THE WEDDING NIGHT

BLOOD AND VOWS

---

CHAPTER FOUR

THE WEDDING NIGHT

“Some beds are built for sleep. Others for power.”

---

The bed was too big.

Too clean. Too cold.

Emilia lay awake in the dark, still in her silk slip, the loaded gun tucked beneath her pillow. The weight of the wedding ring on her finger felt heavier than steel.

Across the room, Alessio stood shirtless at the window, the moon casting a pale gleam across the scars on his back. Long, pale slashes. Like he'd once been carved open and stitched back together wrong.

She didn’t ask about them. He didn’t offer.

“I’m not going to touch you,” he said, voice even. “That’s not part of the deal.”

She didn’t respond.

He turned. “You want your space. I get it. But don’t make the mistake of thinking that means we’re equals.”

Now she looked at him.

“We’re married,” she said. “You don’t think that makes us partners?”

“We’re business,” he replied. “That’s it.”

She sat up slowly. “So why do I feel like a prisoner with a price tag?”

“Because you are,” he said bluntly. “And I’m the fool who paid for you.”

Silence filled the room like smoke.

Then he walked to the door and paused.

“Don’t forget which side of the bed the knife’s on.”

And just like that, he was gone.

---

The next morning, the house moved around her like a machine.

Guards posted at every turn. Staff who looked at her, then quickly looked away. Rooms filled with expensive silence and furniture too polished to feel lived in.

She dressed without help. A slim black dress, no jewelry. No softness. She didn’t want to be a wife. She wanted to be a warning.

In the dining hall, Alessio sat alone at the head of the long glass table, sipping black coffee like it was blood.

He didn’t stand when she entered.

“You’re late.”

“I wasn’t aware we were pretending this was real.”

He motioned to the chair across from him. “Sit. Eat.”

She did neither.

He took another slow sip. “You want to make this hard, be my guest. But don’t confuse that with power.”

Emilia stepped closer, leaning across the table.

“I don’t need power. I just need leverage.”

He looked at her like he was measuring the exact distance between threat and temptation. Then, quietly:

“You’re going to get yourself killed playing games.”

“I was born in a game,” she said. “And I’m still alive.”

He smiled—barely.

“Then maybe you’re more useful than I thought.”

---

She explored the estate that afternoon, alone.

The Moretti compound was more fortress than home—steel-lined hallways, bulletproof windows, hidden cameras in the corners. Every door locked. Every corridor whispered of secrets and sins.

In the west wing, she found a small library. Dusty. Abandoned. One window cracked open, letting in the sound of distant traffic and rain.

She sat there for hours, just breathing.

This was her life now. Her war.

And she’d win it, one move at a time.

---

That night, she didn’t lock the bedroom door.

She left it open, just enough.

When Alessio entered, his eyes flicked to her, then the door, then back to her again.

“No knife under the pillow tonight?”

She met his gaze. “Didn’t say I didn’t have one.”

He laughed once—quiet and genuine. “Smart girl.”

He poured himself a drink, then paused.

“You’re not what I expected.”

“Neither are you,” she said.

A beat.

Then: “Goodnight, Emilia.”

She didn’t answer.

But she didn’t stop him from sitting in the chair across the room, either.

They stayed like that. Silent. Watching each other.

Two strangers in the same war-torn bed.

---