Rain threatened the skyline as black sedans rolled through the gates of the cathedral. New York had never looked colder.
Aria stood in the bridal suite alone, staring at her reflection.
The gown was stunning—custom satin, sharp lines, off-shoulder, regal. But it felt like armor. A weapon.
Her hair was pinned to perfection. Her lips painted a shade too close to blood.
She looked like a queen, but she felt like a prisoner.
Behind her, the door opened. Talon's voice came through.
"It's time."
She didn't turn. "Any sign of my father?"
"He's already seated. With the D'Angelos."
Of course.
⸻
The ceremony was a spectacle of old money and controlled alliances. White roses framed the aisle. Gold detailing ran up the marble columns. At the altar, Luciano stood in a charcoal suit, looking more like a CEO than a groom.
His eyes found her the second she stepped in.
They didn't smile.
They didn't fake affection.
They just played their roles.
Aria's heels struck the marble floor with every step. Each one echoed like a countdown.
She reached him. He didn't take her hand—just nodded once to the priest.
The vows were recited with no emotion. The kiss was a formality—brief, tight, cold.
And then it was done.
Aria D'Angelo.
⸻
The reception was worse.
Expensive wine. Apathetic applause. Underworld figures in tuxedos clinking glasses while guards circled like vultures.
Aria sat beside Luciano at the head table, pretending not to notice how every movement was watched. She caught a few familiar faces—old allies of her father, now laughing with men who had once threatened their family.
Traitors in suits.
Luciano leaned in casually, like a man whispering sweet nothings.
But what he said froze her spine.
"Your brother's blood was on your father's hands."
She turned her head sharply, heart thunderous. "What did you just say?"
He gave her a smile no one else could see. "You'll find out soon enough. But know this—marrying me saved your father's life. For now."
Her fingers curled into fists beneath the table.
This wasn't just vengeance.
It was manipulation.
And he was already ten moves ahead.
⸻
Later that night, Aria stood outside the estate's bedroom wing.
A staff member had guided her to a grand hallway with dark wood paneling and silver sconces. Talon was waiting, unreadable as ever.
"This is your room," he said. "Luciano will join you later."
"What if I lock the door?"
He tilted his head slightly. "You'll still wake up married. But less liked."
She stepped inside.
⸻
The bedroom was as cold as the ceremony. Vast. Decorated in gray tones, sharp lines, and impersonal wealth. A single red rose lay on the pillow—too perfect, too sharp.
Aria walked to the window, staring down at the D'Angelo gardens below.
Somewhere out there, her brother was buried.
Somewhere back at the church, her father had bowed to the enemy.
And here she was—draped in white, wearing the name of the man who might have ordered her brother's death.
The door opened behind her.
Luciano entered silently, removing his jacket, his cufflinks.
Not a word exchanged.
Just the sound of power undressing.
Aria turned to face him.
"Do we pretend this is a love story?" she asked quietly.
"No," he replied. "We survive it."
⸻
As he crossed the room toward her, her mind sharpened.
She wasn't here to be saved.
She was here to seduce.
To manipulate.
To destroy.
And the first move would happen tonight.