Seraphina POV

The cruel, mocking laughter of the Soldiers bounced off the damp brick walls of the alley. I braced myself, waiting for the inevitable bullet that would punish my desperate lie.

But the masked man pressed against me stiffened. The air around him suddenly plummeted in temperature, growing thick with a suffocating, lethal intent.

The laughter died instantly.

"Kneel," he rasped.

He didn't shout, but the raw, gravelly word carried the absolute weight of a Don's Command. Enzo, the Capo who had just insulted me, turned deathly pale. Without a second of hesitation, he and the dozen armed men dropped to one knee, bowing their heads in absolute, terrified submission.

The masked man turned his silver wolf visage toward me, his dark eyes burning into mine. "She is under my protection," he declared to his men, his voice a low, vibrating threat. "Touch her, and you will answer to me."

I blinked, my heart hammering violently against my ribs. Why was this bleeding, dangerous stranger playing along with my fabricated story?

"We're even," I managed to say, keeping my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. "Pay me so I can leave. I hope we never cross paths again."

He stared at me for a long second before gesturing with his uninjured hand. A Soldier scrambled up, handing me a thick envelope of cash. I snatched it. But before turning away, my trained eyes flicked to his left wrist. During our forced embrace, I had noticed the faint, unnatural discoloration creeping beneath the metal of his expensive watch.

I stepped closer, lowering my voice so only he could hear. "You should have your physician look at the skin under your watch. Some things are more fatal than a bullet."

I didn't wait for his reaction. I turned and walked out of the alley, disappearing into the New York night.

An hour later, the damp chill of Little Italy was replaced by the suffocating opulence of a luxury suite at The Plaza Hotel.

The moment I stepped onto the thick Persian rug, my mother, Elena, rushed forward. She grabbed my hands, her perfectly manicured fingers digging into my skin. "Sera, darling," she cooed, squeezing out a fake tear. "We are so sorry for how cold we've been."

Bianca, my beautiful, unscarred sister, sighed from the velvet sofa. "We heard Don Moretti is a ruthless, terrifying man, sister. Giving the engagement back to you... it's such an injustice. You're so brave to take my place."

I stared at their perfectly painted faces. They were terrified of the rumors surrounding the Moretti family, thrilled to offer me up as the sacrificial lamb so the Castillo family could secure their alliance.

I coldly pulled my hands from my mother's grasp. "Save the performance."

The air in the room instantly soured. I was exhausted, my skin still crawling from the adrenaline of the alley. I was tired of being a pawn, waiting for the executioner's axe to fall. If I was going to enter the Moretti family to find the truth about my adoptive parents' deaths, I needed to stop cowering in the shadows.

Ignoring my mother's offended gasp, I marched to the suite's heavy double doors and yanked them open. A Moretti Associate in a sharp suit stood guard in the hallway.

"Inform Mr. Moretti that his fiancée wishes to see him," I said, my voice dripping with ice. "Now."

Elena and Bianca practically stopped breathing. The Associate blinked in sheer shock at my audacity, but the unwavering resolve in my tone made him nod and pull out his phone.

I left the door open and stood in the center of the room, waiting.

Ten minutes later, heavy footsteps echoed in the corridor. The doorway darkened.

My breath hitched. The man who stepped into the light of the crystal chandelier was tall, broad-shouldered, and clad in a perfectly tailored black suit. It was the dangerous stranger from the alley.

He reached up and slowly pulled the silver wolf mask from his face.

My blood turned to ice. Beneath the mask was a face carved from marble-strikingly handsome, yet brutally cold. His dark, intense eyes, the same ones that had stared at me in the shadows, locked onto mine with a terrifying, possessive hunger.

The bleeding stranger I had saved was Damien Moretti.

Seraphina POV

The air in the suite evaporated. I stared at the chiseled, ruthless face of Damien Moretti, my lungs burning as I forgot how to breathe. The bleeding stranger from the alley. The man whose life I had just saved-and whose men I had lied to.

He knew. He knew I was a fraud, and now, he was going to kill me.

Damien stepped fully into the room. Behind him stood another man, tall and lethal, his sharp eyes sweeping over me with blatant distaste. This had to be Luca "The Viper" Mendoza, Damien's Consigliere. Luca's gaze lingered on the ugly, jagged scar I had painted on my cheek, his confusion evident. Why would the Don accept such a flawed bride?

But Damien didn't look at my scar with disgust. As he closed the distance between us, his dark eyes locked onto mine. There was a strange, terrifying hunger in his gaze-a greedy, consuming fire that stripped me bare. He stopped mere inches from me. The scent of blood, expensive cologne, and raw danger wrapped around my throat.

I braced for his hands to snap my neck. Instead, he slowly raised his uninjured hand. His warm, calloused fingertips brushed against my cheek, tracing the very edge of my fake scar. The touch was agonizingly gentle, yet heavy with an undeniable, absolute claim. A shiver violently wrecked through my spine.

He didn't expose my lie. He didn't mention the alley.

Damien turned his head slightly toward his Consigliere, his voice a low, emotionless verdict that sealed my fate. "Luca, inform the families. The engagement proceeds as planned. Tonight."

Luca stiffened, his mask of indifference slipping for a fraction of a second. He looked from me to his Don, opening his mouth as if to protest, but the icy, unyielding dominance radiating from Damien silenced him instantly.

