He is handsome in a severe, unforgiving way. His hair is dark, cut short and neat, framing a face dominated by a strong jaw and high cheekbones. His eyes are dark, focused on the altar stone, completely ignoring the fanfare, completely ignoring me. I search for a flicker of nervousness, pity, or even curiosity. There is nothing. Only unwavering stillness.
A faint scar cuts across his jaw, a thin, white line that catches the chapel light. He is a predator in a tailored suit, and he is entirely uninterested in his prey.
He doesn’t look at me. Not once. Not when I stop before him. Not when my father places my hand in his—a cold, firm transfer of ownership. Not when the priest begins to speak the ancient, beautiful language of the ceremony.
The ceremony is short, brutal in its efficiency. The words blur together. My vows, his vows, the murmured approval of two powerful families pretending this is love, pretending this is a choice.
Then comes the final, physical act of possession. He slides the ring onto my finger—a thick band of platinum and perfect diamonds. It's a perfect fit, of course, like every other decision made for me. The weight of it settles instantly, heavy and final.
When the priest declares us bound, the world feels utterly silent, save for the blood rushing in my ears. Alessandro leans close enough that his breath ghosts against my cheek, sending a shiver down my spine. His voice is a low, quiet rasp, barely audible beneath the sudden, rushing applause.
“You’ll do as you’re told, Mrs. Moretti.”
It’s the first time he's spoken to me. It's not a vow; it's an instruction.
Then he kisses my cheek instead of my lips, a gesture so polite, so utterly devoid of heat or emotion, that it burns worse than ablow. It is the kiss of a partner, a colleague, a strategist—not a husband.
The crowd roars its applause. My father smiles, satisfied.
And somewhere deep inside, beneath the suffocating layers of ivory silk and practiced submission, the spark of something small, furious, and fiercely disobedient ignites.
Chapter 2
The reception is loud enough to drown a man’s thoughts, but mine don’t shut up easily. They circle Elena like vultures over a perfect, silent landscape.
Someone laughs too hard—probably one of Dante’s loud Boston associates. Dante’s voice cuts through the crowd like a knife through silk as he greets the Russian Pakhan, Viktor Volkov, like they’ve known each other for a lifetime instead of a handful of volatile deals and near-wars.
And beside me stands my new wife.
Elena Volkov. Now Elena Moretti.
The name sounds wrong in my head, like it doesn’t quite belong to her yet. It’s a title I purchased, not one she earned or chose.
She’s silent. Since the ceremony, she’s done everything exactly as expected—walked when I moved, sat when I did, folded herhands in her lap like she was made of delicate porcelain. Even now, when people come to offer congratulations, she dips her head with a practiced, neutral smile that never, ever reaches her dark eyes.
She’s twenty-four years old. She should be vibrant, annoyed, perhaps even defiant. Instead, she is static, beautiful, and utterly absent.
I take a slow, observant sip of whiskey, the amber liquid burning faintly. I maintain a neutral expression, the mask of the satisfied husband, but every fiber of my attention is locked on her.
She flinches whenever her father’s voice reaches her across the ballroom, a tiny, almost imperceptible contraction of her shoulders. Once, when Volkov casually rested his hand on her shoulder while talking to Dante, I saw her body stiffen to iron before she forced it loose. Not out of physical fear—at least not the kind that leaves bruises or visible terror. I know the signs of physical abuse; Volkov is too clever, too polished for that. This is something else entirely. The kind of fear born from a lifetime of relentless, total control. Cultural conditioning taken to a suffocating extreme.
She is Russian, and I know the old-world values her father enforces: obedience, loyalty to the collective, and silence. But watching her now, I realize Volkov hasn’t just raised a daughter; he’s manufactured a puppet.
She is exquisite. The ivory silk of the gown is a perfect foil for her dark hair, which is styled tightly, severely, the way Russian women often wear it. Her features are sharp and elegant: high, proud cheekbones, a delicate jawline, and eyes that are startlingly dark against her pale skin. Her mouth, currently set in that maddening half-smile, is full. She is exactly the high-value asset Dante needed me to acquire.
She is obedient. Trained. Perfect. And I should like that. Hell, I do. It means this marriage will run smooth—like any other necessary arrangement forged in blood and necessity. A docile wife keeps peace. A quiet wife doesn’t cause war.
That’s what I told myself when Dante proposed this union—when he said he needed someone he could trust not to lose his head or his temper. Someone loyal enough to bind the two families without introducing weakness or distraction. I am a machine designed for loyalty. I don’t love. I don’t get distracted. I just execute.
But as I watch her now, standing there with her chin tilted just enough to keep from crumbling under her father’s predatory stare, something festers inside my chest.
A flicker of something sharp. Ugly. Protective. Maybe even regret for what I’ve done to her, simply by marrying her and enforcing this role. She catches my eye for half a second, her gaze meeting mine—quick, startled, confused—then she looks down again. Always down. I shouldn't care. She is a political solution, nothing more. But damn if it doesn't make me want to bark an order at her to look up, to stand tall, to show some sign of the woman who must be buried beneath all that silk and submission.
Dante’s sudden, boisterous laughter breaks through my thoughts. He claps me on the shoulder as he passes, his expression relieved, his eyes lingering for a moment on Elena. “You clean up well, fratello,” he says. “The Russians seem pleased.”
“Good.” I keep my voice even, refusing to show emotion. “That’s all that matters.”
He studies me for a moment, sensing the tension, the wrongness. “She’s young.”
