Alessia Moretti’s POV

Weddings are every girl’s dream…a happy home, a loving husband and the never ending sexual appeal. Mine was a nightmare, but I wanted to see how bad it could get.

Whoever said that never married the devil to stop a war.

“Smile, Alessia,” my father said under his breath, his eyes darting to the camera crew and glaring at me “The press is watching.”

“I hope they get my good side,” I muttered.

He didn’t laugh. Of course he didn’t. Francesco Moretti didn’t believe in humor, only in power, silence, and strategic alliances. And today, I was his most valuable asset.

Imagine entering a gold and crystal-encrusted ballroom where the ambiance is as ostentatious and manufactured as the people clinking their glasses and whispering to each other behind their manicured smiles. What do I mean? Imagine a crowd full of people you know, each one a killer in high-end shoes, a thief in a tuxedo. Is it not unbelievable that they are all acting as though this wedding is more than a blood-stained temporary truce?

And then he walked in.

Lucien Valenti.

He walked in, his face blank, not a smile, nerves, or even the faintest emotion. He was in a sleek black suit, with a silk pocket square folded to fit, and his stare was hard. As he moved through the crowd, he dominated the room. Can you imagine the stillness that fell over the room when he stepped in? It was as if everyone sensed the arrival of something dangerous.

“Your future husband,” my cousin Giada murmured at my side. “And my God, Alessia. He’s…”

“Tall?” I offered.

She shot me a look. “Lethal.”

That was more accurate.

Lucien Valenti was the heir to the Valenti crime family. A man rumored to have buried his enemies with his own hands. A man I hated before I ever met him.

I hated him for being a Valenti.

And I hated him because I believed he had something to do with my brother Enzo’s death.

“Time to play nice,” my father said, nudging me forward as Lucien approached.

He stopped in front of me. His gaze swept over my face, slow, unapologetic. I felt it like a blade dragging across my skin.

“Alessia,” he said.

“Lucien,” I replied, refusing to let my voice waver.

He tilted his head. “You look… cooperative.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

His mouth twitched. Not a smile. More like amusement laced with warning.

My father stepped in with a clap of hands. “Beautiful couple, aren’t they? A symbol of peace. Unity.”

Lucien’s father, Don Matteo Valenti, joined us with a raised glass and dead eyes. “Let’s hope the next generation lasts longer than the last one.”

My stomach twisted.

That was a shot at Enzo. My brother was murdered three years ago. Shot in an alley behind a club that both families had staked a claim on. No witnesses. No answers. Only whispers. And one name is always at the center of them.

Valenti.

Lucien’s gaze never left mine. “Are you ready?”

For what? A life sentence? A game I was going to play until I buried him?

“Of course,” I said sweetly. “After all, it’s just vows. Not love.”

The priest began to speak behind us, and the crowd hushed. I barely heard the words. My heartbeat drowned everything out. I’d practiced this for months. Smiling through glass. Strutting in those stiletto heels that hold secrets. This wedding was the ticket to uncovering the truth. It’s all about getting close enough to take down the Valentis from the inside.

The priest turned to me.

“Do you, Alessia Moretti, take Lucien Valenti as your lawfully wedded husband?”

My throat tightened.

Say yes. Smile. This is the plan.

“I do.”

Lucien didn’t blink.

“And do you, Lucien Valenti, take Alessia Moretti as your lawfully wedded wife?”

A beat passed. Just long enough to make the air go razor-sharp.

“I do.”

The crowd erupted in polite applause. A few smiles. A few cameras flashing. Somewhere behind me, someone popped a bottle of champagne.

I didn’t turn to kiss him. I didn’t give the world that satisfaction. Instead, I took his arm like a queen being led to her coronation.

Or her execution.

“You really plan to keep up the ice queen act all night?” Lucien asked as we entered the car, a sleek black thing with tinted windows and the Valenti crest etched into the door.

“I don’t pretend,” I said, settling into the seat. “I don’t need to.”

