Blood Roses Broken Vows

The Gilded Cage

The golden light of late afternoon spilled through the floor to the ceiling windows of the Moretti penthouse, casting long shadows across the white marble floors. Alessia Moretti stood barefoot near the glass, one hand pressed lightly to its cold surface, watching the world she wasn't allowed to touch. Far below, New York pulsed with life, honking taxis, sharp laughter from sidewalk cafés, the subtle hum of a city too proud to ever sleep. She had never walked its streets alone. At twenty-four, the concrete jungle still belonged to strangers, and she remained a ghost in her own city.

Behind her, the echo of leather soles on marble signaled her father's approach. It was never just footsteps. With Don Luciano Moretti, everything arrived with a purpose.

"You look like your mother when you stand like that," he said.

Alessia didn't turn around. "Is that meant to be a compliment?"

A beat of silence stretched thin between them. Then, his voice sharpened. "Tonight, you'll wear the emeralds. The ones from your grandmother's wedding."

Her fingers curled against the glass. "Why?"

"You're to meet someone important."

She turned now, slowly, her silk dress whispering around her ankles. Her father stood by the grand piano, his face a map of power and age, sharp cheekbones, greying temples, and cold, calculating eyes that had once ordered the deaths of men like others ordered coffee.

"Who?" she asked.

But he was already walking away, leaving his answer in the air like the scent of gunpowder.

An hour later, Alessia sat on the edge of her bed as Rosa Moretti fastened the heavy emerald necklace around her throat. It felt like a shackle disguised as heirloom.

Her mother's hands were elegant, steady practiced in restraint. "Don't ask questions tonight," Rosa murmured, avoiding Alessia's gaze in the mirror. "Smile, Listen, and Speak when spoken to."

"Am I a daughter or an ornament?"

"You're a Moretti."

It was both answer and cage.

The dress was dark green silk, cut modestly at the front but clinging at the waist, demure in design but unmistakably valuable. Her hair had been styled into loose waves, her makeup light but intentional. A porcelain doll dressed for display.

Alessia descended the marble staircase like a bride to her execution.

In the formal sitting room, two of her father's capos stood flanking the door, tension in their shoulders and guns under their jackets. At their nod, the double doors opened, and he stepped inside.

Dante Romano.

Alessia had heard his name whispered like a curse and spoken like a warning. The Romano heir, The Brooklyn-born prince of blood and silence, And now, standing before her in a tailored black suit, his presence filled the room like storm clouds rolling over calm water.

He didn't smile.

Dark hair, neatly slicked back, Sharp jaw, eyes the color of polished steel. There was no warmth in them, only calculation. His gaze flicked over her, assessing, and measuring. When his eyes met hers, she held them, refusing to blink.

"I'm Dante," he said, voice low and clipped.

"I know who you are."

Her father stepped between them like a wall, "You two will get to know each other better soon."

Alessia's spine straightened, "Why don't you just say it?"

Luciano tilted his head. "Say what?"

"The deal, The price, The trade, Whatever you're calling it."

A flash of irritation crossed his face, but he composed himself quickly. "Marriage, Alessia. To unite our bloodlines, To end a war that should've ended years ago."

"I didn't start the war."

"No," Dante said suddenly, "But you'll help end it."