THE WRONG DE LUCA

The ring on her finger felt like a shackle.

It glittered like a promise, but to Celeste Romano, it weighed more like a sentence. Nineteen carats of obligation, sharp and cold, biting into her skin even though it was perfectly sized. She stared down at it, seated in front of a grand vanity in a room that wasn't hers, in a house that didn't feel like home.

Her engagement party was in full swing below her. Laughter. Clinking glasses. High heels tapping on marble. Deals whispered over cigars. All so polished, so untouchable-so mafia.

Damiano De Luca had proposed to her with a diamond that cost more than most people's homes. He had kissed her hand like a gentleman, smiled like a prince, and told her father it was an honor to take her as his wife.

But the moment the ring slid onto her finger, her throat had started to close.

Because she didn't love Damiano.

She respected him, maybe. Feared him, sometimes. But love? It had never entered the equation. Their engagement was the byproduct of bloodlines and business, old loyalties and fragile peace between two powerful families. She was the peace offering.

And everyone knew it.

She rose from the vanity, the gold silk of her gown rippling around her legs like liquid sunlight. Her reflection followed her movements-eyes too wide, mouth too still. She barely recognized herself anymore.

Tonight was meant to be her triumph. The daughter of Marco Romano, engaged to the heir of the De Luca empire. But all she felt was an ache. A quiet, creeping ache that had started months ago when she agreed to this engagement, and now it was blossoming into full-blown dread.

A knock broke through her haze.

"Celeste?"

It was Bianca's voice-her cousin, her best friend, her shield. Celeste moved to open the door, and Bianca swept in, all legs and sharp eyeliner and champagne.

"You look like you're heading to a funeral," Bianca said, studying her. "Which is ironic, since this is supposed to be your engagement party."

Celeste gave a brittle smile. "Same thing, really."

Bianca laughed softly but paused. "You're not having second thoughts, are you?"

Celeste leaned against the doorframe. "I'm having first, second, and third thoughts."

"About Damiano? Or the whole marrying-into-a-family-of-professional-killers thing?"

"Both."

Bianca sighed. "You knew what this was. We don't get to marry for love. We marry for legacy."

"I just thought I'd feel something more," Celeste whispered. "Anything."

Bianca hesitated. "Well, if it makes you feel better, Damiano is loyal. And loyalty counts more than love in this world."

Celeste didn't answer. Loyalty, she knew, came with a price.

Bianca tugged her gently. "Come on. They're about to do the champagne toast. Your dad will have a heart attack if you're not downstairs when they announce you."

Celeste followed her into the hallway, past framed paintings and walls lined with the silent eyes of generations past. The De Luca mansion was like a museum for ghosts. It smelled like money and secrets.

As they reached the top of the grand staircase, Celeste paused.

And then everything stopped.

She saw him.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in black with a suit that looked like it had been stitched onto his body. He stood near the edge of the room, shadows carving angles into his sharp jawline. He wasn't laughing. Wasn't even pretending to smile like the rest of them.

He looked like he didn't belong.

Celeste blinked. Her heart gave a strange, unfamiliar thud.

"Who is that?" she whispered.

Bianca followed her gaze. Then froze. Her champagne glass tilted slightly.

"Oh my God," Bianca whispered. "That can't be..."

"What?"

"Celeste. That's Julian De Luca."

The name sent a current down her spine.

Julian. The dead one. The uncle.

Damiano's uncle. The family's ghost. Rumored to have been killed in a deal gone wrong seven years ago.

"But... he died."

Bianca's voice dropped. "Apparently not."

Julian looked up then. And his eyes-storm-grey, unreadable-met Celeste's like a punch to the lungs.

He didn't blink. Didn't smile. Just watched her.

And in that one look, Celeste felt more than she had in a year with Damiano.

She forced herself to keep walking. Down the stairs. Into the light. Toward the future she was supposed to embrace.

But every step felt wrong now. Off-balance. Like the world had tilted just slightly, and nothing would ever be quite straight again.

When she reached Damiano, he greeted her with a kiss on the cheek and a possessive arm around her waist. He raised his glass.

"To my future wife. The most beautiful woman in the world."

Everyone clapped.

Celeste smiled.

But her eyes searched the crowd.

Julian was gone.

Later that night, she stepped outside for air. The garden was dark, the marble under her feet cold. She closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of roses and night.

"Do you always run away from things that scare you?"

Her eyes flew open.

Julian stood in the shadows.

He stepped closer, and moonlight kissed his face. A scar ran across his jaw, faint but brutal. His eyes held storms.

"You shouldn't be here," she said, but her voice betrayed her.

He smiled, slow and dangerous. "Neither should you."

She swallowed. "You're supposed to be dead."

"Everyone's supposed to be something. Doesn't make it true."

She stared at him. "Why now? Why come back?"

He leaned in, voice barely above a whisper. "Because you're marrying the wrong De Luca."

Her breath caught.

Julian turned and walked into the darkness, leaving her reeling.

The ring on her finger suddenly felt tighter. Like it knew. Like it had always known.

Celeste didn't sleep.

She lay in bed that night in the guest suite of the De Luca estate, staring at the gilded ceiling, trying to breathe past the thunder in her chest. Her mind kept replaying that moment-Julian's voice like a knife wrapped in silk, the way his eyes held hers like a dare.

