Chapter 1: The Bride With No Name

POV: Leona

The room was silent ... except for the sound of my freedom being signed away.

No music. No guests. No white dress. Just the sound of a pen gliding across parchment and the smell of candle wax and cold stone.

I stared at the contract. My name...Leona Moretti...already inked in the elegant, looping handwriting I practiced as a girl. Neat. Obedient. Ladylike. Worthless.

Dante Rizzo didn’t look at me. He sat across the table, a black-gloved hand resting near his untouched glass of champagne. His other hand held the pen. He twirled it once between his fingers before signing his name in a slash of black ink.

It was done.

I was no longer Leona Moretti.

I was Leona Rizzo

I was his.

My brother couldn’t even look at me as I slid the ring onto my own finger. It wasn’t gold, or even silver...just a flat black band of cold metal. Heavy. Ugly. Like a collar. It was something I would never had choose. 

He shifted beside me, shoulders hunched, eyes on the floor. Shame rolled off him in waves, but not enough to stop the exchange. Not enough to make him say, Don’t do this. Not enough to stop me from being handed over like a briefcase full of dirty money.

“Congratulations,” the officiator said quietly, voice trembling. He looked like a man who’d seen things that haunt him in sleep. “You are now husband and wife.”

Dante stood.

I did not.

His voice sliced through the quiet.

“Kneel.”

My pulse stalled.

I turned to look at him...really look at him...for the first time that night.

Mid-thirties. Black suit, no tie. Jet black Hair tousled. A face carved from cruelty: high cheekbones, scar down the right jawline, eyes like dead fire. Cold, but glowing. The kind of man who made you flinch before he even moved. The kind of man who didn’t need to yell.

He tilted his head. Waiting.

I dropped to my knees.

The stone floor was cold against my skin. The fabric of the dress...the one he chose...offered no protection. My hands trembled as I rested them in my lap, trying not to shiver.

Dante stepped closer. One slow step. Then another.

He towered over me.

God, this man was tall. Over 6'4 and lean and muscular. I'm just 5'5 with a lush and curvy figure.

Then he bent ... just enough to press a kiss to the top of my head. A mockery of something gentle.

“That’s better.”

No applause. No rice. No kiss.

Just a rustle of movement as he turned and walked away, leaving me kneeling in front of a contract that bound my life to a stranger.

The officiator vanished. My brother mumbled something under his breath...then followed Dante without so much as a backward glance.

I was alone.

Alone, married, and chained to a man I didn’t know. A man who hadn’t smiled once tonight.

A man who didn’t marry for love, or peace, or family.

He married me because he could.

And now… the real ceremony would begin.

****

The room they led me to was bigger than the chapel.

But colder.

Marble floors. Black silk curtains. A four-poster bed with blood-red sheets. And a single glass of dark liquor waiting on the bedside table. 

There were no flowers. No champagne. No welcome.

Just Dante.

He stood near the window, back to me, jacket now off, shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms inked in sharp, sprawling tattoos. The kind of ink that told stories you weren’t allowed to ask about.

I didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

He turned slowly, glass in hand, eyes traveling down the length of me. Not with desire. Not even curiosity. It was more like an evaluation.

Like I was a new piece of art he hadn’t decided whether to hang or burn.

“There’s only one bed,” he said finally, voice low, like broken velvet. “But don’t worry. I’m not touching you.”

A pause. A cruel smile.

“Not tonight.”

I still said nothing.

What could I say?

Thank you?

Screw you?

Please touch me, so I know I exist?

I lowered my gaze.

He sipped his drink. “Take off the dress.”

My heart jumped. “What?”

He tilted his head, like he’d been expecting the question.

“I bought it. I own it. It served its purpose.”

A pause. Then, sharper:

“Take. It. Off.”

I really don't have a choice.

Or maybe I do but it's just impossible to make.

I swallowed hard and turned around. My fingers fumbled with the zipper. The room felt too quiet, too watchful. I could feel his eyes on my spine like the ghost of a whip.

When the dress slid off and pooled around my feet, I stood in just my underwear. Black lace. Also chosen by him. Tag still attached.

 “Good girl,” he said behind me. His voice deeper and sensual.

Something cracked inside my chest.

Shame? Rage?

No. It was surrender.

Not the weak kind.

The dangerous kind.

He moved past me and tossed a folded black shirt onto the bed.

“Wear that.”

I slipped it on, the scent of him clinging to the fabric...expensive, smoky, woody, dark. I let down my wavy waist-length hair which has been in a bun for hours at that point.

He watched me climb into the bed. Then turned away and moved to the armchair across the room. Not the couch. Not even the edge of the bed. Just far enough to show me he wasn’t staying for me...but because he could.

He took off his watch, rolled his sleeves higher, and sat like a king inspecting his territory.

“Rule one,” he said, eyes closing briefly. “You don’t lock doors. Not from me.”

I stared at him. “I didn’t...”

He opened his eyes. Sharp. Focused. “You will.”

 “Rule two: You don’t speak unless spoken to.”

What am I? A maid or a mute?

“Rule three: You don’t lie.”

“Rule four: You don’t run.”

“And rule five…”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes glinting with something feral.

“You don’t forget who you belong to now.”

I wanted to scream. Cry. Laugh.

Instead, I said nothing.

Just like a good wife should.

He stood and moved to the door.

 “Sleep well, Mrs. Rizzo.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

And I finally let myself breathe.

I didn't realize how tense I was.

But I didn’t sleep.

Because in the house of monsters, peace was just the pause before the scream.