Damien POV

The corridor of the main wing was a suffocating tunnel of shadows and heavy Persian rugs that swallowed my footsteps. From the silk-lined walls, the oil portraits of past Moretti Dons stared down at me, their cold eyes judging my every move. I had just spent hours playing the dutiful groom, parading a bride I didn't want in front of our enemies and allies alike. My grandmother, Elena, thought she could leash me with this farce of a marriage. She was wrong.

I rounded the corner toward the honeymoon suite, my jaw clenched so tight my teeth ached.

"Don Moretti."

I stopped. Carl, Elena’s most loyal butler, stood in the middle of the hallway. He held a silver tray bearing a single crystal glass of amber whiskey.

"What is this, Carl?" I asked, my voice dangerously low.

"A blessing from the Matriarch, sir," Carl said, keeping his eyes respectfully lowered. "From our homeland in Sicily. To grant you strength for the night."

I stared at the glass. I wasn't a fool. I knew exactly how desperate Elena was to secure an heir and prevent me from annulling this union on the grounds of non-consummation. The drink was laced.

"Leave us, Luca," I ordered my bodyguard without looking back. Luca hesitated for a fraction of a second before retreating into the shadows.

I looked back at Carl, letting my absolute contempt bleed into the air between us. I was the Don. No drug, no pathetic manipulation could break my iron will. I picked up the glass. Maintaining dead-eyed eye contact with the trembling butler, I downed the burning liquid in one swallow. It tasted like ash and bitter herbs.

I slammed the empty glass back onto the silver tray. "Thank her for her hospitality."

I didn't wait for his response. I strode toward the heavy mahogany door of the suite and pushed it open.

The moment the door clicked shut behind me, the drug hit my bloodstream like a freight train. My vision swam, a primal, uncontrollable heat clawing at my veins and setting my blood on fire. The room was a cavernous tomb, smelling of cedar, expensive leather, and the sickeningly sweet scent of roses.

Through the haze, I saw the silhouette of a woman tangled in the Egyptian cotton sheets of the four-poster bed. My supposed wife. I didn't care about her face in the dark. I only cared about finishing this transaction and purging the poison from my system.

I stripped off my suit jacket, the drug violently stripping away my legendary control. I didn't offer gentle words or soft touches. I took what was legally mine with ruthless, punishing efficiency. Driven by the unnatural, burning chemical surge in my veins, the act was entirely devoid of tenderness and over far too quickly. My body, usually a machine of endless stamina, betrayed me under Elena's toxic dosage.

I rolled off, my chest heaving, staring up at the dark vaulted ceiling as the haze began to recede, leaving behind a throbbing, vicious headache.

Beside me, the woman shifted. She sounded groggy, confused, as if waking from a deep daze. Then, she spoke. Her voice was a soft, hesitant whisper in the dark.

"It's okay... you were great."

I froze. The sheer audacity of the pity in her tone was like a physical blow to my chest.

Before I could even process the insult, she kept digging her own grave, her voice laced with a sickening mix of awkwardness and sympathy. "You were just in such a rush. It's alright; you'll have plenty of time to learn how to take your time."

A deadly silence descended upon the room. The remnants of the drug evaporated, replaced instantly by a cold, murderous rage. She thought I was weak. She thought I was defective.

I lunged. My hand snapped out in the dark, wrapping around her delicate wrist like a steel vice. I yanked her toward me, feeling her pulse instantly skyrocket in terror against my palm.

"You think I can't perform?" I hissed, my voice dropping to a lethal, icy register.

Isabella POV

"You think I can't perform?"

The icy hiss sent a violent shudder down my spine. His hand was a steel vice around my wrist, crushing my delicate bones.

The heavy clouds outside the window finally parted, allowing a sliver of pale moonlight to slice through the suffocating darkness of the honeymoon suite. It illuminated the sharp, cruel angles of the man hovering above me.

