Chapter 2: Dressed For The Devil

Arianna

“Sit still, tesoro. You keep wrinkling the dress.”

I tried, really. But the satin stuck to my thighs, and my nerves made it impossible to stay still. I shifted again on the stool as my mother, Lucia, fussed with the bodice, muttering about my posture and how expensive the gown was.

My sister, Bianca, lounged on the couch nearby, already sipping something fizzy out of a crystal flute. Her hair was pinned perfectly, her lips a deep red. Married at eighteen, bitter at twenty-one, and already looking like she couldn't take one moment of it anymore.

“You’d think you were being crowned Queen of Italy, not just married off,” Bianca said dryly, crossing one leg over the other.

I rolled my eyes, but Lucia glared sharply. “Don’t ruin this for her.”

Bianca lifted her hands. “Fine. I’m silent. Just here for moral support.”

I smoothed the front of my dress. It was beautiful—off-white with a subtle shimmer, the kind of thing I’d dreamed of once, when I was young enough to believe in fairytales. It hugged my waist, dipped just enough at the neckline to feel daring. They’d done my makeup soft, romantic. My hair was pinned up, a few strands left loose around my face.

I looked... older.

Not like myself. But maybe that was the point.

“Just remember,” my mother said, securing the final clasp at the back, “you belong to him now. From tonight on, your life is with him.”

I didn’t answer. My eyes drifted to the mirror. He’d see me in this dress.

Enzo.

I tried not to smile, but my lips betrayed me. Everyone assumed I was some sheltered girl being tossed into the lion’s den, but they didn’t know the half of it.

I’d seen Enzo Romano. Not just glimpsed him at formal events or family meetings, but watched him, listened to the way people spoke his name. The Butcher. Antonio’s right hand. Deadly, respected, feared. And devastatingly handsome.

That part no one ever said aloud, but I’d noticed.

The broad shoulders. The sharp jaw. That calm, quiet way he carried himself, like he didn’t need to raise his voice to dominate a room. He was the kind of man women whispered about behind closed doors and never dared approach.

And now he was going to be my husband.

Would he like me? That was the question that kept echoing in my head. Would he even look at me, really look at me, or would I just be a transaction?

Lucia pulled my face back into focus with two fingers, pressing powder under my eyes.

“You must please him, Arianna. That’s your only job now. Make him happy and give him sons.”

Bianca groaned. “Don’t start with the sons already.”

Lucia ignored her. “A man like Enzo doesn’t want drama. You must be soft. Obedient. Presentable in public, generous in private. You understand?”

I nodded, but my thoughts were already wandering.

Obedient.

Sure.

I wasn’t naive. I might have played the part for years—quiet, delicate, the good daughter—but my mind had wandered places my mother would probably faint over. And when it came to Enzo… I’d imagined more than once what it would be like to kneel for him. Not in shame. Not in submission. But out of want.

I’d never even kissed a man. But that didn’t mean I hadn’t thought about it. Fantasized, late at night when everyone else was asleep. Not about candlelit romance and roses, but about strong masculine hands.

“Your wedding night might hurt,” Lucia added carefully, brushing a curl from my face. “It’s normal. But you endure it. It’s your duty.”

Bianca scoffed. “Duty,” she repeated bitterly. “Mine lasted six minutes and smelled like whiskey and cigars.”

Lucia shot her a look. “You’re not helping.”

“I am helping,” Bianca said. “I’m telling her the truth.”

I looked between them, my heart thudding too loud in my chest. “You’re all terrible at pep talks.”

Bianca smirked. “You want a pep talk? Fine. Here it is: even if he doesn’t love you—which, let’s be honest, he probably won’t—you can still enjoy the sex.”

“Bianca!” my mother snapped.

“I’m just saying,” she said, raising her glass. “Butcher or not, he’s hot. There are worse ways to lose your virginity.”

I blushed, but only slightly. Deep down, I knew Bianca was right, but I didn’t just want duty. I didn’t even want just good sex. I wanted Enzo to like me. I wanted Enzo to fall in love with me.

“I don’t care what anyone says,” Bianca continued. “He’s not like my husband. Enzo’s cold, yes, but he might not be heartless yet. You saw the way he looked at you when they called you in the room?”

I bit the inside of my cheek, trying not to smile. I had seen it. Just a flicker of something behind his eyes. A pause.

“He loved his first wife,” Bianca added.

Lucia huffed. “Men like that don’t love.”

“People said he went crazy when she died.”

“Of course he did,” my mother said flatly. “He had a reputation to protect. Someone kills your wife, you retaliate. You don’t go mad with grief. You go mad for revenge. You don't know what went on in their marriage.”

Silence settled over the room.

Then I sighed. “You two are terrible at cheering me up.”

Bianca laughed and leaned in, brushing a smudge from my cheek. “You’ll be fine. Just remember: if it hurts, close your eyes and pretend it’s not you, and that you’re not there. Works like a charm.”

Lucia clucked her tongue in disapproval, but didn’t correct her.

“Oh,” Bianca added with a wink, “and moan. Loudly. They like that.”

I burst out laughing despite myself, hiding my face in my hands.

A knock at the door interrupted us. A voice from the hallway: “It’s time.”

My breath caught.

Lucia straightened her shoulders. “You’re ready, tesoro.”

Bianca stood, smoothing her dress. “Come on, let’s get you married to the Devil.”

I rose slowly, my gown cascading like water down my legs. I turned toward the mirror. For a second, I didn’t recognize the girl staring back.

Was I ready?

No. But I was willing.

I took one last deep breath, fixed my veil, and whispered under my breath:

“It’s time to marry Enzo Romano.”