He laughed once. Low. Sharp. “You’re already the most interesting wife I’ve ever had.”

“How many have you had?”

He looked at me. “None. That’s the joke.”

I turned away, watching the city blur by through the window. The streets of Manhattan looked soft from this high up. Like everything below was part of a world I didn’t belong to anymore.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“To your new home.”

“Is there a dungeon?”

“If you’re lucky.”

I glanced back at him. “Funny. I thought you were the type to lock wives in glass boxes.”

He smiled for real then, but there was nothing warm about it. “Not glass. Steel.”

The car pulled through a black iron gate and up a long driveway. The house, or more like a mansion, looked ahead like it stepped right out of a horror movie story. It was all dark stone and shadows, with windows that seemed to watch your every movement

“You live here?” I asked.

“I rule from here.”

“How poetic.”

It felt colder inside, not in terms of temperature, but more in the vibe. Everything was shiny and looked great. But it was missing that personal touch—no pictures, no cozy feels. Just a strong sense of architecture.

Lucien led me down a hall toward a grand staircase.

“You’ll have your own wing,” he said. “Privacy. Guards. No one gets in or out without my approval.”

I stopped walking. “Like a prisoner.”

He turned. “Like Valenti.”

I stepped closer. “You keep saying that it means something. Like I should be impressed.”

“You should be afraid.”

I looked up at him, right into those storm-colored eyes. “I’m not.”

He stared back, unmoving. For a moment, neither of us breathed.

Then he said, “Good. Fear makes people unpredictable.”

“And control makes people weak,” I shot back.

He tilted his head slightly. “We’ll see.”

Lucien walked me to the door of my room. A guard posted outside nodded stiffly.

“Your things were brought in earlier,” Lucien said. “Your security codes are programmed. And your door locks from the inside.”

“How generous.”

He leaned in slightly. “Don’t mistake comfort for safety. They’re not alike.”

Then he turned and walked away without another word.

I waited until he disappeared down the corridor, then stepped inside the room. It was large. Beautiful. Like a prison, captivating but torture. I crossed to the window, pulled back the curtain, and looked down.

Guards.

Everywhere.

There was no escape. Not tonight.

I walked to the dresser. Open the top drawer. Silk nightgowns. Everything in my size. Every item is carefully selected. Controlled.

Like me.

I pulled open the second drawer.

And froze.

Tucked beneath a stack of lingerie was a single envelope.

No address. No name.

Only one word handwritten on the back in blood-red ink.

Enzo.

Lucien Valenti’s POV

There’s something about a woman who looks at you like she’s already planned your murder.

It makes you want to know where she hid the knife.

“She hates you,” Nico said as soon as the door shut behind me.

I didn’t look at him. Just loosened my tie and walked toward the bar in my study.

“Everyone hates me,” I said.

“Yeah, but she means it. Like. Deep in her bones.”

“Good. Makes things simpler.”

Nico slumped into the leather chair across from the fireplace. His suit jacket was open, tie undone, like he’d been drinking half the night. Probably had.

“Are you really going to let her just walk around here like a queen?” he asked. “Like she’s not a Moretti?”

“She’s my wife now.”

“Yeah, and I married a bottle of scotch once. Doesn’t mean I trusted it not to bite me in the morning.”

I poured myself two fingers of whiskey and turned to face him. “Did you dig into her background like I asked?”

He blinked. “What, you thought I’d forget?”

“Sometimes I hope.”

Nico scowled, then reached into his coat and tossed a thin file onto the table. “There. The golden princess. Clean record. Educated. Speaks three languages. Trained in diplomacy, strategy, and piano.”

“Piano?” I lifted an eyebrow.

“Yeah. Really innocent, huh?” He leaned back. “She also refused to take any of the Moretti operations after her brother died. You think she’s soft. She’s not.”

“I don’t think she’s soft,” I said.

“Then what do you think?”

I looked out the window. The house was still. Dark. But I could feel her presence inside it. A spark of heat beneath the ice. “I think she’s dangerous.”