My breath caught in my throat, turning into a silent scream. It wasn't Leo. It was Damien Moretti. The Don. The monster I feared more than death itself.

"No," I choked out, pure terror overriding the lingering haze of the first assault. I scrambled backward, tangling in the Egyptian cotton sheets, but he yanked me back with terrifying, effortless strength.

He didn't care that I was the wrong sister. He only cared that I had bruised his massive, fragile ego. Driven by a terrifying, unnatural rage that burned in his dark eyes, he descended upon me again. There was no mercy, no hesitation. It was a brutal, calculated conquest meant to shatter me and erase the insult I had unknowingly hurled at him.

I sobbed, begging him to stop, but my pleas were swallowed by the darkness. He pinned me down, his voice a lethal, freezing whisper against my ear.

"Now, do you think the Moretti legacy is in trouble?"

The sheer agony and humiliation finally dragged me under. My vision went black, the last thing I felt being his massive weight collapsing beside me, as if his body had suddenly given out.

When I opened my eyes, the room was bathed in cold morning light. I was alone, but the air still smelled of him. My body throbbed with a vicious ache, the ruined sheets a glaring testament to the nightmare I had survived. He had done this to me deliberately. A calculated, personal destruction just to prove his dominance.

I tried to move, but a heavy thud echoed in the room. Damien had returned. He was a terrifying picture of composed authority, his dark hair slicked back, a white towel wrapped low around his waist. His eyes swept over the chaotic room, landing on me with absolute disdain.

"Get up and wash," he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

"Don't touch me," I choked out, shrinking back against the carved mahogany headboard. "Stay away from me!"

Damien’s eyes narrowed. In three long strides, he was at the edge of the bed. I screamed as he ripped the sheet away, scooping me up into his arms as easily as if I weighed nothing. He carried me into the freezing, black marble bathroom and unceremoniously dropped me onto the floor of the massive walk-in shower.

Before I could scramble away, he twisted the gold dial. Ice-cold water blasted down from the rainfall showerhead, stealing the breath from my lungs. I gasped, wrapping my arms around my knees as the freezing spray hit my bare skin, washing away the dried blood and the terrifying scent of him.

Damien stood just outside the spray, towering over me like a wrathful god. "Explain to me," he demanded, "how exactly you ended up in my suite, Isabella."

"I didn't know!" I sobbed, my teeth chattering violently. "The maid—she was so nervous. She opened the door for me!"

Damien froze. I saw the exact moment the pieces clicked together in his cold, calculating mind. A stupid, catastrophic human error. He didn't apologize. He simply looked at me with a mixture of disgust and something I couldn't name, before turning and walking out of the bathroom, leaving me shivering on the cold marble.

Dragging my battered body out of the shower, I pulled a thick robe tightly around myself and slipped out of the suite. I had to find Francesca.

The corridor of the main wing was a silent, oppressive tunnel. A few yards away, I saw her. Frankie. Her posture was rigid, her expression a mask of cold fury.

"Frankie," I breathed, my voice cracking.

Before she could reach me, the door to another suite swung open. Leo Moretti stumbled out, clutching a torn silk robe around himself. He didn't look like an arrogant playboy anymore; he looked like a terrified, broken boy.

He spotted Frankie and visibly flinched, the color draining from his face.

Leo’s gaze shifted, landing on my disheveled, broken state. A flicker of confusion crossed his face as he took a hesitant step toward me.

Instantly, Frankie moved. She stepped directly in front of me, becoming a lethal shield. She leaned in close to Leo, her voice dropping to a deadly, quiet register that only the three of us could hear.

"I told you to stay on the bed. Get back to your kennel, or I'll make sure you never leave a wheelchair for the rest of your life."

Leo swallowed hard, genuine terror in his eyes. He didn't dare speak. He took a slow, hesitant step back.

Frankie glanced over her shoulder at me. In that single, silent look, an unbreakable alliance was forged. We were trapped in a house of monsters, but we would not break.