Luca bowed his head. "Yes, Boss."

My heart plummeted into my stomach. Tonight? Why was he doing this? It wasn't mercy. The possessive darkness in his eyes promised a cage far more terrifying than death.

Less than an hour later, I was paraded into the Grand Ballroom of The Plaza Hotel.

The space was a suffocating display of wealth and power. Massive crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow over the sea of New York's most dangerous elites. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, Cuban cigars, and the underlying, metallic tang of fear.

"Don Moretti," my mother, Elena, simpered, practically shoving me toward the towering man at my side. Her voice dripped with sickening sweetness. "Our Seraphina has always admired you. We are so blessed by this union."

I kept my face blank, refusing to look at her. Instead, my gaze caught on my sister.

Bianca stood a few feet away, her champagne glass trembling in her grip. She had expected a monster. She had expected a deformed, cruel beast to drag me into the shadows. But looking at Damien-young, breathtakingly handsome, and radiating the kind of absolute, lethal power that brought men to their knees-Bianca was unraveling.

The smug satisfaction that had painted her beautiful face upstairs was entirely gone. In its place was a twisted, ugly mask of profound regret and venomous jealousy. Her eyes darted from Damien's broad shoulders to the space beside him-the space she had willingly forfeited. The throne of the Mafia Queen.

When Bianca's gaze finally snapped to mine, it was lethal. It was a silent, screaming vow of hatred. That should be me.

I looked away, a hollow numbness settling over my chest. My family had thrown me to the wolves, and now they were furious that the wolf was a king. I was nothing but a pawn to them, and a prisoner to the man standing beside me.

I stood stiffly next to Damien under the blinding lights of the chandeliers. Surrounded by women dripping in haute couture and diamonds, the plain, understated day dress I had worn for my supposed execution felt like a glaring target on my back.

Seraphina POV

I stood beside Damien, feeling like an actor shoved onto the wrong stage. The whispers of the elite stung, their eyes raking over my plain, understated day dress. But the suffocating judgment was shattered by a voice colder than ice.

Damien didn't even look at me. His lethal gaze pinned my mother, Elena, to the marble floor.

"Mrs. Castillo," he asked, his tone so terrifyingly calm it made the massive crystal chandeliers seem to tremble. "Is the Castillo family so utterly bankrupt that you cannot afford a single gown? Or do you truly believe that the fiancée of Damien Moretti deserves to be paraded in rags?"

Elena's face drained of all color. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

Sensing the danger, Bianca immediately stepped forward, her eyes wide with practiced innocence. "Mr. Moretti, please. We did prepare a gown for her. It was my sister who stubbornly refused to wear it."

Bianca gestured to a servant, who rushed forward with an ornate velvet box. Opening it, she revealed a cascade of emerald silk. She raised her voice, ensuring the entire ballroom could hear. "I pulled every string I had to acquire this haute couture piece from the legendary Parisian designer, Madame Valeriana. I only wanted the best for Sera."

Elena quickly recovered, her voice dripping with fake maternal warmth. "Go change, Sera. Don't waste your sister's precious gift."

I looked down at the dress. The stitching, the cut, the cheap sheen of the fabric. A bitter, genuine smile touched my lips. I had spent my whole life swallowing their poison, but not tonight.

I stepped closer to Bianca, my voice carrying clearly over the sudden hush of the room. "Wearing this poorly constructed counterfeit would be the greatest disrespect to Mr. Moretti."

A collective gasp rippled through the ballroom.

Damien's head turned. He didn't look at me; his dark, predatory eyes locked onto Bianca. There was no question in his gaze, only a silent, crushing judgment.

Bianca flinched, panic flashing in her eyes before she masked it with indignation. "How dare you! You're just a country girl! What would you know about high fashion? You're lying to cover up your own jealousy!"

"If you are so confident it is authentic," I said, my voice steady, "why don't we ask Madame Valeriana herself?"

Elena let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "You? Contact the most reclusive designer in Europe? Don't make a bigger fool of yourself, Seraphina."

"Don't just hire some actress to pretend on the phone," Bianca sneered, her confidence returning.

I ignored them. I turned to a nearby waiter standing by the wall. "Bring me the hotel's telephone. I need an international line to Paris."

The waiter hesitated, glancing at Damien. The Don gave a barely perceptible nod.

Seconds later, a heavy brass telephone was placed on a side table. I picked up the receiver and dialed a number I knew by heart. The ballroom was so quiet that the rhythmic ringing echoed through the space.

It rang only once.

A sharp, elegant voice answered, known across the globe for its icy arrogance. But the moment I spoke a quiet greeting, the woman's tone melted into genuine, warm affection.

"Sera, ma chérie!"(Sera, my darling!) Madame Valeriana's voice crackled through the receiver, speaking in rapid, flawless French. "You finally called! Tell me, did you receive the dress sketches for your upcoming piano concert?"

The silence that followed was absolute.

I could hear the sharp intake of breath from Luca Mendoza standing just behind Damien. The Consigliere clearly recognized the legendary designer's voice.

I watched the blood completely vanish from Bianca and Elena's faces. Their grand, malicious lie had just been incinerated in front of New York's most dangerous elite. Slowly, I met Damien's gaze. The possessive darkness in his eyes had shifted into a deep, dangerous intrigue.