“And you married her anyway.”

“That was the point.”

Nico stood. “You know I don’t like this. None of this. She’s not here for peace. She’s here for revenge.”

I finished my drink in one swallow. “Let her try.”

The halls were quiet when I made my way toward the east wing. No guards followed. I didn’t need them. Not in my own house.

But something was off.

The minute I turned the corner, I felt it. Air. Movement. A shift.

Her door was cracked open.

And no guard in sight.

I walked straight in.

There she was, sitting at the edge of the bed. Her robe half-open, her feet bare, hair loose around her shoulders. And in her hands was an envelope.

She didn’t look up.

“What is that?” I asked.

“Do you always walk into rooms uninvited?”

“When I own the house, yes.”

She held up the envelope like it weighed something. “This was in the drawer.”

I stepped closer. My eyes scanned the front. One word written in a jagged red script.

Enzo.

I froze.

“Where did you get that?”

“I just told you.”

“That wasn’t there before.”

Her eyes snapped to mine. “You checked my lingerie drawers?”

“I check everything.”

“Of course you did,” she mumbled.

I took the envelope, but she pulled back.

“No.”

“Alessia.”

“No,” she said again, standing. “This is my brother’s name. This was in my room. This is mine.”

“You have no idea what’s inside.”

“And you do?”

“I know a threat when I see one.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Or maybe you don’t want me to read what he had to say.”

I gritted my jaw. “He’s dead.”

“Yes. He is. And you’re the only person who ever profited from that.”

I stepped closer. “Careful.”

She didn’t back down. “Why? Will you kill me too?”

Silence fell between us. Thick. Unmoving.

Then I said, “Open it.”

She hesitated. Just a flicker of it.

Then she tore the seal.

Inside was a single sheet of paper. Her eyes scanned the words. As she read, her expression changed. Confusion. Shock. Then something colder.

She handed it to me without a word.

I read the message.

There is more blood on your father’s hands than mine. He betrayed his own. Follow the money. You’ll see the truth.

No signature. No date.

My blood went still.

“You recognize the handwriting?” she asked.

I nodded once. “Yes.”

She stared at me. “Who?”

“Someone who should be dead.”

Her voice lowered. “So this is real.”

“Yes.”

She retreated, like the ground beneath her had shifted.

“You said you didn’t kill him,” she said quietly. “When we spoke earlier.”

“I didn’t.”

“But you know who did.”

I looked at her. Really looked at her.

She wasn’t crying, she didn't look like she was about to. She wasn’t unraveling. She was calculating. Like a queen pushed to the edge of her board.

“Why would someone plant this here now?” she asked.

“To cause division.”

“Between us?”

“Between families.”

She laughed, hollow and bitter. “There’s no ‘us,’ Lucien.”

I stepped forward. “Not yet.”

Her lips parted, but I didn’t give her time to speak.

I bent down, my voice low. “You want the truth? Then stop playing house and start watching the people closest to you. The ones you trust.”

“Don’t you dare twist this.”

“I’m not twisting anything. You’re just not seeing straight.”

She folded the note, like nothing happened and placed it back in the envelope.

Then she looked at me “If I find out you’re lying to me…”

“You’ll what?”

“I’ll bury you.”

I smiled. “Promise?”

I was met with silence

She moved to the window and stared out into the night. Her spine was straight. Her shoulders squared.

She wasn’t breaking.

She was waking up.

“You’re not going to sleep tonight, are you?” I asked.

“No.”

“Good.”

I turned to leave. Paused in the doorway. “The guard outside your room. He didn’t abandon post. He was pulled.”

Her head turned. “By who?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out.”

And when I stepped out, the hallway was darker than before. Heavier. Like something had slithered through it just moments before.

I reached for my phone and called the only person I trusted inside these walls.

“Matteo,” I said when the line picked up.

“Yes, sir.”

“Someone moved the guard outside my wife’s door. Without my order.”