She turned her attention back to her husband, her eyes narrowing as she stepped toward him, forcing him to retreat backward into his suite.

Francesca 'Frankie' Griffin POV

The night before...

I shoved Leo backward, the heavy oak door of his suite clicking shut behind us, severing us from the oppressive, oil-painted corridor of the Moretti estate.

His room was a jarring monument to spoiled playboy excess. Limited-edition sneakers lined the walls, a sleek PS5 sat idle in the corner, and a fully stocked open bar gleamed under modern recessed lighting. It was a frat house wrapped in a billionaire's budget, a stark contrast to the blood-soaked legacy of his family.

I walked straight to the bar and poured two measures of Grappa into crystal glasses.

"The Sicilian Nuptial Toast," I said, my voice flat, holding a glass out to him. "Drink."

Leo scoffed, crossing his arms over his silk Versace robe. He looked at the glass like it was poison. "Fuck your toast, Ice Queen. Damien and I have an arrangement. This marriage is on paper only. I’m not doing any archaic blood-binding bullshit with you."

I didn't argue. I simply closed the distance between us. Before his arrogant smirk could fully form, I grabbed his wrist, twisting it into a brutal, calculated Krav Maga joint lock.

Leo gasped, his knees buckling instantly under the agonizing pressure. I forced him downward until he crashed hard onto the leather sofa. I shoved the crystal glass into his trembling hand, leaning over him.

"Drink," I commanded, the ice in my tone leaving no room for negotiation.

Humiliation flashed in his dark eyes, but the physical pain kept him pinned. He raised the glass, his arm crossing over mine for the traditional sip. But as the rim touched his lips, he erupted into a violent, hacking cough. I instinctively pulled back, my eyes darting away for a fraction of a second to avoid the spill.

When I looked back, he was wiping his mouth, his glass empty. I downed the burning liquid in my own glass, unaware that his shot was currently soaking the soil of an expensive potted majesty palm beside the sofa.

I thought I had won. I thought I had tamed him.

Hours later, the illusion shattered.

The room was pitch black. Leo had thrown a blanket on the floor near the window, determined to keep his precious distance and preserve his twisted sense of freedom. I lay in the massive king-sized bed, but sleep wouldn't come.

Instead, a terrifying, unnatural fire began to claw through my veins. My skin burned as if I were standing too close to an open furnace. My pulse roared in my ears, drowning out the silence of the room. My breath came in short, ragged gasps.

The Grappa.

Elena Moretti. The old woman had spiked the toast. It wasn't just alcohol; it was a potent, chemical command designed to ensure this union was consummated, stripping away my legendary self-control and leaving only raw, feral instinct.

Rational thought evaporated, replaced by a predatory need that demanded to be fed. I slipped out of bed, my bare feet silent on the plush carpet.

Leo heard my ragged breathing. He sat up, his silhouette stiffening in the pale moonlight filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. "What the hell are you—"

I lunged.

My Krav Maga training fused seamlessly with the drug's violent heat. I tackled him to the floor before he could even scramble to his feet. He thrashed, panic contorting his handsome face as my weight pinned him down.

"Frankie, stop! Are you insane?!" he yelled, his voice cracking with genuine terror.

I didn't speak. I couldn't. I ripped the heavy gold Rolex from his wrist, tossing it blindly into the dark. He tried to push me off, but he was soft—a pampered prince who had never fought for his life. I yanked the silk tie from his Versace robe, dragging his arms above his head with a strength that terrified even me.

"No, no, please!" he begged, thrashing wildly as I bound his wrists tightly to the heavy mahogany leg of the bedframe.

He was completely trapped, his chest heaving, his eyes wide with a fear he had never known. I tore the silk of his robe apart, the sound of ripping fabric echoing in the quiet room. The drug demanded a sacrifice, and the broken boy beneath me was the only prey left in the dark.