Chapter 1: The Bride

(MATTEO’S POV)

They say a man should feel something on his wedding day.

Joy. Hope. Nerves. Even guilt.

I felt nothing.

Not when I slid the cufflinks into place, black on black. Not when the housekeeper knocked on the door and told me the guests had arrived. Not even when I caught my reflection in the mirror. Sharp suit, sharper stare, and the ghosts behind my eyes who never stopped watching.

I was a soldier marrying a stranger. A son honoring his family’s demand. A man with blood on his hands and no space in his chest for anything that didn’t taste like control.

No, I wasn’t nervous.

I was bored.

“This is a mistake,” my cousin murmured beside me, low enough that only I could hear. “You don’t need her. You have the army. The routes. The respect.”

I adjusted my tie. “I also have enemies. And her last name.”

“Cruz,” he spat like it burned. “Your father would’ve—”

“My father’s dead.”

Silence cut between us.

He didn’t say it, but I knew what he was thinking. That maybe I belonged in the ground with him.

But I didn’t. I had plans.

And Amara Cruz, soft-spoken, American-educated, and completely unprepared for my world, was part of them.

A pawn, yes. But not a useless one.

We walked into the church.

Not a real one, too many sins. This one was private. Decorated to look holy enough for photographs and hollow enough to keep the devil comfortable.

She was already there.

Standing in white, clutching the bouquet like it might explode. Her veil covered most of her face, but I saw enough. The stiffness of her jaw. The betrayal in her posture. The shaking hands.

Good.

Fear was better than fake smiles.

I stopped in front of her. She didn’t look at me.

I didn’t look at her, either.

The officiant began speaking. Words like honor and sacrifice and till death do us part. I’d been to funerals with less tension.

Amara’s voice was quiet when she said, “I do.”

Mine was colder. “I don’t believe in vows.”

Her head jerked toward me just for a second. Enough for our eyes to meet.

Dark brown. Burning. Familiar in a way I didn’t like.

She looked too much like him.

I took the ring from the tray and slid it onto her finger like I was marking a property, not taking a wife.

Her lips parted slightly, like she wanted to say something. I didn’t give her the chance.

“You belong to me now,” I said under my breath. “Try to run, and I’ll put you in a cage.”

“You already have,” she whispered back.

Something flickered in her tone. Not defiance. Not fear. Something else.

Recognition.

We faced the crowd, what passed for family in our world. Men who ran cities. Women who sharpened knives behind silk smiles. My uncle smirked. My cousin scowled. And in the back row, I saw the Cruz family’s old consigliere. He looked like he’d seen a ghost.

In a way, he had.

Because Amara Cruz was a ghost come back to life. A secret no one expected to return. And now, she was mine.

At least on paper.

The reception was short. Cold food. Colder guests. No dancing. No toasts.

No one clinked glasses. No one wished us love.

This wasn’t a celebration. It was a warning.

Two dynasties were merging. The Valerios and the Cruz bloodline.

And under the candlelight and hollow stares, Amara played her part well, silent and still like a statue carved for sacrifice.

When it ended, I took her arm.

She flinched.

Not visibly. Just enough for me to feel the tremor through her bones.

I didn’t tighten my grip. But I didn’t let go either.

We walked in silence to the waiting car. I opened the door. She hesitated.

“You planning to run?” I asked, voice low.

She met my eyes again. “Would it matter?”

“No.”

She got in.

So did I.

The ride to the estate was long. Quiet. She stared out the window the whole time.

I didn’t.

I stared at her.

Studied her.

Not for beauty—though she had it, in that haunting way some women do, like their soul had been stitched back together with secrets and silence.

But because of the question burning in my skull since the day she arrived:

Does she know who I am?

Not Matteo Valerio. Not the name they write in ink on bank accounts and bullets.

The man in the gloves.

I had seen her before.

Ten years ago. Manila.

A warehouse. A woman begging. A child staring.

Her eyes hadn’t changed.

When I touched her hair back then, it was curiosity. Cruelty, maybe.

Now?

Now it was a ticking bomb.

If she remembered… this wouldn’t end in an alliance.

It would end in war.

We arrived at the estate just before midnight.

She didn’t speak as we walked through the marble halls. Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t glance at the men posted on every corner, armed and alert.

But I felt her spine straightening with every step. The kind of quiet rage you only earn by surviving things no one talks about.

I led her to the bedroom.

Big. Luxurious. Cold.

There was only one bed.

She stood in the doorway. “You expect me to sleep next to you?”

I turned slowly. “I expect you to remember why you’re here.”

“To play wife?”

“To stay alive.”

She crossed her arms. “Then say it. Say what you really want.”

I stepped closer.

She didn’t back down.

“I want leverage,” I said bluntly. “Your name. Your loyalty. And your silence.”

“What if I want answers?”

I smirked. “Wanting is dangerous here.”

She nodded. Then said something I didn’t expect.

“My mother told me not to fight.”

I blinked. “What?”

“She said if they ever came for me, to obey. That it was the only way I’d survive.”

Her voice cracked on the last word, but she didn’t cry.

She was stronger than she looked.

Or more broken.

I turned away.

“You sleep here,” I said. “I’ll take the room across the hall.”

“And tomorrow?”

I paused in the doorway. “Tomorrow, we pretend we’re happy.”

“And after that?” I looked back, locking eyes with her one last time.

“After that… we see who survives longer.” Then I shut the door.

And for the first time in years, I wasn’t bored anymore.

I was curious. And curiosity, in my world, always ended in blood.

END OF CHAPTER 1