She was marrying the wrong De Luca.

She should've laughed it off. Called it the delusion of a man who'd been gone for nearly a decade. A ghost raised from the dead with nothing but bitterness and a taste for chaos.

But she hadn't. Because somewhere inside her-in a place she didn't like to admit existed-something wanted to believe him.

In the morning, the house was alive with the clatter of servants, the rustle of silk, and the steady murmur of money moving behind closed doors. She slipped away early, down to the library-one of the few places in the mansion where she didn't feel watched.

She didn't expect to find him there.

Julian.

Sitting in a leather armchair like he owned the air around him, reading a file she couldn't see.

She froze. "You have a habit of lurking."

He looked up, unbothered. "You have a habit of walking into danger."

"And you think you're the safe option?"

He smiled without humor. "Hardly. But I'm the honest one."

She stepped closer despite herself. "Why are you really back, Julian?"

He set the file down. "Damiano isn't who you think he is."

Her heart clenched. "He's your nephew."

"He's my mistake."

There was something in his voice. A bitterness so raw it made her uneasy.

"He tried to have me killed," Julian said flatly.

Celeste flinched. "What?"

"Seven years ago. I was the head of this family. Damiano wanted the throne. So he arranged a deal with our enemies, sold me out. Left me bleeding in the dirt and told the world I was dead."

"But why would your family believe that?"

Julian leaned back. "Because it was cleaner. Because the De Lucas don't grieve-they move on."

Celeste stared at him, heart pounding. "Why are you telling me this?"

He stood, slowly, and came to stand inches from her. "Because you're smart. Because you already know something doesn't add up. And because you're the only one with enough power to ruin him."

She shook her head. "I can't."

"You can."

"Why me?"

Julian's voice dropped to a whisper. "Because he trusts you. And that makes you dangerous."

Celeste met his gaze.

And for the first time, she saw it clearly.

This wasn't about love.

This was about war.

The next time Celeste saw Damiano, he was smiling.

It was a beautiful day. Sunlight dripped through the tall windows of the De Luca estate like liquid gold. The garden bloomed with blood-red roses. Celeste sat on the veranda with a porcelain cup of tea she wasn't drinking, watching the man she was supposed to marry walk toward her like nothing in the world could touch him.

Damiano De Luca was devastatingly handsome. The kind of man sculptors tried and failed to capture-sharpened bone structure, dark eyes that held zero apologies, and a smirk that never quite reached his eyes. He moved like a man who'd never lost a war.

And Celeste wanted to scream.

"You're quiet today," he said, brushing a kiss across her cheek like they hadn't barely spoken in two days.

"Just thinking," she replied, letting her voice stay even.

"About?"

"About how little I know about you," she said, studying his reaction. "Your family. Your...uncle."

For a second-just one-something flickered in Damiano's eyes.

But it was gone before she could name it. "Julian?" he said, amused. "Don't worry about him. He's not important."

She stared at him. "He's your uncle. He was the head of your family."

"And now I am." His smile was tighter now. "The past is buried, Celeste. Best we leave it there."

"But you told me he was dead."

Damiano's jaw twitched.

"I made a mistake," he said coldly. "He's alive. That's all that matters. For now."

Celeste set down her teacup. "Why would he say you tried to kill him?"

There it was again-that flash of something ugly beneath his skin.

"Because he's a bitter old man who lost his place at the table," Damiano said, too calm. "He's trying to unsettle you. Don't let him."

Celeste stood, her hands trembling. "Did you?"

"Did I what?"

"Try to kill him."

Damiano stepped closer, his voice dropping. "Don't ask questions you don't want the answer to."

That shook her more than anything else. Because he didn't deny it.

He just walked away.

That night, Celeste couldn't sleep again.

Not because of Julian's warning or Damiano's threats-but because something inside her had changed. Cracked. And through that crack, the truth was leaking in like smoke.

She wasn't safe here.

She wasn't marrying a prince in a castle. She was bedding the monster who burned the last king alive.

And Julian?

Julian had become the only person who made sense in a world turned sideways.

She found him again, this time on the roof of the east wing, cigarette hanging from his lips, eyes on the stars like they owed him something.

"I confronted him," she said.

He didn't look at her. "And?"

"He didn't deny it."

Julian took a drag. "Of course not. He doesn't see the point in lying anymore. He thinks he already has you."

She crossed her arms. "And what do you want?"

He looked at her then-really looked. "I want what was mine. And I want to take it back with a little chaos in my left hand."

She stepped closer. "And I'm the chaos?"

"No." He smiled, slow and dangerous. "You're the knife."

Her throat tightened.

"I need you to be smart, Celeste," he said. "I need you to watch him. Learn where he keeps his secrets. Who he talks to. What he hides."

"You want me to spy on my fiancé?"

"I want you to survive your wedding night," he said.

She swallowed. "That's not comforting."

Julian crushed out the cigarette. "War isn't comforting. It's sharp and bloody and quiet until it isn't."

Celeste leaned against the railing beside him. "And when the smoke clears?"

He turned to her. "Then we find out what kind of queen you'll be."