THE DEVIL'S VOW

The sky was heavy with storm clouds, thick and gray, casting an ominous shadow over the sea of mourners gathered for the burial of Enzo Romano.

Alessia stood at the edge of the open grave, the weight of her black veil pressing against her skin. The cold wind whipped around her, carrying the scent of freshly turned earth, incense, and death.

Her father's casket lay before her—a polished coffin of ebony and gold, a burial fit for a king.

But this was not a peaceful farewell.

This was war.

The whispers behind her were not of grief, but of power.

"She's too young to lead."

"The Romano empire is crumbling."

"Dante Salvatore owns her now."

Her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms. She wanted to turn, to glare at every single coward who dared to doubt her strength. But she didn't.

Because they were right.

She wasn't in control.

Dante Salvatore was.

A cold presence materialized beside her. She didn't have to turn her head to know it was him. His presence was as dark as the grave before them, a silent reminder of the man who now held her fate in his hands.

Dante stood tall, dressed in a black tailored suit, exuding an aura of unshakable power. The kind of power men feared. The kind of power that had gotten her father killed.

"You're shaking." His voice was low, just for her.

Alessia refused to acknowledge it. Refused to show weakness.

Instead, she focused on the priest, who had just finished his final prayer.

"Amen."

A chorus of murmured amens followed, but Alessia stayed silent.

Because there was no peace here. No absolution.

Only the promise of vengeance.

The first handful of dirt was thrown into the grave, and then another, and another. She watched as her father—the most ruthless, feared man in Italy—was swallowed by the earth.

Gone.

Her stomach twisted.

"I wasn't ready to lose you."

Her body tensed when she felt Dante's hand press against the small of her back.

A show of support.

A silent warning.

A reminder to everyone watching that she was his now.

Alessia wanted to move away from his touch, but she knew better. The entire underworld was watching.

Instead, she lifted her chin, schooling her features into cold indifference.

If they wanted a queen, she would give them one.

After the Funeral – The Gathering of Power

The Romano estate was a fortress, and tonight, it was a den of vipers.

Inside the grand hall, the most powerful men in the Italian underworld gathered, sipping wine, exchanging pleasantries. But Alessia knew the truth.

They were here to see who would rise.

And who would fall.

Alessia stood at the center of the room, her black dress molding to her form, her posture regal, untouchable. She felt their eyes on her, some filled with doubt, others with ambition.

Then there was Luca DeLuca.

Her father's most trusted ally. The man who had stood beside him for years. The man who should have been here, grieving.

But his eyes held no sorrow.

Only calculation.

"Alessia." He stepped toward her, voice smooth, practiced. "I was devastated to hear about your father. A great loss."

She tilted her head, masking the fury beneath her skin.

"You didn't seem devastated at the funeral," she said coolly.

A flicker of amusement crossed his expression, as if he appreciated her boldness.

"Grief shows itself in many ways, dear." His gaze flicked to Dante, who was watching from across the room, his posture tense, coiled. "Tell me, how does it feel to be a Salvatore now?"

Alessia's stomach turned.

She refused to answer.

Dante spoke for her.

"It feels like power," he said smoothly, stepping beside her. "Doesn't it, wife?"

His voice was mocking, taunting.

Alessia refused to rise to the bait.

Instead, she smiled—a sharp, dangerous curve of her lips.

"Power is fleeting," she said. "Unless you know how to wield it."

Luca chuckled, swirling his wine. "And do you?"

Alessia stepped closer, lowering her voice just enough for him to hear.

"I will."

His smirk faded.

And for the first time that night, Luca looked uncertain.

Dante's Study – The Night's Reckoning

The doors closed behind them with a low thud.

Dante leaned against his desk, arms crossed, watching her.

"You handled yourself well tonight," he admitted.

Alessia turned to him, her voice sharp as glass.

"Are you expecting gratitude?"

Dante's gaze darkened. "No. But I expect you to be smart."

She stalked toward him, fury crackling in her veins.

"I know what this is," she hissed. "You think you own me. You think because you put a ring on my finger, you can control me."

Dante pushed off the desk, closing the distance.

"That's where you're wrong, Alessia." His voice was dangerously soft. "I don't need to control you."

Her pulse hammered. "Then what do you want?"

He tilted his head, studying her.

"You think I killed your father, don't you?"

Her breath caught.

Dante's lips curled into something between amusement and warning.

"You have no idea what kind of war you've stepped into," he murmured.

Alessia refused to back down.

"Then enlighten me."

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then, he leaned in, so close his breath ghosted over her ear.

"You'll find out soon enough."

Her stomach twisted.

Because for the first time, Alessia realized something chilling.

Dante Salvatore might not be her father's murderer.

But he was still hiding something.

And whatever it was…

It would destroy her.

As she watched him walk away, Alessia made a vow of her own.

If Dante was keeping secrets…

She would tear them from him.

Even if it cost her soul.