Aria's heels echoed like gunshots down the marble hallway of her family's estate. Her soaked dress clung to her legs, but she didn't care. She pushed open the double doors of her father's study without knocking.
"Tell me it's not true," she demanded.
Carlo Moretti looked up from his drink, unfazed. "It's done."
"You made a deal with Luciano D'Angelo? Behind my back?" Her voice cracked under the weight of disbelief. "You betrothed me to the man who might have murdered Matteo."
Her father leaned back in his chair and swirled the amber liquid in his glass. "Might have," he repeated quietly. "But didn't."
Aria's breath caught. "What are you saying?"
"Matteo made enemies, Aria. You know that. He played games with the Albanians, ignored warnings, and defied D'Angelo to prove a point." He sipped his drink. "And now he's dead."
Her throat went dry. "So you're… blaming him?"
"I'm accepting reality. You should too."
She walked toward him slowly, every step fueled by betrayal. "You sold me like some bargaining chip."
"I saved you," Carlo snapped. "You think the D'Angelos would spare this family after Matteo's mess? After the bodies that dropped? Luciano could've crushed us. But instead, he offered a solution."
"A solution that comes with a ring and a cage," Aria spat. "What exactly did you promise him?"
"That you'd be his wife. That you'd keep the peace. And that you'd stop acting like a reckless child with something to prove."
That stung. More than she expected.
"I'm not Matteo," she said.
"No," Carlo said, his voice low. "You're more dangerous than Matteo ever was. Because you think you're still innocent."
Silence stretched between them, heavy as a gun pressed to the back of the neck.
Aria stared at her father, this man who had once taught her how to ride a bike, how to lie with conviction, how to smile through pain, and realized he didn't see her as a daughter anymore.
Only as a deal.
A liability. A pawn to be moved off the board.
Her voice came out as a whisper. "What if I say no?"
Carlo set his glass down, the sound sharp.
"Then I'll remind you what happened to your brother. What happens when Morettis defy D'Angelos."
The words sliced through her like a blade.
Her heart pounded. Her hands shook. But she forced herself to lift her chin.
"Then I hope you're ready," she said. "Because I don't break quietly."
She turned and walked out, each step louder than the last.
⸻
She didn't cry until she was alone. Not even when she tore the soaked dress off her body or collapsed on the edge of her bed.
Only when she saw the photo on her nightstand, Matteo, smiling, arm around her shoulder did the tears fall.
He'd died trying to protect something. But what?
The truth?
The family?
Her?
She didn't know anymore.
⸻
The next morning, a black envelope was slid under her door.
She stared at it for a moment before picking it up. The seal bore the D'Angelo crest—an ouroboros of gold ink biting its own tail.
Inside was a single card.
Dinner. 8 PM. Wear black. You'll want to look like a queen when you agree. – L.D.
Aria stared at the words until her hands shook.
Then she walked to the window and looked out at the city below.
She could run. Hide. Disappear.
But what would that change?
Luciano would find her. And this time, her father wouldn't beg for peace.
No.
If she was going to be trapped, she'd make herself the most dangerous prisoner they ever locked in a cage.
⸻
8 PM came fast.
She wore black.
Not because he told her to—but because it reminded her what this was: a funeral for her freedom.
The restaurant was empty when she arrived—booked entirely by the D'Angelos, no doubt. Crystal glasses sparkled beneath soft candlelight. Wine already poured. A chair pulled out.
Luciano sat across from her, dark and polished and unreadable.
"You look beautiful," he said.
"I didn't come for compliments."
"No," he agreed. "You came to surrender."
Aria's jaw tightened. "You think you've won."
Luciano smiled faintly. "I don't play games I don't already know the outcome of."
She sat, spine straight. "What do you really want?"
He leaned forward, voice low. "I want what you fear most—that by the time I'm done, you won't remember what it felt like to hate me."
A chill rippled down her spine.
"You think I could ever love someone like you?"
"I think," he said slowly, "you already hate me so much, there's not much left but fire. And love starts with fire."
She hated how calm he was. How sure. How untouchable.
"So this marriage," she said. "It's just about power?"
Luciano's eyes glinted. "No. It's about control. And if we're honest… it's about obsession."
"Yours?"
He didn't blink. "Yours."
The air thickened between them.
And then, he pulled out a ring box.
Inside: a blood-red diamond. Uncut. Dangerous. Like something torn straight from hell.
"Say yes," he said.
"Or watch what happens to everything you love next."