audacity of this man.

Before she could respond, he turned toward the door, his movements lazy, unconcerned.

"Get some sleep," he said over his shoulder. "Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life."

And then—

He was gone.

The door shut behind him, leaving her alone in the dark.

The room was silent.

Her breath shaky.

Her rage burning.

Dante thought he owned her.

That he had already won.

But he would learn.

He would learn that Alessia Romano was not some helpless bride.

She was the daughter of a king.

And if she had to burn Dante Salvatore to the ground to get her revenge…

She would.

Alessia stared into the mirror, into the eyes of the woman she had become.

A prisoner. A queen in a gilded cage.

But queens did not kneel.

Not even for the Devil.