Chapter 2

Chapter 2 — A Vow Written in Blood

~ARIA~

“Do you, Aria Emilia Valente, take Lorenzo De Rossi to be your lawfully wedded husband…”

The priest’s voice echoed through the cathedral like a death knell.

“To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse…”

Each word was a chisel carving into my soul.

“For richer, for poorer…”

This wasn’t a wedding—it was a funeral in disguise. And I was the corpse in silk.

“In sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

Death. Oh, how that word hung heavy in the air—like a prophecy rather than a vow.

I stood frozen at the altar, my mouth dry, my heart a frantic drumbeat beneath my ribs. The lights overhead felt like interrogation lamps, and the room swam in slow motion—faces blurred, whispers distant, all except the one man standing beside me.

Lorenzo De Rossi.

Draped in shadows, dressed in tailored black that hugged him like a second skin. Cold. Unmoving. Watching me with those arctic eyes that didn’t just see—but dissected.

My lips trembled.

Every cell in my body screamed run.

But there was nowhere left to run.

I thought back to the box still hidden in my dressing room. The box with the remains of Dante. His severed head. His dismembered hands. A macabre gift from Lorenzo himself. A prelude to a life of silent obedience and unspoken fear.

And yet... even now, there was no screaming. No salvation. Just this moment. This altar. These vows.

The church was a fortress of intimidation. Black candles lined the aisle like mourning soldiers, and the stained glass windows bled crimson hues across the marble floor. Everyone was watching—mafia bosses, allies, traitors, ghosts from our past. Each one dressed in couture, wrapped in secrets, and stinking of menace.

I could still feel Renata's gaze burning into me from the front pew. My sister. The original bride. The one who ran.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t plead. She just sat there—frozen, drowning in her own guilt, knowing she had passed her chains onto me.

The priest cleared his throat.

“Aria?”

My father’s glare pierced into me like a blade from the front row. A subtle tilt of his chin. A threat without words.

I turned to Lorenzo.

His expression never shifted. Not even a flicker of doubt or softness. Only certainty. Brutal, beautiful certainty.

My voice felt foreign when it came. Barely a whisper.

“I do.”

The priest exhaled in relief, then turned to Lorenzo. “Do you, Lorenzo De Rossi—”

“I vow to uphold the contract,” Lorenzo interrupted, his voice smooth as silk laced with poison.

Gasps rippled through the room. The priest hesitated, flustered, but didn’t challenge the substitution.

A contract.

Not a marriage.

Not a union of love or even respect. Just terms. Clauses. Ownership.

“You may kiss the bride.”

Before I could brace myself, Lorenzo’s hand gripped my waist. Tight. Controlling. Possessive. His lips pressed against mine in a kiss that wasn’t romantic or passionate—it was a claim. Like he was marking territory.

When he pulled away, he whispered into my ear, voice as chilling as the grave.

“Smile, Mrs. De Rossi. This is your kingdom now.”

The applause that followed felt like gunfire.

As we walked back down the aisle, side by side, my heels echoed on the marble like countdowns to some unseen doom. And the silence between us was louder than any vow.

But it wasn’t over.

Not even close.

~~~~~~~~~~

The car ride was suffocating.

I sat stiffly beside Lorenzo in the back of a bulletproof Maybach, the silence between us sharp enough to slit throats. My fingers clutched my bouquet so tightly the thorns dug into my palms. I welcomed the pain. It kept me awake. Grounded.

“One hundred and ninety-seven seconds.”

His voice broke the silence like a dagger.

“What?”

“That’s how long it took you to respond at the altar.” He turned to face me, eyes unreadable. “Don’t ever keep me waiting again.”

My breath caught in my throat. “I… I’m sorry.”

He didn’t blink. “You don’t get to be sorry. You get to be obedient.”

Before I could respond, the screech of tires tore through the air.

Then—BANG!

The windshield exploded in a burst of red mist.

The driver slumped forward, a hole between his eyes. Blood sprayed the front seat, painting the leather like an artist’s final stroke.

Gunfire erupted.

“Down!” Lorenzo barked, shoving me beneath him just as bullets ripped through the windows. Shards of glass flew like knives, embedding themselves in the seats, the doors—my shoulder.

I screamed.

The car veered, spinning. Metal groaned. Rubber burned.

Then—impact.

We hit a divider and flipped. Once. Twice. I lost count. The world turned upside down, gravity tossed aside. My head slammed into the door frame, pain blooming behind my eyes like fireworks. My lungs refused to fill.

Then silence.

Smoke.

Blood.

Pain.

I blinked through the haze. The door had been ripped off its hinges. I was on the ground, glass in my arms, blood in my mouth.

Screams. Somewhere. Gunshots. Yelling in Italian.

Lorenzo was on his feet, firing with brutal precision. His coat was torn, face bloodied—but his expression never faltered. A god of war. And I, his sacrificial lamb.

More bodies dropped.

The enemy—whoever they were—never stood a chance. Lorenzo moved like death. Silent. Final. Calculated.

Someone tried to grab me.

Wrong move.

Lorenzo’s bullet went straight through the attacker’s skull, painting the wall behind him.

He turned to me.

“You’re bleeding.”

“No shit,” I coughed, half-laughing, half-hysterical.

He pulled me to my feet. “We’re leaving. Now.”

“Who… who was that?”

His jaw clenched. “Welcome to the De Rossi empire, wife. That was your wedding gift.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The room smelled of iodine, gunpowder, and rage.

I sat on the edge of a bed in a secluded estate miles from the attack. My arm had been stitched. My temple bandaged. My dress stained with blood and dirt.

Lorenzo stood by the window, speaking into a burner phone in rapid Italian. His shirt was off—bruises and cuts lined his chest like war trophies. I stared.

Not out of desire.

But out of fear.

Out of understanding.

This man was more than a husband. He was a storm in human skin.

He hung up and turned to me.

“You’re lucky they missed your head.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t die before I gave you your heir,” I shot back, voice bitter.

A slow smile tugged at his lips.

“There she is.”

“Go to hell.”

He crossed the room, crouched in front of me, eyes searching mine.

“You don’t get to hate me, Aria. Not yet.”

“Then when?”

“When you’ve seen what I really am.”

He stood, walked away, and opened the door. But before leaving, he turned one last time.

“And if you ever try to run again…”

His eyes darkened to obsidian.

“I won’t kill your father. I’ll make you watch as I do it slowly.”

Then he was gone.

The door slammed shut.

And I was left to stare into the flickering shadows of a new life.

Bound. Branded. But not broken.

Not yet.

But fate had other plans.

The silence that followed the wedding night was short-lived. Miles away from the chaos of the city, in the heart of a secluded De Rossi estate surrounded by acres of forest and secrets, a single breath of peace passed—before all hell was unleashed.

A thunderous explosion shattered the stillness.

The estate trembled as fire erupted, swallowing the east wing in a monstrous blaze. Glass shattered. Metal twisted. Smoke roared through the corridors like a furious storm.

Aria’s scream was lost in the chaos as she was thrown backwards, her body colliding against cold marble. Her ears rang. Her lungs burned. Blood stained the hem of her wedding gown, mixing with soot and ash.

Everything spun.

And when she opened her eyes for a split second—just one—Lorenzo was gone.

No one could find him. Not in the wreckage. Not in the fire.

Just her.

She was the only one left—caught in the inferno, unconscious, broken, but still breathing.

Sirens blared in the distance, but the fire had already consumed the night.

And as the darkness folded her into its arms once more, her last breath whispered a vow even death couldn't silence:

If this is what it means to be his wife... then let the flames try again.