4

Clad in an elegant off-white gown, Vera stood in front of the mirror, staring at herself. Her cheeks were still flushed, her eyes swollen from all the crying. She had taken a long, scalding shower, trying to scrub away the blood, the guilt, the memory—but nothing helped. She had cried until her voice broke.

She would never forgive Roman. But more than that, she would never forgive herself—for letting another innocent come close.

Her hands still trembled. She could feel the ghost of Darien’s last touch, and the memory of his blood on her lips made her stomach twist. Pulling a soft shrug over her dress, she wished the ground would open and swallow her whole.

But no such mercy came. She was still alive—still caged inside the Devil’s mansion, where hope didn’t exist. A soft thud at the door broke her trance. Her reflection in the mirror mirrored the pain she was trying so hard to hide. “Come in,” she said quietly, The handmaid stepped inside, keeping her eyes lowered. “Señor is calling for you. It’s getting late.”

Vera gave a faint nod and followed her out. The hallway was quiet, the only sound was the steady clack of her heels echoing against the marble floor.

When she reached the front, Roman left. Of course, he didn’t wait for her. He never did. He couldn't even bear her presence beside him. The idea of him escorting her, even just pretending to be a husband, was laughable. She lifted the hem of her dress and picked up her pace. One of the guards opened the car door for her.  Without a word, she slid into the cold leather seat. The door shut, and silence wrapped around her like a second skin.

But this wasn’t the worst part. The worst was still waiting—inside that mansion where she would once again be reminded of how deeply the people Roman surrounded himself with hated her.

The car rolled to a stop. A man opened the door, and she placed her hand in his for support, stepping out gracefully. The Benedetti Family—an empire built on fear and power. In the mafia world, their name commanded silence. And if there was one thing Vera shared with Roman, it was the mutual dread of stepping into this house. Roman’s father had remarried after his mother passed away. His new wife bore him more children—Roman’s half-siblings. And like most fractured families, there was no love lost between them. They never accepted Roman as their own. It was a war of bloodlines—a constant battle over legacy. Who would inherit the throne? Roman, the firstborn son, or one of his younger half-brothers?

Tonight’s gathering had been called by Roman’s grandfather—the man who still believed Roman was the rightful heir. But belief came with conditions. Roman had to prove himself. He had to earn the crown.

He was the first grandson, but that didn’t guarantee the throne. The old man had made it clear—Roman’s position would be sealed only when he gave the family a great-grandchild. A child born of his blood and legacy.

That’s when Vera entered the picture.

A political bride. A bargaining chip. A sacrifice dressed in white. Her marriage to Roman wasn’t built on love—it was an arrangement, a game of power. The wedding had triggered even more tension within the family, especially because it was her—an outsider, chosen by the grandfather himself.

What Vera never understood was why Roman agreed. He hated her. He made it clear every day. Yet he stood at that altar. Her father once hinted that there was another reason beyond the grandfather’s condition—something left unspoken. Something about proving their family’s innocence in a matter she was never told about.

 She still didn’t know what it was.

Her thoughts were cut short when the tall double doors in front of her opened. A blast of cold air hit her skin, and before her stood the familiar faces—eyes she knew too well.

“There she is,” came a voice layered with fake warmth.

A woman in her fifties approached Vera—Roman’s stepmother. She wore heavy makeup that did little to hide the lines of age, her attempts to look younger making her appear more desperate than elegant. Manipulative, cold, and calculating—she had always been that way.

“Hello, Mrs. Benedetti,” Vera said politely, her voice quiet but composed.

The woman wrapped her in a tight hug, and Vera stiffened. It was all for show. Anyone with eyes could see it.

Before Vera could fully step back, a hand extended a glass of wine toward her.

“Well, someone’s looking… beautiful.” That pause—it was enough. Enough to feel the filth behind the compliment. Luciano.

Roman’s stepbrother stood in front of her, his grin smug, his gaze shamelessly wandering. As he handed her the glass, his fingers grazed the small of her back. The contact burned like acid on her skin.

Her eyes instinctively searched for Roman. It felt wrong to look for a man who didn’t care whether she lived or died—but did she have a choice? Roman was the only one who could stop what was about to unfold.

“Vera… how are you?” Luciano’s voice dipped lower as he leaned in, his lips brushing her shoulder.

She tensed and pulled away, shrugging off his touch. “I’m fine,” she replied curtly, stepping back as she firmly removed his hand from her body.

“I heard your little NGO is doing well,” he added, eyes still fixed on her chest. “I’m sure it’s only because such a beautiful woman is running it.”

She flinched as his fingers trailed down her arm—every touch sending a fresh wave of revulsion through her.

“Luciano, please,” she snapped. “I’m your brother’s wife.”

She tried to step away again, but he gripped her forearm and yanked her closer. His mother, Roman’s stepmother, watched from the side, saying nothing. In fact, she offered a smile, expertly masking the vile act unfolding in front of her.

Luciano leaned in, his voice now dripping with venom. “Let me fuck you once. I’ll put a baby in you… Give my poor brother the heir he’s waiting for.” The words hit like a slap. It wasn’t just vulgar. It was cruel.

He had twisted the dagger deep into her biggest wound. Her failure to conceive. The shame, the pressure, the silent blame placed upon her shoulders. "Stop it… Please," Vera muttered, choked with the sting of tears. Luciano's grip on her arm was brutal, his nails digging into her skin like thorns.

She tried to shift her gaze, to find help, her eyes locked on the approaching figures—Roman, tall and devastating in his tailored black suit, and beside him, draped in crimson like a warning, was Lillith. Her smile glinted with poison, her hand looped confidently through Roman’s arm. Luciano finally let go of her arm and took a step back. He knew what was coming.