The weight of the moment pressed down on me as I stepped out of the car, my legs stiff, my breaths uneven. Fear curled around my ribs, but beneath it, anger simmered—a quiet, smoldering rage that refused to die.
But my God. The DeLuca estate was something out of a dark fairy tale.
Ancient. Enormous. Obscenely expensive. The kind of wealth built on blood and bone.
The mansion stretched before me like a gothic dream—towering and proud, its stone walls whispering secrets of the past. It was beautiful, yes… but in the way a predator is beautiful. Sleek. Merciless.
I swallowed hard.
All eyes were on me.
The weight of their stares coiled around my throat, but I forced my chin higher. The white gown my father had shoved me into trailed behind me—a mockery of purity, of love. A wedding dress meant for a real bride.
But I wasn't one.
I was a transaction. A debt repaid in flesh and bone.
And I hated him for it.
The guards flanked me on either side, silent and cold, their hands resting on the hilts of their guns as they led me through the grand entrance.
The air inside was thick with the scent of cigars and something else—something richer, darker. Leather. Whiskey. Power.
The hall was a masterpiece of black marble. Towering gold chandeliers dripped from the ceiling, casting fractured light against the stone. Ancient portraits lined the walls, their painted eyes watching me, judging me.
I tried to swallow down my nerves, but my throat was dry.
I will show no weakness.
My heels clicked against the floor—each step an echo of my fate.
And then… I felt it.
A presence. Heavy. Dark.
The air shifted.
When I lifted my gaze, I saw him.
Alessio DeLuca.
He stood near the fireplace, a silhouette of raw power against the low, flickering flames. Tall. Broad-shouldered. His black suit molded to his frame like it had been sewn onto him.
A cigarette rested between long fingers, ash falling lazily.
Again I repeat, they say the devil wears a tailored suit. But Alessio DeLuca didn't need to be a man at all.
His beauty was dangerous. Unfair.
Raven-black hair, tousled as if a woman had run her hands through it in some desperate, gasping moment. Sharp cheekbones. A mouth that should have spoken of softness—but didn't.
And his eyes.
Gold. Ancient. Unreadable.
They trapped me. Dragged me under.
For a moment, the world tilted.
My vision blurred—just a flicker, a whisper of something wrong.
A gunshot. A whisper. The taste of blood.
I gasped. The image vanished.
I staggered slightly, but no one moved to steady me.
Because no one in their right mind would dare touch what belonged to Alessio DeLuca– in his presence.
I forced my gaze away, scanning the room.
My father sat stiffly on the left, his men beside him, stone-faced and silent. On the right—them.
The DeLuca clan.
Power incarnate. Wealth. Prestige. Ruthlessness, all dressed in black. Their faces unreadable, but their presence suffocated the room.
I was led forward. Closer to him.
His scent surrounded me—something dark, intoxicating, edged with danger. Sandalwood. Smoke. The scent of a storm before it breaks.
Déjà vu.
It was fine. I was used to it. I had them often.
Then he spoke.
Deep. Slow. A voice like silk over steel.
"Kneel."
The word slammed into me like a physical blow.
I stiffened. Kneel? Like I was some offering—some obedient pet at his feet?
Every gaze in the room weighed on me. My father's expectation. The silent amusement of the DeLuca clan.
No.
I may have lost my freedom, but I would not lose my pride.
Alessio took a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling smoke like a god bored with the mortals before him.
His golden eyes narrowed slightly, the corner of his mouth tilting—not quite a smile, but something far worse.
Amused.
I already hated him.
"Do you know who I am?" he asked, voice lazy, cold.
Like he already knew the answer. Like he was simply waiting to see if I was stupid enough to challenge him.
I didn't know what pushed me to do it.
Maybe the years of rage, of being treated like something to be bartered. Maybe the venom curling inside my stomach at the way he sat there, like he was a king on his throne.
I lifted my chin.
"A murderer," I spat.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
The guards tensed. My father stiffened. The DeLuca men shifted ever so slightly—as if preparing for something brutal, something inevitable.
No one. No one spoke to Alessio DeLuca that way.
But then—he smirked.
"Ah," he exhaled, tilting his head slightly. "Your father brought me a stubborn one."
A single, lethal chuckle rumbled in his chest.
Then—he moved.
One second, he was near the fireplace. The next—he was in front of me.
I inhaled sharply, drowning in his scent, in the sheer, overwhelming presence of him.
I stepped back. Instinctively.
A mistake.
His fingers caught my chin, tilting my face up—forcing me to meet his gaze. His touch was light. Deceptively gentle. But beneath it, I felt the power.
The control. The unshakable certainty that he owned everything he touched.
Including me.
"Wrong move, little wife."
The words slid down my spine like ice.
"Kneel, Sierra," he murmured. "Before I make you."
My heart pounded.
No.
I clenched my fists. I wanted to fight.
"Kneel, you cursed child!"
The scream cut through me like a blade.
My father.
I flinched, the betrayal sinking deep. Of course. Of course he would throw me to the wolves without a second thought. He only cared that this went smoothly.
But Alessio?
Alessio turned his head slightly, golden eyes flicking to my father.
And something deadly flickered through them.
"Only I have the right to tell my little wife what to do."
His voice was quiet. Calm. But it carried a weight that made my father's breath hitch.
The room held its breath.
My father swallowed hard, looking away.
He was afraid.
And who was I to challenge a man that even my father feared?
I exhaled shakily. My nails dug into my palms.
"Monster," I whispered.
Then, with slow, deliberate movements—
I knelt.
I knelt.
Alessio exhaled another cloud of smoke, watching me like I was something fascinating. Something he had already claimed.
Every muscle in my body screamed against it, my pride clawing at my throat, but the weight of the room—the weight of him—was suffocating.
A sharp, unbearable silence stretched between us.
I could feel every pair of eyes drilling into me—some in shock, some in amusement, and others in pity.
But none of them mattered. Only his golden eyes, gleaming with something unreadable. Something ancient. Something dark.
Alessio DeLuca—the man they called a king, a god, a devil—exhaled smoke, his lips curving in a slow, dangerous smirk.
"Monster?" His voice was silk over steel, slow and deliberate, like he was tasting the word on his tongue. "You say that as if monsters are meant to be feared."
He crouched before me, his fingers brushing over my chin in a touch so light, so deceptively gentle, it sent a violent shiver down my spine.
"Fear is a choice, little wife."
His voice dipped lower, his breath warm against my skin, carrying a scent that made my stomach twist—something dark. Something forbidden. Something intoxicating. Smoke. Leather. And a hint of blood. Death itself.
He tilted his head, studying me the way a predator studies its prey. Slow. Calculated. Cruel.
"And you?"
He dragged his thumb across my jaw, his touch featherlight yet suffocating.
"You are the first person in years to kneel before me and not tremble."
His smirk deepened. "Fascinating. Let's see how long before I break you."