I knew that every single day would be a test, every hour designed to push me past fear, past weakness.
But I also knew the reward at the end of that cycle: I would no longer be the silent bride who sat in the shadows of Vincenzo’s villa, watched but unseen.
I would emerge different.
I would be a made woman.
A weapon.
A presence he could not ignore.
A force in my own right, bound only by the rules I chose to obey.
The thought brought a small, private smile to my lips, hidden from the world but fierce in its certainty.
Here, within these walls of stone and steel, I would prove myself.
Here, I would be reborn.
It had been seven days since Vincenzo and I had stood at that altar, bound in holy matrimony—seven days since my world had twisted itself completely upside-down—and in all that time, we had exchanged barely ten words.
He moved through the villa like a storm front, cold and controlled, never pausing.
Mornings I caught him in the study with Ciro, the enforcer, their words clipped, loaded with intent, discussing arms shipments from Eastern Europe, new Balkan routes, and ways to blind Interpol’s gaze.
Afternoons he was locked in the private quarters with Renzo, combing over protection rackets in Milan’s fashion district, extortion lists among port workers, contingency plans in case the Spanish decided to retaliate for the wedding insult.
I felt like a ghost in my own marriage.
Present, but invisible.
I could track his movements, note the shift in his moods, the tension in his shoulders—but I was a spectator, a bystander in a life that now belonged to him.
And I cannot help but wonder if this is how I am to live the rest of my life—married, yet ignored; bound, yet abandoned; cursed to a gilded cage of isolation where even his presence feels like a shadow I cannot touch.
A figure cut across the courtyard toward me—a woman tall, broad-shouldered, every step radiating authority.
Her presence yanked me out of my thoughts of Vincenzo, grounding me in the reality of the academy’s ruthless world.
Black tactical gear clung to her like a second skin, her hair cropped close, every movement precise.
Capitana Livia.
Authority dripped from her in waves, silent and absolute.
Her eyes scanned me quickly, efficiently, noting my dress, my posture, my hair pulled back tight, the lack of distraction on my face.
My ring glinted in the sun.
She lingered there for just a half-second longer than necessary.
Not impressed. Not intimidated. Just... noted.
“You signed the waiver?” she asked, her tone sharp but neutral.
“Yes,” I said.
“You understand that if you die here—” she continued, crisp and factual—“your family receives nothing. No investigation. No body. If we choose not to return it, that is the law. That is policy. You will vanish, officially and finally.”
