I knew I was going to be sacrificed the moment my father stopped looking at me.
In our world, silence meant decisions had already been made.
The Romano estate was quieter than usual tonight. No music. No laughter. Just men in tailored suits whispering in corners like ghosts dressed in Armani.
And at the head of the table—
Luca De Santis.
The Devil of Verona.
I had seen photographs of him before. Grainy surveillance shots. News articles that called him a "businessman." Rumors that called him something much worse.
But none of it prepared me for seeing him in person.
He didn't look like a monster.
That was the frightening part.
He sat with effortless stillness, one hand resting against the polished mahogany table, the other holding a glass of red wine. His black suit fit like it had been stitched onto his skin. Dark hair brushed back. Sharp jaw. Controlled expression.
Predator calm.
His eyes lifted.
And landed on me.
It felt like being marked.
"Isabella," my father said, not looking at me. "Come sit."
Not beside him.
Across from Luca.
I walked forward on steady legs. Years of etiquette training made sure of that. Shoulders back. Chin level. Fear buried.
I refused to look weak in front of the man who had destroyed half our territory in six months.
I took the seat.
Silence thickened.
Luca didn't blink. Didn't smile. Didn't acknowledge me at all.
As if I were already his.
My father cleared his throat.
"The war between our families ends tonight."
Luca's voice, when he spoke, was softer than I expected.
"And how," he asked evenly, "do you propose we accomplish that?"
My father finally looked at me.
Not as a daughter.
As currency.
"My daughter," he said. "As a gesture of unity. A marriage between our families."
The words echoed in the room.
Marriage.
Offered.
Like livestock.
The men around us avoided my gaze.
Luca did not.
His eyes shifted over me slowly — not with hunger, not with affection — but with assessment. Calculating value. Risk. Leverage.
"How old?" he asked.
"Twenty-two."
A pause.
"And she understands her duty?"
My father answered before I could.
"She will."
That was when Luca finally spoke to me directly.
"Do you understand?"
His voice wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
I met his gaze.
"If I say no," I asked carefully, "does that change anything?"
Something flickered in his eyes.
Approval?
Amusement?
"Honesty," he murmured.
Then, after a beat:
"No."
The room went still.
I swallowed.
"Then I understand."
A muscle ticked in his jaw.
That was the only sign he was human.
The meeting continued around me — contracts discussed, territory divided, alliances redrawn — but I heard none of it.
I was studying the man who now owned my future.
He didn't touch me.
Didn't smile.
Didn't look triumphant.
If anything, he looked… thoughtful.
As if this arrangement inconvenienced him.
When the men finally stood, Luca rose with them.
He moved around the table.
Stopped beside me.
Close enough that I could feel the warmth of him.
Close enough that I could smell clean cologne and something darker beneath it — leather and smoke.
He leaned slightly.
Not intimate.
Not gentle.
Just enough so only I could hear.
"You are not a peace offering," he said quietly.
I frowned.
"Then what am I?"
His gaze dropped briefly to my hands resting in my lap.
Then back to my eyes.
"A liability."
My breath caught.
"And I don't tolerate liabilities."
The meaning was clear.
If I betrayed him, if my father betrayed him—
I would not be spared.
He straightened.
"Wedding is in one week," he told my father.
Not a request.
A decree.
Then he left.
No goodbye.
No backward glance.
The room exhaled the moment he stepped outside.
My father finally looked at me again.
"You will behave," he said.
I stood slowly.
"You just sold me."
"I just saved you," he snapped. "If the De Santis family had continued the war, we would all be dead within months."
"So I die instead?"
His face hardened.
"You will live in luxury."
Luxury.
The word tasted like ash.
That night, I lay awake staring at the ceiling of my childhood bedroom, knowing I would never sleep here again.
Never be safe again.
Never belong to myself again.
Just before dawn, my phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
One message.
From him.
Luca De Santis.
There were only four words.
Do not try to run.
And beneath it—
A photograph.
Taken less than five minutes ago.
Of me.
Standing at my bedroom window.