Bound by Vows and Vendetta

Chapter 1 — Chains In Silk

~ARIA~

"Whatever you do, Aria... don’t stop running. Don’t look back."

The words pounded in Aria Emilia Valente’s head like gunshots.

Her heels echoed against the polished marble floors of the Valente estate as she flew past gilded mirrors and ancestral portraits that seemed to watch her flee. Her chest burned. Her breath came in frantic gasps. Behind her, the shouts grew louder—guards, her father’s men, hounds in human skin.

Six minutes. That’s all she had before the gates were sealed. Before the men with dead eyes dragged her back and reminded her who truly owned her life.

Freedom was just through the east corridor. Past the vineyard. Through the woods. And into the arms of a waiting car driven by a man whose loyalty had been bought with more than money—desperation.

But then—

A shadow moved. A hand slammed into her side, throwing her against the corridor wall with such force it knocked the air out of her lungs.

"Where the hell do you think you're going, principessa?"

Dante Romano.

Her cousin. Her father’s most trusted enforcer. And the one man who had always looked at her like she was prey dressed in silk.

He grabbed her by the arm, forcing her to face him. His breath smelled of bourbon and spite.

"You think you can run from this family? From your fate? You really thought Daddy’s guards wouldn’t find out?" His eyes flicked down her trembling body. "Or was this another one of your little games?"

Aria struggled, clawed at his grip, her nails catching flesh. "Let me go, Dante. You don’t want to do this."

He laughed darkly. "Don’t I? You were always too soft. Too delicate. You don’t belong in this world. That’s why they’re marrying you off like cattle."

~~~~~~~~~~

The first slap didn’t hurt as much as the betrayal.

Aria Emilia Valente wiped the blood from her nose, her jaw clenched with fury as she rose slowly to her feet. She stared her father—Don Victor Valente—dead in the eyes, her spine as rigid as steel.

“Is that all you’ve got?” she hissed, tasting copper on her tongue. “You’ll have to do more than that to break me.”

Victor’s face, usually composed like a marble statue of Rome’s past emperors, cracked with fury. His hand lashed out again, striking her across the cheek. The force of it sent her reeling back into the grand piano in the corner of his private study.

She didn’t cry.

She never did anymore.

Pain had become an old friend, predictable and oddly comforting in its consistency.

Victor turned away, pacing. “You will marry him, Aria. Whether you like it or not. You think this is about love? This is about survival. You’re not a little girl anymore. You’re a weapon, and I intend to use you wisely.”

“I’d rather die than be used,” she spat back, her voice cracking with rage.

He turned, his eyes blazing with something darker than anger—disappointment. “You sound just like your mother before I buried her obedience with her body.”

Aria’s breath caught.

“You bastard,” she whispered. “She died trying to protect me from you.”

Victor’s eyes narrowed. “And look how well that turned out.”

The door creaked open, and her heart dropped into her stomach.

Lorenzo De Rossi stepped into the room like a curse summoned from hell.

He wore black from head to toe—tailored, sleek, deadly. His hair was tousled just enough to be dangerously elegant. Cold gray eyes swept over the scene like a storm calculating landfall.

He looked first at her bleeding lip. Then at Victor.

The air changed.

“Was this part of the bridal preparation?” Lorenzo asked, voice so smooth it could slice skin. “Because I don’t recall violence being listed in the dowry.”

Victor straightened instantly, like a soldier caught slacking by his general.

“I wasn’t expecting you.”

Lorenzo ignored him. His attention shifted to Aria. His gaze was sharp, penetrating, like he was dissecting her from the inside out.

She hated that he made her feel small.

And worse—visible.

“I would like a moment alone with my fiancée,” Lorenzo said coolly.

Victor’s jaw ticked, but he nodded. “Don’t provoke her. She’s been… difficult.”

“I like difficult,” Lorenzo replied.

When the door shut, silence stretched thick between them.

Aria squared her shoulders. “So, what is this? You came to claim your prize?”

Lorenzo stepped closer, too close. He reached out, brushing his thumb gently against the dried blood on her mouth.

She flinched.

“Do you bleed like this often?” he asked quietly.

She hesitated. “No. Only when I speak my truth.”

“Good,” he murmured. “You’ll need that fire.”

His touch vanished, and for a brief second, she hated the absence more than the contact.

He walked across the study, examining one of the antique daggers mounted on the wall.

“Your father tells me you’re untouched,” he said, without turning.

The statement landed like a slap.

Her mouth went dry.

“I was told,” he continued, “that your loyalty is intact. That your body remains unclaimed. That your heart is irrelevant.”

She crossed her arms. “And what does that mean to a man like you?”

He turned now, eyes blazing.

“It means I will not tolerate lies. Not from you. Not from anyone. If I find out you’ve given yourself to another, I won’t just kill him. I’ll erase his existence.”

She stared him down, refusing to show fear. “That’s what this marriage is to you? A contract of possession?”

He smirked, cold and merciless. “No. This marriage is an empire being born. You’re not a possession, Aria. You’re a pawn. And if you move wrong, I’ll sacrifice you.”

She felt the tears threaten, but she buried them deep.

“Why not kill me now, then?”

“Because,” he said, stepping close again, “I don’t discard valuable assets.”

He gestured toward the door, and as if on cue, a man walked in with a black velvet box.

Aria stared at it warily.

“A gift,” Lorenzo said. “A pre-wedding gesture.”

She opened it—and immediately recoiled, nearly dropping the box.

Inside was a bloodied cufflink. A symbol of the Valente family crest—twisted, scorched.

Aria looked up in horror.

Lorenzo’s eyes gleamed. “It belonged to the last man who tried to run from me.”

“You’re insane.”

“No. I’m inevitable.”

He stepped closer until their breath mingled.

“You’re to give me an heir before this year ends,” he said. “And I suggest you make peace with that, because I’m not in the mood to be disappointed twice by the Valente family.”

She wanted to scream, to claw at his perfect face and tear the madness from it. But she didn’t. She couldn’t.

Because part of her—buried, silent, traitorous—was curious.

What would it take to break a man like Lorenzo De Rossi?

And what would it feel like to become the woman who could?

“I expect tomorrow’s ceremony to be smooth,” he added, already turning for the door. “If not, your blood will be the first I spill as my wife.”

Before she could speak, he paused, then turned one last time.

“Aria?”

“What?” she snapped.

His lips curled into a dark grin. “Smile. You’ll look prettier when you’re mine.”

He left without another word.

And Aria stood there, trembling not with fear—but with fury.

She walked to the box. Closed it.

Picked it up.

And threw it into the fireplace.

She didn’t scream.

But her soul did.

The war had already begun. And she was going to burn this empire down from the inside out.