Chapter 1: The Deal is Sealed

Enzo's Pov

 The iron gates creaked open, just wide enough to let Antonio’s black Maserati slip through. 

 The tires crunched over white gravel, past a trimmed hedge maze and a dry marble fountain that looked like it hadn’t been touched since the '80s.

  Edoardo always did like to show off—money, power, control. Everything here was proof of it.

 I sat in the passenger seat, silent, fingers drumming against my knee.

 Antonio glanced sideways at me. “You good?”

 “Let’s just get it over with,” I muttered, adjusting my cufflinks. The air in Edoardo’s estate always felt off.

 Like something rotting was buried just beneath the polished surface.

 “Remember,” Antonio said calmly, “we’re here to finalize, not to start a war.”

 I gave a dry smirk. “If there’s no war, I’ll try not to start one.”

 The car pulled to a stop beneath a columned portico. A man in a tight black suit was already there, waiting to open the door. Edoardo’s guy.

  Always one step ahead.

 Inside, it smelled like expensive cigars and varnish.

 The walls were lined with gold-framed paintings—mostly religious, as if that absolved anything. A maid escorted us through the grand hall into the drawing room where Edoardo was already seated, legs crossed, drink in hand, like he’d been holding court for hours.

 “Antonio,” he said, standing up to greet us, arms wide. “And il Mietitore.” He grinned as he turned to me. “The Reaper himself.”

 I kept my expression blank, just a nod. I hated that name, but men like Edoardo loved it. It made them feel safer, knowing the Devil sat at their table and not across from it.

 “No need to look so stiff, ragazzo,” Edoardo chuckled, settling back into his chair. “You’re not here to bury anyone today. You’re here to get yourself a wife.”

 I didn’t bother to sit right away. “Let’s just cut to it.”

 Antonio took the seat across from Edoardo, ever the diplomat. I remained standing, hands in my pockets, towering in quiet threat.

 “Still so impatient,” Edoardo muttered, shaking his head in amusement. “Fine, fine. You want your meat rare and bloody, eh?” He laughed at his own words, waving a hand to a nearby man, who promptly placed a thin envelope on the table.

 Edoardo pushed it toward me with two fingers.

 “Certified. Clean. Untouched. A gift for you.”

 I stared at the envelope, unmoving. “What is this?”

 Edoardo leaned in. “A gynaecologist’s note. Sealed, signed, stamped. She's a virgin, Enzo. I don’t send used goods to my allies.”

 “She’s barely twenty-one,” I said flatly.

 “She’s of marriageable age,” Edoardo shrugged.

  “You think my mother was twenty-one when she had me?

 Traditions, figlio mio. We don’t wait for girls to turn into women before making them wives. We make them into wives.”

 Antonio stayed silent, though I could feel his discomfort from across the room. But Edoardo didn’t notice—or didn’t care. He leaned back, satisfied.

 I finally sat, slow and calculated, one leg over the other. “Just to be clear,” I said, my voice cool, “I’m not here for meat. I’m here to keep the peace. If this is your idea of hospitality, maybe next time we settle things the old-fashioned way.”

 That landed. Edoardo’s smirk faltered for half a second.

 Antonio cleared his throat, a signal to pull things back before egos got bruised. “Let’s see the girl, Edoardo.”

 Edoardo snapped his fingers. A door opened at the far end of the room.

 She stepped in.

 Arianna.

 I blinked, once. Twice. I hadn’t seen her since she was fifteen—braces, books, shy glances through her lashes. Now, she walked with careful poise, dressed in pale silk that clung a little too well to curves that weren't there before. Her hair fell in soft waves.

 Her lips were painted rose, her eyes lined just enough to seem older. But under all the polish, she still looked... untouched. Nervous.

 They made her look so innocent.

 “Come, tesoro,” Edoardo said, patting the empty seat beside him.

 She obeyed, sitting down with her hands folded tightly in her lap. She didn’t look at me, not directly. Just quick flickers through her lashes before she looked away again.

 “They dressed her up for you,” Edoardo said with a chuckle. “Pretty little thing, no?”

 I didn’t answer. I just watched her.

 She kept her gaze low, but I noticed her knuckles—white from how hard she was gripping her skirt. The girl was terrified. And yet... she was trying not to be. That part hit me unexpectedly. Not fear—restraint. A need to be good. To please.

 I didn’t like that.

 “I want the wedding done in two weeks,” I said suddenly, my voice cutting through the room.

 Edoardo raised a brow. “No grand affair? No string quartet, no doves?”

 “I’m not marrying her for the music.”

 Antonio sighed softly. “Two weeks is fine. We’ll take care of the arrangements.”

 Edoardo shrugged, amused. “Fine by me. Less time to wait for grandchildren.”

 My jaw tightened.

 Edoardo turned to me again, all smiles. “She’s obedient. Well-trained. Knows how to listen, knows how to cook. She’ll make you happy. Give you a home. A warm bed. Good sons.”

 I leaned back, slow, deliberate. “I don't want a bed, this is just a pact so we can stop pretending it's anything more than that.”

 Edoardo laughed. “Always so serious, Reaper. Isn't that one of the reasons you got your name?”

 I didn’t laugh.

 In my head, the word children echoed dully.

 She’ll never bear my children. She’ll never be my wife.

 She’ll never be anything more than what she is.

 I’d make sure of it.