My eyes snapped open at the sound of a heavy thud. For a fleeting moment, I prayed that the last twenty-four hours had been nothing but a nightmare. But when I saw the unfamiliar room around me, felt the weight of the bridal dress still clinging to my skin, and realized the noise had come from my new husband slamming the closet door, the truth settled like ice in my chest. This wasn't a dream. I was married to the enemy.
By the time the reception finally ended, I was escorted to my new room in the Moretti mansion, the room I was expected to share with a man. Not just any man. My husband.
The word made my skin crawl. Husband. And not just any husband, a Moretti.
The realization hit me in slow, sickening waves, turning my stomach until I thought I might actually be sick. I swallowed hard and looked around the room, desperate for anything to focus on. It was enormous, far too perfect. A marble-floored bathroom, a private terrace overlooking the gardens, a walk-in closet large enough to live in. Another door sat to the right, locked when I had tried it earlier.
I was drained to the bone, physically, mentally, and emotionally. Every part of me screamed to wake up and find this all undone. I never wanted this day. I never wanted him. I never wanted a marriage built on threats and bloodlines.
But choice had never been mine to begin with.
I had been forced into this union… this sham of a marriage, offered up like a sacrificial lamb between two underworld empires, the Volkov family and the Moretti family.
And now, I belonged to the enemy.
I rose from the bed, still trapped in the suffocating dress my mother had insisted I wear. I hated it. No matter how beautiful it looked, I despised every thread of it.
The gown was ash white, pure silk that clung to my body as if it had been made for me alone. The neckline dipped into a modest V, deep enough to hint at my curves but not enough to reveal them. The sleeves were long and fitted, hugging my arms like a second skin.
It was flawless, elegant, and expensive, yet even the softest silk felt like it was burning my skin. I wanted it off me. This beautiful dress wasn't a symbol of love or celebration; it was a mark of my captivity. A reminder of everything I had lost: my freedom, my choices, my life.
I wanted to tear it from my body and set it on fire. I wanted to watch it burn, along with this mansion and the man who now called himself my husband. Just when I thought I was about to break, the sound of the bathroom door opening froze me in place. And then he appeared, Ettore Fucking Moretti. The man, the monster, the embodiment of everything I despised.
The Moretti men are famous, not only for their crimes but also for their striking appearance. People swoon at the name. I don't. How could I? My vision is blurred by the blood of those they have killed around me. To me, they are nothing but scum, parasites I would gladly eradicate. I even said so out loud. I wanted them dead – I wanted to kill them, but when was I ever taken seriously?
I am not the Vera Volkov that everyone assumes I am. I am not the spoiled brat who runs to her mafia boss father for shelter, the damsel in distress the underworld expects. That version of Vera is an illusion. I make my own path. I take a challenge and I win. I keep to myself, but when someone crosses me, I make sure they remember it. I fight my wars, and I do not lose. I am not going to lose this one either.
Ettore stood in the doorway of the bathroom while I remained rooted in the center of the room. Our eyes locked, neither of us willing to look away. He watched me as if he might wrap his hands around my throat at any moment, and I stared back as if daring him to try. His face was still wet, droplets sliding down his jaw and dripping onto the collar of his shirt.
The truth was unsettling. I had never met this man before today. I had never even seen him. I knew only the stories whispered about him, stories I never cared enough to verify. Anything involving his family always repulsed me, so curiosity was out of the question.
The navy blue suit he wore at the ceremony was gone, along with the tie that had been snug around his neck. He stood now in a white button-up shirt, most of the buttons undone, revealing the lean lines of his chest beneath the damp fabric. The cuffs were unfastened, the sleeves pushed to his elbows, and faint traces of tattoos peeked from beneath the folds. He still wore the matching navy trousers, clinging to him in all the right places.
I had to admit it, if only to myself. The rumors were true. Ettore Moretti was a handsome man, striking even, with his mature features and a body that looked carved rather than born. But none of that mattered to me. In my eyes, he would always be the ugliest kind of scum.
For several long seconds, maybe even minutes, we stayed where we were, locked in a silent standoff. It felt like the moment before a duel, the kind where you know one wrong breath could start the gunfire. I half expected us to reach for weapons and try to shoot the other before we got shot ourselves.
The spell broke when he began to move toward me, step by slow step, his gaze never once leaving mine. He might have thought he could intimidate me, that I would shrink under the weight of his stare, but he could not have been more wrong. He did not understand how much I thrive on these kinds of challenges. Call me sadistic if you want, but I enjoy watching my enemies suffer. Their pain is my satisfaction.
He approached with the calculated grace of a predator stalking its prey, but I refused to give ground. I stood perfectly still, the predator disguised as prey, waiting for the perfect moment to strike back.
As he came closer, his cologne wrapped around me again. I had been inhaling it all day, and now it felt suffocating, heavy enough to choke me. My jaw tightened as he reached me, so close I had to tilt my face upward to meet his eyes. I hated that. I hated that he towered over me, that he looked at me with the confidence of a man who believed he could crush me between his fingers without effort.
I narrowed my eyes and held my position, refusing to step back even when he stood just inches from me.
I watched him carefully. His jaw tightened as he searched my eyes for even a hint of submission, but all he found was a slow, mocking lift of my lips. He could not break me, no matter how much he wanted to. His breath brushed my skin, warm enough to burn, and his honey-brown eyes grew darker with every second he held my gaze. His straight, elegant nose flared, and his thin lips pressed into a hard line of barely contained fury.
The scowl on his face deepened. "I will fucking ruin you, Vera Moretti," he said, dragging out my new last name like a stain.
My smug expression faltered for a heartbeat, and the small gleam of satisfaction that sparked in his eyes made my blood boil. I hated this family. I hated being tied to them… tied to him. Their name felt like a collar around my throat.
I forced the smugness back into a slower, sharper smirk. "Not if I ruin you first, Moretti."
Neither of us stepped back. If anything, we leaned in, drawn together by a tension so tight it felt ready to snap. His breath brushed my lips, warm and uninvited, sending my pulse into a frantic rhythm. Still, I did not move. I held my ground, my glare locked with his, daring him to push harder.
And in the end, we were both right.
We did ruin each other… just not in the way we intended.