2. Lying is a sin

Author: Blessing Akor

Last Updated: 2025-12-28 22:22:54

The air in the chateau’s grand parlor was thick enough to choke a man. It smelled of expensive cigars, ancient floor wax, and the metallic tang of unspoken threats. Roman Moretti stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his tailored trousers. Outside, the armored SUV sat like a dark stain on the pristine gravel driveway.

"They’re late," Roman muttered, his voice a low grate.

"They're the Lombardis, Roman," his father, Vincenzo, replied from the leather armchair. "They don't arrive; they manifest."

Roman’s mother, Maria, was pacing near the fireplace. Her fingers fretted over the silk of her sleeves, her face a mask of anxiety. She was worried about the pearls, worried about the salmon, but mostly, she was worried about the woman who had been a ghost for twenty-three years.

Cruz leaned against the doorframe, checking his watch. "Maybe the 'ugly princess' had a wardrobe malfunction. Or maybe she’s busy practicing how to walk in those heels we saw with the dresses."

Roman didn't laugh. His mind was still on the center dress—the sheath-styled one that pooled on the floor. He had chosen it precisely because it looked restrictive. He wanted her contained. He wanted her to feel the weight of the Moretti name the moment the fabric touched her skin.

The Arrival

The double doors swung open. Carmine Lombardi entered first. He was a man of iron and shadow, the architect of an empire that spanned from the coast of Spain to the heart of London. Behind him walked Emilio, the brother-in-law Roman actually respected—the only other man in his inner circle of trust.

"Vincenzo," Carmine greeted, his voice like grinding stones. The two older men embraced—a performance of brotherhood that fooled no one.

Roman stepped forward, his eyes scanning the space behind them. Empty.

"Where is she?" Roman asked, skipping the pleasantries.

Carmine’s eyes shifted to Roman. A small, knowing smirk played on his lips. "Tradition, Roman. You know the rules we signed. You see her at the altar. Not a second before."

"I see," Roman said, his jaw tightening. "So, we are here to exchange gifts with a ghost."

The Exchange

Maria stepped forward, holding a velvet box. Inside lay the diamond-and-pearl necklace she had agonized over. "For Angeline. To symbolize the luck she brings to our union."

Emilio took the box, his expression unreadable. "She will appreciate the gesture, Donna Maria. In return..." He gestured to a guard, who brought forward a heavy wooden case.

Inside was a Patek Philippe wristwatch, the platinum casing catching the light. It was a peace offering, a bribe, and a shackle all in one. Roman let his father take it. He didn't want anything from them.

"She’s excited, you know," Emilio said, moving toward Roman. He dropped his voice so only the younger men could hear. "She’s spent her whole life in rooms with locked doors, Roman. Don't think for a second she’s the 'polished doll' your mother expects."

Roman looked at his future brother-in-law. "I don't care what she is, Emilio. She’s a contract. She’ll have her own estate, her own life, and I’ll have mine".

Emilio let out a short, dry laugh. "You think you can just put a Lombardi in a cage and walk away? You’ve clearly never met my sister."

The Shadow in the Hall

As the fathers discussed the final logistics of the "showstopping alliance," Roman slipped out of the parlor. He needed air. He walked toward the dressing room where the mannequins stood, their white chiffon shimmering in the afternoon sun.

He stopped in front of the center dress. He reached out, his thumb brushing the fabric. It was soft, far softer than he expected.

Suddenly, the side door—the one leading to the servants' quarters—creaked.

"You aren't supposed to be in here, Roman."

The voice was melodic, feminine, and held a razor-sharp edge. Roman spun around, his hand instinctively reaching for the piece tucked into the small of his back.

A woman stood in the shadows of the hallway. He couldn't see her face—she wore a heavy silk veil, part of the "unseen" clause the Lombardis had fought so hard for. But he could see her silhouette. She wasn't the "disgustingly ugly" creature he had pictured. She was tall, her posture perfect, her presence commanding the very air in the room.

