CHAINS OF VELVET

Bianca’s pulse hammered in her ears. She wanted to scream that she knew nothing, that her father had kept his secrets locked tighter than his safes. But another part of her, the part that had survived betrayal, auction, and gilded prison, whispered something different.

If he needs answers, then he needs you alive.

The fire in her veins roared higher. She straightened, her voice trembling but defiant.

“What deal?” she asked, forcing each word past the knot in her throat.

For the first time since she’d been dragged into his world, Matteo smiled. It wasn’t kind. It wasn’t cruel. It was the smile of a man who had just confirmed that the game had only begun.

Without another word, he turned and left, the door closing softly behind him.

Bianca sank to the edge of her bed, her fingers curling into the mattress where the shard lay hidden.

The cage around her had barbed wires now, but so did she.

And for the first time since this nightmare began, she felt something other than despair.

She felt the burn of rebellion.

She felt the spark of curiosity.

She felt alive.

Tomorrow, there will be a ring. But tonight, there was fire in her veins.

The next morning, Bianca woke to the whisper of footsteps. The heavy curtains muffled the dawn, casting the room in muted shades of crimson and gold, but she felt the presence before her eyes opened. A maid glided across the marble floor, carrying a silver basin that breathed tendrils of steam into the air. Another set out a gown the color of blood on the chaise silk, cinched at the waist, shimmering like a wound under light.

The ritual was precise, coldly elegant. Not a word spoken. Not a glance of pity. These people were machines wrapped in velvet.

“Good morning, signorina,” the elder maid finally said, her voice clipped with formality. “Your bath is drawn.”

Bianca sat up, her mind already bristling against the invisible chains tightening around her. They dressed her as though she were a doll. She endured the pins in her hair, the tug of the gown’s corseted bodice, the stinging silence whenever she asked questions.

“What do you know of my father’s dealings?” she tried again, sharper this time.

The maid froze. Her eyes darted toward the ceiling corners, where Bianca finally noticed the faint blink of hidden surveillance cameras.

No answer, only silence.

Her stomach twisted with rage. Matteo’s house was a fortress with stone walls climbing high, iron gates beyond sight, and men stationed at every corridor she had been led through. Later, when a black-suited guard escorted her across the manicured grounds, she caught sight of the courtyard fountains and sprawling vineyards, each path watched, each shadow patrolled. Escape is not possible rather, It is suicidal.

Chains of velvet, she thought bitterly. Beautiful, suffocating, and deliberate.

The library smelled of leather and old dust, vast shelves stretching up into a domed ceiling painted with gods and monsters. Bianca had almost found a flicker of peace among the books when Luca Vitale cornered her.

His smile was disarming, too polished for a soldier, but his eyes held the sharp edge of a blade.

“You’re Ricci’s daughter,” he said, flipping through a tome without reading. “Let’s see what blood you carry. Do you know the law of vendetta?”

Her chin lifted. “An oath of blood”, Once invoked, binds the family until the debt is repaid. My father invoked it once against the Vitale clan.”

Luca’s brows rose, impressed. He circled her like a wolf. “Correct. And the price of betrayal?”

“Death,” she said evenly, though her pulse drummed.

He closed the book with a soft thud. His smirk deepened. “Not stupid but dangerous.”

Bianca wanted to spit the words back at him, but she held her silence, memorizing his face, his cadence, the way he lingered on her every flinch. He was testing her for Matteo. She knew it. And she passed, though the triumph was bitter.

When he left, the faint echo of his words remained in the cavernous library. Not stupid but dangerous. It was both a warning and a curse.

By nightfall, another summons came. This time, to Matteo’s private office.

The room was a cathedral of power. Dark oak panels gleamed under the low light of a chandelier. A fire crackled in the hearth, painting the iron-eyed king in hues of gold and shadow. Matteo Romano stood behind a desk carved like an altar, a rare bottle of Barolo already uncorked.

He poured two glasses without asking. “To contracts sealed in blood,” he murmured, raising his.

Bianca accepted hers, though her hand trembled. The wine burned rich, sweet, and heavy on her tongue like temptation, like poison.

For the first time, he spoke of himself not as Il Re di Ferro, but as a boy who learned early that mercy was weakness. He revealed fragments, carefully chosen, like daggers disguised as confessions. Yet every detail bound her tighter to his world.

“Your father’s last deal,” Matteo said, setting his glass down with finality, “was meant to break me. Instead, it broke him. You will learn the truth soon enough.”

Her heart twisted. “You think you own me now because of his sins?”

His smile was glacial, lips brushing the rim of his glass. “Ownership is too small. You’re leveraged, legacy and now, you’re mine.”

He rose, slow as a predator, closing the distance between them. She stood her ground, though her pulse betrayed her. His hand lifted not to bruise, not to caress, but to graze her cheek in a gesture colder than steel. A kiss followed, feather-light against her skin, yet it seared deeper than any brand.

Not affection. Not desire.

A signature. A contract written on flesh.

He whispered, close enough for his breath to shiver against her ear:

“Play by my rules… or bleed trying.”

Bianca’s spine stiffened, fire in her veins roaring louder than her fear. If he wanted a game, she would learn the rules. And she would find a way to break them.

But in that moment, under the weight of Matteo’s gaze, one thing was clear: she was no longer living her father’s story. She was trapped in Matteo Romano’s and he had only just begun to write her part.