The car was silent except for the low hum of the engine. I sat with my hands folded tightly in my lap, my wedding dress pooling like white clouds around me. Across the leather seat, Damian sat with one arm resting on the door, his gaze fixed on the darkened streets outside.
He didn't speak.
Neither did I.
I thought marriage vows were supposed to be followed by at least a little conversation, maybe a smile, even a forced one. But the man beside me radiated an unspoken authority that made words stick in my throat.
We drove through districts I had never seen—places where the streetlights seemed dimmer, where shadows lingered too long on the corners. The further we went, the fewer people we saw, until finally, the car pulled through tall wrought-iron gates.
The mansion was enormous. Its façade stretched wide, bathed in golden light, with stone columns that made it look more like a fortress than a home. Armed men stood at the entrance, their presence casual but unmistakable. My chest tightened. This wasn't just a house—it was the center of Damian Moretti's world.
The driver got out and opened my door. Damian didn't move until I stepped out, then followed, his stride unhurried yet purposeful.
Inside, the air was warm, scented faintly of cedar and expensive cologne. Marble floors gleamed beneath crystal chandeliers. Every corner seemed to hold some piece of art—paintings, statues, vases—but none of it softened the atmosphere. This was power on display.
"Follow me," Damian said, his voice low and even.
I obeyed.
We climbed a sweeping staircase to the second floor, our footsteps echoing. He led me to a set of double doors and pushed them open. The room inside was breathtaking—floor-to-ceiling windows, silk curtains, a bed so large it could fit three people, all in soft shades of cream and gold.
"This is your room," he said.
My room. Not ours.
I turned to him, unsure if I should feel relieved or insulted. "So… we won't be—"
"No." His gaze was unreadable. "Not unless you want to."
It was almost generous, and yet the way he said it carried an underlying finality. As if he already knew I didn't.
I clutched the folds of my gown. "Then why marry me?"
His eyes met mine, and for the first time, I caught a flicker of something—maybe amusement, maybe curiosity. "Because in my world, alliances are worth more than love. And you, Elena, are worth far more than you realize."
That answer did nothing to settle the storm inside me. Before I could ask more, he stepped closer, closing the space between us. Not touching, but close enough that his presence felt like a tangible weight.
"There are rules here," he said quietly. "If you follow them, you'll be safe."
"What rules?" My voice was smaller than I intended.
"One: never go anywhere without telling me. Two: never trust a smile from someone you've just met. Three…" His gaze deepened, "…never open doors you're told to keep closed."
A chill ran through me. "What happens if I break them?"
He leaned in slightly, his lips near my ear. "Then I won't be able to protect you."
Before I could respond, there was a knock at the door. A tall man with olive skin and a neatly trimmed beard stepped in. His sharp brown eyes flicked to me, then back to Damian.
"Boss, there's a problem at the docks," he said.
Damian's expression shifted instantly—warmer tones gone, replaced by something sharper, lethal. "Handle it until I get there," he ordered.
The man nodded once and left.
Damian turned back to me. "Stay in your room tonight. Do not wander."
And then he was gone, leaving me in the center of the luxurious space with my heartbeat pounding in my ears.
I walked to the window, pulling back the curtain just enough to see the driveway below. Black cars were already pulling out, one of them carrying him into the night. My fingers tightened around the fabric.
It was strange. I had been married for less than three hours, and already, my husband was a mystery wrapped in danger. And somehow, against every instinct, I wanted to understand him.
I tried to sleep that night, but every creak of the old mansion made me tense. Sometime after midnight, I heard distant voices in the hall—low, urgent. I slipped out of bed, my bare feet silent on the carpet, and pressed my ear to the door.
"…shipment was intercepted," a voice said. "Could be the DeLucas."
"Or someone working for them," another voice replied. "Boss says to double security."
My mind raced. The DeLucas. Another mafia family? What kind of life had I just stepped into?
When the voices faded, I crawled back into bed, but sleep didn't come. Instead, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering how long it would take before Damian's world swallowed me whole.