The rain tapped violently against the tall windows of the Virelli estate, drowning out the last screams of innocence Siena Laveau once had. Her fingers clutched the delicate lace of her mother's old dress, the one she never imagined she'd wear like this—under duress, under fear, under contract.
Outside, black cars lined the driveway like a silent army, their tinted windows concealing shadows more terrifying than monsters. Inside, a dozen suited men gathered like wolves circling prey. And at the center of it all stood him—Rafael Virelli.
Rafael. Cold-blooded. Ruthless. The eldest heir of the Virelli mafia empire.
And her soon-to-be husband.
"You will sign the contract, Siena," her uncle spat, dragging her forward by the elbow. "You'll do it, or your brother dies tonight."
She didn't cry. Not anymore. She'd wasted all her tears when they dragged Lucien into the estate last night, bloodied and barely breathing. She remembered the tremble in his voice, whispering, "Don't do it, Sisi," before they knocked him out again.
"I want to see him," she said, her voice hoarse, but steady.
Rafael didn't look at her. He leaned lazily against the marble fireplace, glass of red wine in hand, dressed like a man attending a gala rather than a forced marriage. His obsidian eyes flicked toward her for just a second—calculating, amused.
"You'll see him after the ceremony," he said coolly. "That is, if you're still breathing after the vows."
A chill raced down her spine.
"Rafael," said one of his men, "the minister is ready."
Siena's blood ran cold. Was this how it all ended? Her dreams, her freedom, her life?
A week ago, she was a university student on the verge of finishing her law degree. Now she was standing in the Virelli mansion, about to marry the devil himself because her uncle, the man who had raised her, gambled her family into a debt too steep to repay.
They said Rafael needed a wife to seal a certain alliance. A contract marriage—three years. No love, no divorce, no escape.
But everyone knew Rafael Virelli didn't take wives. He took power.
She bit her lip until it bled. "What if I run?"
Rafael's head turned, finally giving her his full attention. He pushed off the fireplace and walked toward her, each step echoing against the marble floors like a death knell. He stopped just inches from her face.
"You won't."
"Why?"
"Because, Siena," he whispered, voice like velvet laced with arsenic, "running gets people killed. People like your little brother."
And then, with a smirk, he added, "Besides, I'd find you. And if you thought tonight was cruel... I'd make that look like mercy."
Siena swallowed the scream in her throat.
The ceremony was fast. Cold. No flowers, no guests, no vows from the heart. Just ink, silence, and the sound of a gun cocking in the background whenever she hesitated.
Rafael didn't even look at her when he slid the ring onto her finger.
"We are done here," he said.
But as they turned to leave, she did something that surprised them both. She stepped in front of him, her voice trembling but clear.
"One condition."
The room went still.
Rafael raised a brow. "You're in no position—"
"I said one condition," she cut him off. "You want a wife? Then treat me like one. I want to see my brother every week. And I want a door that locks. My door."
A flicker of something passed in his eyes—amusement? Respect? Or simply calculation.
He leaned in close, his breath brushing her cheek.
"Bold of you," he murmured. "But fine, little lamb. You can have your door. Just don't expect it to stay closed."
And with that, the devil took her hand, leading her into the storm that would become their marriage.