The master suite of the Moretti estate was less of a bedroom and more of a sanctuary made of steel and silk. The walls were paneled in dark, polished walnut, and the floor was covered in a rug so thick it swallowed the sound of my heels.
As the heavy oak doors clicked shut behind us, the silence felt like a physical weight.
Dante didn't look at me. He walked straight to a sideboard made of obsidian and poured two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal tumbler. He downed it in one go, the muscles in his throat working rhythmically.
"Take off the dress, Bianca," he said, his back still turned to me.
My heart gave a violent lurch. My hand went straight to the hilt of the stiletto beneath my skirt. "I am not your plaything, Dante. If you think this marriage gives you the right to—"
"You're a De Luca," he interrupted, turning around. His eyes were cold, stripped of the performative charm he'd worn in the ballroom. "You were raised to be a weapon. And right now, that dress is hindering your movement. You're sweating, your pulse is visible in your neck, and you're clutching that knife like a lifeline. You can't think clearly when you're suffocating in lace."
He walked toward me, his movements slow and deliberate. I didn't back away. I couldn't. I was a De Luca; we met our ends standing tall.
He stopped inches away, his shadow looming over me. "I didn't marry you for a night of forced company. I married you because I need a Queen who isn't blinded by a dead man's ghost. Now, take it off, or I'll cut it off you myself."
With trembling fingers, I reached for the hidden zipper at my side. The silk and tulle fell away, pooling around my feet like a white cloud of surrender. I stood before him in my lace slip, the black leather holster on my thigh a stark contrast against my pale skin.
I drew the blade.
The steel felt warm in my hand, an old friend. I leveled the tip at the center of his chest. "You said you had proof. You said my uncle lied. Show me, or this night ends with one of us in a body bag."
Dante didn't even flinch at the sight of the blade. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, battered digital recorder. He set it on the nightstand and pressed play.
"The girl is a liability, Vittorio." The voice was raspy, unfamiliar.
"The girl is a tool," my uncle's voice answered. I would know that dry, calculating tone anywhere. "She believes the Morettis killed her father. That hate is the only thing keeping her sharp. Once she's inside Dante's house, she'll do exactly what I trained her to do. And when the Moretti empire falls, I'll clean up the mess she leaves behind."
"And the father? What if she finds out he was going to hand the port logs to the authorities?"
"She won't. Dead men don't talk, and I made sure his car stayed at the bottom of the docks long enough for the evidence to rot. He wanted to go 'legitimate'—he wanted to ruin forty years of our family's work. I did what was necessary."
The recording clicked off.
The world didn't explode. It didn't shatter. It simply went cold. A deep, bone-chilling frost that started in my chest and spread to my fingertips.
The stiletto slipped from my hand. It didn't make a sound as it hit the rug.
"He… he told me he loved him," I whispered. My knees felt like they were made of water. "He sat at my father's funeral and cried. He held me while I screamed."
"Vittorio De Luca doesn't love people, Bianca. He loves assets," Dante said. He stepped closer, but this time, he didn't look like a predator. He looked like a man watching a building collapse. "Your father was going to turn state's evidence to protect you. He wanted to take you out of this life. He wanted to move you to the coast, give you a name that wasn't stained with blood. That's why he was killed."
I looked up at Dante, my vision blurring with tears I refused to let fall. "Why are you telling me this? You could have let me keep believing the lie. You could have killed me the moment I tried to strike."
"Because I knew your father," Dante said, his voice softening just a fraction. "And because I know what it's like to be raised by a man who sees you as a chess piece. My father was no saint, but he respected the truth. I'm not going to rule this city with a wife who is looking for a way to kill me for the wrong reasons."
He reached out, his hand hovering near my face before he tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His touch was no longer possessive; it was grounding.
"You have two choices tonight, Bianca," he said. "You can call your uncle, tell him the mission is on, and try to finish what he started. I won't stop you from trying, but I will stop you from succeeding."
"And the second choice?"
"You stay. You learn how to be a Moretti. And together, we burn the man who took your father from you."
I looked at the recorder on the nightstand. I thought of the five years I had spent honing my body into a blade for a man who had murdered my soul. Every scar, every bruise, every cold night spent in the training room—it had all been a gift for a monster.
I looked at Dante. He was the enemy. He was the man I was supposed to hate. But in this room, under the harsh light of the truth, he was the only thing that felt real.
"He'll know," I said, my voice gaining a new, sharp edge. "If I don't report in, if I don't play the part, Vittorio will know I've turned."
"Then we play the part," Dante said. He leaned in, his face inches from mine. "We give him the show he wants. A devoted niece, a submissive wife, and a husband who is 'distracted' by his beautiful new bride. We let him think he's winning until the moment we take his head."
He reached down and picked up my stiletto, handing it back to me hilt-first.
"Keep the blade, Bianca. You're going to need it. But from now on, you only cut the people I tell you to. Starting with your uncle."
I took the knife, my fingers brushing his. The electric spark was still there, but it was different now. It wasn't the friction of enemies. It was the ignition of an alliance.
"Until death do us part," I whispered, repeating the vow I had said at the altar.
Dante's eyes flared with something dark and hungry. He leaned down, his lips ghosting over mine, not in a kiss, but in a seal of blood.
"No, Bianca," he murmured against my mouth. "Until we are the only ones left standing."
He pulled away and walked toward the bathroom, stripping off his shirt as he went. I watched the scars on his back—the marks of a life lived in the trenches of power.
I sat on the edge of the massive bed, the weight of the platinum ring feeling lighter now. I wasn't a Trojan Horse anymore. I wasn't a peace treaty.
I was a Queen who had just found her King. And Valerra was going to bleed for what it had done to us.