A pause.

“I’ll check the roster.”

“You won’t find it there.”

Another pause. Tighter now.

“Understood.”

I ended the call.

Halfway down the corridor, I stopped at a painting on the wall. A classic oil piece. Gaudy. But behind it, a hidden panel.

I pressed it.

A small screen lit up.

Security footage.

I scrolled back to an hour earlier.

And there it was.

A figure. Hooded. Moving through the east hall. Reaching the guard. Leaning in.

The guard walked away.

The figure stepped into Alessia’s room.

Twenty seconds.

Then back out.

I paused the screen. Rewound. Froze the frame on the face that lifted just for a moment beneath the hood.

My blood went cold.

It was someone I had buried five years ago.

Someone I had watched die.

Someone who should not exist.

He was alive.

And he was inside my house.

Alessia Moretti’s POV

The thing about silence is it lies to you. It tells you you’re safe, alone, untouched.

Until it breaks.

And by then, it’s too late.

I stared at the empty hallway Lucien left behind. The echo of his voice still clung to the walls like cigarette smoke.

“Someone should be dead,” he said.

Someone who left a note in my drawer. With Enzo’s name on it. With a warning I couldn't ignore.

I clutched the envelope to my chest and whispered., “What are you trying to tell me, Enzo?”

I didn’t sleep. Instead, I sat by the window, watching the grounds for movement. At some point, I changed out of the robe and into black jeans and a sweater. It felt more like armor than silk ever could.

When the knock came at my door just after six, I didn’t flinch.

I opened it.

Giada stood there in jeans and a hoodie, her dark curls tied back, she didn't look like someone that slept.

“You’re early,” I said.

“You texted me at four in the morning with ‘come alone.’ I figured something was on fire.”

I stepped aside and shut the door behind her.

She looked around. “So? Where’s the body?”

“Nobody. Just a ghost.”

I handed her the envelope.

She opened it, read the letter, then looked up slowly. “What is this?”

“I have no idea. It was in my drawer. Someone planted it. Lucien saw it too.”

Her eyes went sharp. “He let you keep it?”

“I didn't give him a choice.”

“Alessia…”

I plopped down on the bed and held onto that piece of paper like it was gonna set me on fire.

“Someone’s playing with us,” I said. “Someone who knows how to get past Valenti security. Someone who knows about Enzo.”

Giada sat across from me. “You think it’s real?”

“I have no idea. But Lucien recognized the handwriting. He said it belonged to someone who’s supposed to be dead.”

Giada blinked. “Wait. He actually told you that?”

“Yes.”

“Holy shit. You’re getting under his skin already.”

I frowned. “That’s not the win you think it is.”

She leaned forward. “What’s your gut say?”

“My gut says Enzo was right. Something was rotten in our house long before he died.”

Giada swallowed hard. “Your father?”

I didn’t answer.

Because deep down, I was already starting to believe it.

Later that morning, I sat at the breakfast table in a sunlit dining room I didn’t recognize, eating eggs I didn’t taste, while a housekeeper named Inez silently refilled my coffee.

Lucien walked in like he hadn’t spent the night unraveling our world.

He looked at me. “You sleep?”

“No.”

He sat directly across from me, poured himself coffee, and finally said, “I have something to show you.”

“Is it another wedding gift? Because the last one was… haunting.”

He didn’t react. He pulled a tablet from his jacket, slid it across the table.

“Security footage,” he said.

I watched the screen. A hallway. My hallway. A shadowed figure moved past the camera, paused at the guard’s post. Leaned in. The guard nodded and walked off.

Then the figure entered my room.

I held my breath.

“How long?” I asked.

“Twenty seconds.”

I watched as the person walked back out. Lucien paused the video and zoomed in.

The hood lifted slightly. Just enough to catch the edge of a face.

I stared. My blood stopped moving.

“Tell me I’m not seeing this” I whispered.

“You’re not.”

“It can’t be him.”

