He's the heir to the empire. She's the spark that could burn it down.* To stop a decades-old blood war, Aria Valente is forced to marry the one man she swore she'd never kneel to-Dante Moretti, the cold, untouchable heir to New York's deadliest mafia dynasty. To him, she's a pawn. To her, he's a prison in a tailored suit. But when enemies close in and secrets unravel, the line between hate and hunger blurs. Now bound by a vow neither of them chose, they'll have to decide: Destroy each other... Or burn the world together. Arranged by blood. Bound by fire. This is no love story-this is survival.
Aria Valente never asked for any of this red mess.
Seriously, red? At her own damn wedding? She used to imagine white, or hell, even blue-anything but this shade that screams danger. The cathedral felt like a mouth swallowing her whole. Ceilings way too high, saints in stained glass all judging her, like they could smell the outsider stink on her. And the dress-don't get her started. Heavy as regret, clinging like a bad omen.
She could feel every set of eyes burning into her back. The Valentes, holding their breath, praying she wouldn't bolt. The Morettis, betting she would. Spoiler: she didn't.
And there's Dante, of course. Front and center, carved from ice and arrogance. Black suit, dead eyes, that same smug look like he'd just checkmated her in a game she never agreed to play.
The priest drones: "Join hands." Like it's simple.
Aria's fingers? Steady as stone. She kind of wished they'd shake, just so he'd know how much she hated this. But no. She learned early-never let them see you sweat.
Dante's hand covers hers-warm, rough. Ugh, she hates herself for noticing that.
He leans in, voice just for her. "Red suits you. Like you walked away from a fight."
She shoots right back, flat as glass. "Black's yours. Like you never left the grave."
His eyes flicker-not mad, not exactly. Something else. Something sharp and ugly.
The priest keeps babbling. Their families look like mannequins-nobody breathing, nobody blinking. Her uncle's in the back, smug and satisfied, like he just closed out a stock trade. Because that's all this is: The Valentes bring the cash, the Morettis bring the muscle, and now? Now they own each other.
Aria's cage even comes with gold trim.
"Kiss the bride."
Neither of them moves. For a second, it's a standoff.
Then Dante's hand ghosts up her jaw-barely there, like she might bite. The kiss lands quick, cold. A deal, not a promise.
She smiles into it, knives in her teeth. "Hope you're good at sleeping with one eye open."
His hand clamps down on her waist. *Go ahead, try me.*
The applause? Might as well be thunder for a funeral. The room's full of liars, clapping for a lie.
They walk out together, hands locked. Feels less like love, more like a shackle.
The car ride's a graveyard. Dante taps the seat, counting down to something-maybe the end of the world, who knows. Driver's mute. Whole city outside, rain smearing the world into streaks.
She finally breaks the silence. "So, when's the lecture? The 'play nice' speech?"
Dante barely looks her way. "Would it work?"
"Not a chance."
"Then I'll save my energy."
She grins, sharp as shrapnel. "This is gonna be one hell of a marriage."
"Yeah." He looks at her now-not mad, just... interested. Like she's an unsolved riddle. "It is."
The Moretti mansion isn't a home, it's a warning. Maids ghost by, guards stare holes through her. Dante's mom gives her a nod that feels like a sentencing.
Her new room's ridiculous-giant, cold, mirrors everywhere, a bed that looks more like a stage trap than anything you'd want to sleep in.
Dante stops at the door. "We're not faking."
"Good," she says, already kicking off her shoes. "I suck at pretend."
He leaves. Door clicks. No kiss, no wedding night, just emptiness.
She stares at herself in the mirror-red dress, hair wild, eyes stormy.
This isn't a finale. Not even close.
Tonight? Just the first bullet fired.
The devil got his rings.
But Aria?
She's still holding the blade.