The Beginning Of The End

Present Day

He vowed to love me.

To protect me.

To cherish me in sickness and in health, in darkness and in light.

What a fucking joke that was.

Fairy tales teach little girls to believe in happily ever after. But mine came wrapped in silk and blood, bound with ancient promises and mafia politics. My fate wasn’t written in stars, it was inked in contracts and whispered behind closed doors long before I took my first breath. From the moment I was born, my life was tethered to his. Nico Moretti. The golden son of the Moretti empire. My father’s answer to peace, his bargaining chip for power, his most valuable offering: me.

I was raised in glass, fragile, spotless, handled with care, groomed to smile prettily, speak only when spoken to, and sacrifice every dream I had at the altar of duty. I did everything right. I was the perfect little girl, molded into the perfect little wife and it didn’t matter. None of it mattered because to Nico, I was never a partner. I was a possession. A pretty trinket to place on his arm and tuck away when he grew bored. He’s not a good man. He’s not fair, not kind, not loyal or loving. Nico Moretti is a fucking monster, cruel, cold, calculating. He doesn’t love, he conquers. Doesn’t speak, he commands. And I let it happen. I let it happen. I sat at his feet. Smiled at his guests. Silenced my screams behind crimson lips and diamond collars. I played my part so well I almost forgot who I really was. Almost. There was a time I believed he’d change. That if I were just a little more obedient, a little more beautiful, a little more worthy, he might one day come home and see me, really see me, and love me the way I loved him but love like that doesn’t grow in cages and I’m done pretending. I’m done waiting for a man who never saw me as anything more than his father's leverage. Now?

Now I want to fucking live.

Past.

“Ava! Oh, my sweet girl, look at you!”

My mother’s voice trembles with emotion as she fusses over my wedding gown for the third time, dabbing delicately beneath her eyes so her mascara won’t smudge. She’s radiant in a champagne silk dress, smiling so wide it almost feels contagious. Almost. I stand still before the mirror, trying to feel something. Joy. Excitement. Hope. My Vera Wang gown is a masterpiece. Tight across my chest, it hugs my figure before flaring out into a train of ivory lace that trails behind me like royalty. My naturally pale blonde hair is pinned into a high bun, not a strand out of place. My veil falls from it like gossamer, a thin line of pearls glimmering in the light. My shoes are Jimmy Choo. My necklace is Bulgari. My earrings are antique diamonds from my father’s vault, a gift passed down from one mafia queen to the next. Today is the day I’ve been raised for. My eighteenth birthday. My wedding day. I’ve never met my husband but I know his name, Nico Moretti. Seven years older. One of the youngest billionaires in the world. Owner of more than a hundred legitimate businesses, and God only knows how many illegal ones. My father calls him “a man of vision.” My mother calls him “a dream match.” Me? I just call him… unknown. But I’ve been trained not to question. Daddy says this is my birthright. That girls like me are born to secure alliances, to make peace through vows instead of bullets. So I hope. I pray. I hope Nico is kind. That he’ll speak softly. That he’ll look at me not like I’m property, but a person. I pray he’ll be the husband I’ve been promised, a protector, a provider. Someone who might one day look at me not as a duty, but as his. My heart is a fluttering bird in a golden cage, and even as the doors close around me, I tell myself this is happiness. That this is the start of something beautiful.

"Ava, are you ready?" my father asks as he steps into the room.

"I'm ready, Daddy," I reply, though the words catch in my throat. The lump of anxiety lodged there is thick, suffocating.

"Good. Everything will go perfectly today. The Moretti and Campelli families will finally be joined."

He doesn’t mention the dress I spent hours being stitched into, or the way my hair was curled and pinned into place with jeweled clips that feel more like a crown of thorns. But that’s not surprising, my father has never been one for sentiment. His love is measured in power, legacy, and alliances. He offers his arm. Silently, I take it.

We walk together down the long corridor toward the cathedral’s grand entrance. The hallway is quiet except for the soft click of my heels on marble. The walls are blanketed with roses, blush pink and ivory white, carefully chosen to represent purity and union. Sunlight spills in through stained glass windows, casting fractured rainbows across the stone floor. With every step, the weight of what I’m walking toward grows heavier. We pause behind a cluster of bridesmaids and flower girls, distant cousins and daughters of family allies. I barely know most of them but I don’t mind. This day isn’t about friendship. It’s about duty. The soft swell of a piano begins behind the doors. My heart skips a beat. The massive oak panels creak as they begin to part. I lower my veil with trembling fingers and square my shoulders.

I was born for this. Bred for this.

My life isn’t my own, but today, I give it away anyway.

For family. For legacy. For peace.