Lucien’s voice dropped. “It is.”

“No. He’s dead. I went to the funeral. We buried him.”

He didn’t respond.

“You said the same thing. Someone who should be dead. You meant him.”

Lucien nodded once.

“Who is he?” I asked.

“His name is Rafael Moretti.”

My body locked up. “Rafael?”

“He worked for your father. Special ops. Enforcer. He disappeared five years ago. Everyone assumed he was dead.”

“No. Not just assumed. My father confirmed it. There was a body. I saw him cry at the funeral.”

Lucien’s mouth twisted. “Did you?”

I stared at him.

He went on. “What if the body wasn’t his? What if the whole thing was staged?”

“Why would my father fake someone’s death?”

“To hide him. Or what he knew.”

I pressed my fingers to my temples. “Why would Rafael come back now? Why leave that message for me?”

“Maybe he’s trying to finish what your brother started.”

I froze. “You think Enzo was working with him?”

Lucien leaned in. “I think Enzo got too close to something. And Rafael went underground to survive.”

“And now he wants me to follow the money.”

Lucien nodded. “Are you going to?”

I looked at him. “Yes. Are you going to help me?”

His silence lasted just long enough to make me doubt.

Then, “Yes.”

I didn’t trust him.

But I needed him.

We met in Lucien’s office an hour later. It was colder than the rest of the house. Not in temperature, but in energy. Black leather, gunmetal hardware, a desk that could double as a fortress.

Lucien pulled up files on his laptop and turned the screen toward me.

“These are the Moretti family’s shell companies. Most are legal fronts. Construction. Real estate. Import-export.”

I studied the numbers. “These look clean.”

He reached for another folder. “That’s because they are. On the surface. But this one…”

He slid it across.

“A biotech firm?” I asked.

“Registered in Zurich. Funded with untraceable capital. No board of directors. Only one name is tied to it on paper.”

I looked.

My father’s.

I stared at it. Then I shook my head.

“No. He wouldn’t be involved in—”

“In what?” Lucien interrupted. “Because this firm doesn’t manufacture medicine. It manufactures silence. High-end poisons. Neurotoxins. Something called Project Veil.”

I looked at him. “You’re saying my father funds assassinations?”

“I’m saying your father has built a business on eliminating people who get in his way. Efficiently. Without mess.”

“And Enzo found out.”

Lucien nodded. “Maybe Rafael too.”

I stood up and paced.

“If this is true…”

Lucien cut in. “It is.”

“Then my father—”

“—killed your brother,” Lucien finished quietly.

I spun toward him. “Why are you helping me?”

He stood. I walked around the desk. “Because my father tried to do the same to me ten years ago.”

I blinked. “What?”

Lucien’s jaw was tight. “He set me up. Framed me for a murder I didn’t commit. Had me locked away while he tried to reshape the family without me.”

“What stopped him?”

Lucien looked me dead in the eye. “I escaped. And I burned everything he built.”

For the first time, I saw it. Not the power. Not arrogance. The damage.

Lucien Valenti had scars I couldn’t see.

Maybe we were more alike than I thought. Then his phone buzzed. He checked it. His expression changed instantly.

“What is it?” I asked.

He looked up. “There’s been a breach at the front gate.”

My stomach dropped. “Who?”

“They don’t know. But the guard says he saw a mark.”

“What kind of mark?”

Lucien met my eyes.

“A black rose.”

My blood ran cold.

“That was Enzo’s tattoo,” I whispered.

Lucien grabbed a gun from the drawer and handed me a smaller one.

“Stay behind me,” he said.

I took it.

We moved fast through the halls, down the stairs, past a flurry of security scrambling for positions. Outside, the guards were surrounding something. Someone.

I pushed past Lucien.

And froze.

The man standing there wore a black hood and a mask that covered half his face.

But I recognized the tattoo on his neck.

A black rose.

He looked straight at me.

And then he said two words that knocked the air from my lungs.

“Hello, Alessia.”