The applause echoed like gunfire.
Aria stood frozen in the center of the ballroom, her hand resting limply in Luca’s. Guests raised champagne flutes and exchanged tight-lipped smiles, but the celebration felt like a funeral.
Her funeral.
The engagement ring sparkled on her finger—a blood-red ruby encased in black gold. Beautiful. Dangerous. Just like him.
Luca leaned down, lips brushing her ear. “Smile, cara. They’re watching.”
She bared her teeth in something that resembled a grin. “If I had a knife, I’d show them something better.”
He chuckled darkly. “There’s the fire I like.”
He turned to the crowd, raising his glass. “To unity. To power. And to my future queen.”
The room erupted into polite cheers.
Queen. The word made her stomach turn.
As the night dragged on, Aria became the object of quiet stares and fake congratulations. Men leered. Women sized her up with thinly veiled envy or disdain. No one dared cross Luca—but they all whispered behind painted lips.
She tried to slip away, her legs aching from the heels and tension.
But Luca’s hand closed around her wrist before she got far.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he murmured.
“Anywhere you’re not.”
He pulled her close, his fingers tightening. “We’re not done yet. You’ll stay by my side until the last guest leaves.”
“I’m not a trophy,” she hissed.
“You are tonight.”
Hours later, the last glass clinked and the guests filed out.
Silence returned to the villa.
The moment the doors shut behind the last pair of polished shoes, Aria turned to Luca, yanking off the ruby ring.
“Here,” she snapped, tossing it at his chest. “Shove it in a vault with your other trophies.”
He caught it without flinching, then slowly placed it back into her palm.
“You’ll wear it. Tomorrow. The next day. Every day after.”
“I’d rather cut my finger off.”
“Try it,” he said coldly. “And I’ll cut off the rest.”
She stared at him, fire and fury warring with helplessness.
“You can lock me in your palace,” she said quietly. “But you’ll never own me.”
Luca stepped closer, his expression unreadable. “That’s where you’re wrong.”
He turned and walked away.
Her new bedroom was even more beautiful than the first—twice the size, with arched ceilings, a fireplace, and a glass wall overlooking the cliffs.
But it might as well have been a prison.
Aria stood in the center, still in the crimson dress, her fists clenched at her sides.
Then the door opened.
She turned, expecting a maid. Instead, Luca walked in.
She stiffened. “What do you want?”
He didn’t answer.
He reached into his jacket, pulled out a folded slip of paper, and placed it on the vanity.
“My rules,” he said simply.
“I don’t care about your rules.”
“You will.”
She unfolded the note with shaking hands.
THE KING’S RULES
You do not leave the villa without my permission.
You will wear what I provide.
You will attend all public functions at my side.
You do not lie to me.
You do not touch another man.
You sleep in my bed.
Her breath caught at the last one.
She looked up, heart pounding. “That last one—”
“Is not up for discussion.”
“I’m not sleeping with you.”
“I didn’t say that,” he replied. “I said you sleep in my bed. What happens—or doesn’t happen—is up to you.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You enjoy playing god, don’t you?”
“I play to win.”
He turned to leave, but she called after him. “Why me, Luca?”
He paused.
“I’m not stupid,” she continued, softer now. “You could’ve taken territory. Money. Made the Irish syndicate kneel. But you took me. Why?”
He glanced over his shoulder, his voice low.
“Because controlling a kingdom means nothing if you can’t tame the one thing everyone said you couldn’t have.”
Then he walked out, leaving the air thick with heat and confusion.
That night, Aria couldn’t sleep.
Not because the bed was too soft or the silence too loud—but because her mind wouldn’t shut up.
She kept replaying Luca’s words. The way he looked at her. The cold calculation. The cracks in it.
She hated him. She feared him.
But something deeper, darker, more dangerous was starting to stir beneath her skin.
The way his touch lingered. The scent of his cologne. The strange way his eyes had softened for a split second when she said no.
She was falling into a war she never asked for.
And the worst part?
She wasn’t sure she wanted to crawl back out.
Morning came with a knock.
She opened the door to find a dress waiting—white silk, delicate and modest, but designed to tease.
She almost laughed.
The mafia king wanted her dressed like a bride already.
Fine.
Let him think she was playing along.
Because if she was going to survive, she needed more than fire.
She needed strategy.
She slipped into the dress and stepped into the corridor, past the guards, past the whispers, and into the lion’s den.
Time to find out exactly how far the king would go to keep his queen in check.