Don’t you dare try shit with me tonight

Fina

The night air hit my skin as I stepped out.

The mansion loomed ahead of us — massive, intimidating in its polished arrogance. Black stone walls. Tall glass windows glowing from within. The kind of place built not just for wealth, but for dominance.

The driveway was lined with cars, sleek and dark, engines still ticking from recent arrival. Men stood in clusters, guns resting casually at their sides like accessories. Not hidden. Just there. A quiet reminder of what this world truly was.

Security was everywhere.

But this wasn’t the loud, flashy Nostra gatherings I’d attended with my parents. Those had music spilling into the gardens, laughter too loud, politics disguised as celebration. Those parties had champagne fountains and women dressed to outshine one another.

This felt different.

Quieter and controlled. Intimate in a way that made it more dangerous.

Dario’s men were already positioned — near the entrance, along the perimeter, eyes scanning, hands resting close to their weapons. No one smiled. No one relaxed.

This wasn’t a party.

This was a meeting disguised as one. He offered me his arm.

I hesitated for half a second before taking it.

His sleeve brushed against my bare skin. We walked inside together.

The doors opened to warm lighting and low conversation. The chandelier above us cast a soft gold glow over marble floors and polished tables. The scent of expensive cologne and aged whiskey hung in the air.

Not crowded. Not chaotic. Just enough people to matter.

The kind of guest list where every single person carried weight.

I recognized a few faces. Old allies. Rivals. Men who had once stood beside my father in rooms like this. Men who had watched me grow up from a distance.

Their eyes shifted when we entered. To him.

Then to me. Then to the ring.

The diamond caught the light almost deliberately, flashing like a signal.

Whispers started immediately — subtle, but present.

An older man approached first — tall, silver hair, sharp eyes that missed nothing. He carried himself like someone who had survived decades in this world by never underestimating anyone.

“Rivero.”

“Nelson,” Dario replied smoothly, shaking his hand.

Their handshake lasted a second longer than necessary. A silent exchange. A measurement of strength.

I felt Dario’s fingers tighten slightly around mine — subtle, but deliberate, it was a warning.

“Congratulations,” Nelson said, his gaze sliding to me. “So it’s true.”

Dario smiled faintly. “It is.”

He pulled me slightly forward, presenting me without ever letting go.

“My wife.”

“To be,” I corrected immediately, before I could stop myself. “We’re not actually married yet.”

There was a brief pause. Not loud. But heavy.

Nelson’s brows lifted just slightly.

Dario turned his head slowly toward me.

His expression didn’t change — but his eyes darkened.

“In a few hours,” he said calmly, his voice smooth as silk stretched over steel, “that won’t change anything. She’s mine.”

The word settled between us.

Mine. Not partner. Not fiancée.

Mine.

Nelson chuckled lightly, amused by the tension he could clearly feel. “Well then. Welcome.”

We were ushered further inside to a table near the center of the room. Not at the back. Not hidden, but visible.

We were Important guests, and as we sat, I could feel it. The stares.

Women watching him, men watching me — curious, calculating.

I told myself I didn’t care.

This was a contract. A peace agreement wrapped in silk and diamonds. I had been handed to the very man who once put my father in a position so vulnerable it nearly destroyed us.

This wasn’t romance.

This was strategy. But strategy didn’t stop the way his hand rested on my thigh beneath the table.

Claiming.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against my ear.

“Don’t you dare try shit with me tonight.”

I smiled sweetly at him, keeping my expression soft for anyone watching.

“You could beg better than that, husband.”

His chuckle was low. Dark and not amused.

Drinks were served.

Crystal glasses placed gently before us. Bottles opened with quiet efficiency.

He reached for a glass of juice and slid it toward me.

I stared at it.

“Really?”

“You don’t need champagne.”

“And you don’t need control issues,” I replied lightly, though my jaw was tight.

Before he could stop me, I picked up two glasses of champagne from the tray beside us. I lifted one and drank it in a single smooth motion without lowering it.

The burn slid down my throat. Sharp. Defiant.

He watched me. Brows slightly drawn.

I reached for the second, but his hand caught my wrist.

“Easy.”

I tilted my head. “What?”

“I don’t know what you’re trying to prove,” he said quietly, his tone pleasant but his grip firm, “but I don’t want my partners thinking I married an alcoholic.”

A few people were glancing our way now.

“Then don’t bring me to a party and tell me not to drink,” I shot back softly.

His grip tightened just enough to remind me who he was.

“Easy on the champagne, Wife.”

The word again. It possessive and Infuriating.

“You know what?” I exhaled, setting the glass down. “I’m going to the bathroom. My lipstick is smudged. My husband ruined it in the car.”

His jaw ticked.

Before he could respond, I stood.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him signal one of his men to follow me.

Of course. Even my solitude came supervised.

I walked toward the hallway, heels clicking softly against polished marble. The music was low, something classical and slow. Conversations hushed slightly as I passed. I could feel eyes tracing the curve of my dress, the diamond on my hand, the man who had claimed me without ceremony yet.

In the bathroom, I locked myself inside and faced the mirror.

For a moment, I just stared. Red dress hugging my body.

Diamond ring heavy on my finger.

Eyes slightly flushed from champagne — or something else.

Then I noticed it, a dark mark on my neck.

My breath caught. I leaned closer.

A hickey.

Clear and deliberate. Impossible to miss if someone looked long enough.

I sucked in air sharply.

“The bastard,” I whispered.

He wanted everyone to see it.

He wanted them to know that I was claimed.

As if marrying him wasn’t punishment enough.

I pressed my fingers against the mark, as if I could erase it. As if rubbing hard enough would undo everything.

In a few hours, it would be official.

In a few hours, I would stand before this room and become Ikkohafina Rivero.

His wife. His property. His peace offering.

I didn’t know how I was going to survive that.

I didn’t know how I was going to live the rest of my life tied to a man who could ruin me with a look and make my body betray me with a touch.

And the worst part?

A part of me wasn’t sure I wanted to escape as much as I should.

That part terrified me more than anything else.

I stared at the ring again.

It was beautiful. And for the first time today, fear didn’t feel sharp.

It felt slow. Like something settling in.

Like a cage closing quietly instead of slamming shut.