"Angeline?" he breathed.

"The one and only," she replied. She stepped forward, just enough for the light to hit her gloved hands. She reached out and touched the same dress he had been looking at. "A column-styled sheath. Bold choice, Roman. You want me to look like a statue. Cold. Unmoving."

"I want you to look like a Moretti," he corrected.

"I will never be a Moretti," she whispered, and even through the veil, he could feel her eyes burning into him. "I will simply be the ruin you never saw coming."

Before he could respond, before he could reach out and rip that veil from her face, she vanished back into the shadows. The scent she left behind—vanilla and expensive gunpowder—lingered in the air long after she was gone.

Roman stood alone in the room with the three white dresses. For the first time in his life, the Don of La Cosa Nostra felt a flicker of genuine fear.

He had intended for her to live an hour away until she died. But as he looked at the glimmering fabric of the wedding gown, he realized the truth.

He wouldn't be the one keeping her away. She was the one who was already pulling him in.

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Sinful Virtues 16. The Concrete Fortress
The transition from the sun-drenched, ancient stone of Sicily to the steel and smog of New York City was a jarring descent into a different kind of hell. As the private jet touched down at Teterboro under a shroud of gray, freezing rain, the news reaching Roman’s encrypted phone was worse than Stefano had predicted.Manhattan was bleeding.Vincenzo Moretti, in a fit of senile megalomania and spite, hadn't just invited the Russians in—he had opened the gates and handed them the keys. The Vory v Zakone, led by a cold-blooded butcher named Viktor Drago, had already seized three Moretti distribution hubs in Queens and turned a neutral social club in Little Italy into a charnel house."The city is a war zone," Silas reported as they climbed into a modified, lead-lined SUV that felt more like a tank than a luxury vehicle. "Your father has gone underground. He’s ceded the northern territories to Drago in exchange for protection. He’s essentially declared you a rogue element, Roman. To the Ru
Sinful Virtues 15. The Lion’s Throat
The Sicilian dawn was not a beginning; it was a reckoning. The light that crept over the rugged limestone cliffs was the color of a fading bruise, illuminating the carnage of the night before. Inside the villa, the air was stagnant, heavy with the metallic scent of spilled Nero d’Avola and the ozone of a house on the brink of collapse.Roman stood on the balcony, his shirt unbuttoned, the cool morning mist clinging to his skin. He watched as the Sicilian Capos—men who had sat at Stefano’s table for thirty years—systematically stripped the villa of its loyalist guards. They were moving with the efficiency of scavengers. Stefano was still alive, locked in the wine cellar where he had once stored his finest vintages, but his power had evaporated the moment Angeline had exposed his ledger."He’s asking for you," Silas said, appearing in the doorway. Silas looked exhausted, his suit jacket discarded, his holster visible. "Stefano. He says he will only speak to a Moretti man. He refuses to
Sinful Virtues 14. The Bitter Salt of Sicily
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Sinful Virtues 13. The High-Altitude Cage
The Gulfstream G650 sliced through the midnight sky at forty thousand feet, a silver needle threading the dark fabric of the Atlantic. Inside the cabin, the atmosphere was a pressurized mix of luxury and lethal intent. Every surface was polished to a mirror finish—the burl wood tables, the cream leather reclining chairs, the crystal decanters filled with golden liquid that cost more than a common man’s annual salary.Roman sat in the wide captain’s chair, a stack of folders spread across the desk in front of him. He wasn't reading. His eyes were fixed on the window, watching the moonlight reflect off the engine casing. They were headed to Sicily—the ancestral heart of the Moretti bloodline. It was a place where tradition was more sacred than the Bible, and where a woman at a Commission table was considered an abomination that only fire could purge."You haven't slept," Angeline’s voice drifted from the back of the cabin.He turned. She was emerging from the private sleeping quarters,
Sinful Virtues 12. The Den of Lions
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Sinful Virtues 11. The Scarcity of Mercy
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