The Devil's Vow #1: Crimson Promises

The warm rays of the Italian sun caressed my skin as I walked through the gardens, the vibrant blooms swaying gently in the breeze. To anyone else, this might have been paradise—a private villa on the outskirts of Milan, sprawling gardens that seemed to stretch forever, and the undeniable luxury of a life untouched by struggle. But to me, it was a cage. A beautiful, gilded cage, but a cage nonetheless.I stopped near the edge of the fountain, the sound of trickling water mingling with the distant chirping of birds. It was peaceful here, but peace was something I had never truly felt. There was always the weight of expectations pressing down on me, a suffocating reminder that no matter how far I wandered in this vast estate, I could never escape the invisible chains that bound me to my family’s name.I reached down to touch a rose, its petals soft against my fingertips. Even flowers like these seemed freer than I was. They could bloom without anyone watching their every move, without s

The air in the underground meeting room felt colder than usual. It wasn’t because of the Moscow winter but because of the man standing at the head of the long, metal table. Damian Volkov, heir to the Russian Bratva, didn’t need to shout to make his presence known. His cold, piercing blue eyes were enough to silence a room, and the men seated before him knew better than to speak without his permission.The room was dimly lit, with a single light casting shadows across the table. Damian stood, tall and unmoving, his sharp features set in a mask of calm authority. He rarely sat during these meetings. Sitting implied comfort, and comfort wasn’t something he allowed in moments like this.“Speak,” he said, his voice low but firm.The men glanced at one another nervously. No one wanted to be the first to talk, but the silence only made the tension worse. Finally, Mikhail, one of Damian’s most trusted lieutenants, cleared his throat.“There’s been movement near our eastern border,” Mikhail sa

I stood in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection. The woman I saw wasn’t someone I recognized. She was a woman who had no say in her own life, whose future had been decided by others. A woman whose entire world had just crumbled around her.It was hard to believe what had just happened, what my father had announced. My heart was still racing, my mind reeling. Damian Volkov. I was supposed to marry him. The heir to the Russian Bratva.The words echoed in my head, drowning out everything else. Marriage. Damian Volkov. It was like a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from.The meeting had been brief, almost clinical, as if my father was discussing the weather rather than the fact that he was offering me up as a pawn to the Volkov family. Giovanni Moretti, the man I had always looked up to, the man who was supposed to protect me, was throwing me into this arrangement like I was nothing more than a tool.A tool for power. A tool to seal a truce with the Bratva.How could he do this to me

The chandelier above me sparkled like thousands of tiny stars, casting shimmering reflections across the grand ballroom. Everything about this engagement gala was designed to impress—the towering floral arrangements, the golden accents on the tables, the soft sound of a live orchestra filling the air. It was breathtaking. And yet, I couldn’t breathe. My dress, a stunning emerald-green gown, felt like a cage wrapped around me, its fabric clinging to my skin as if it wanted to suffocate me. The guests—powerful men and elegant women from both the Moretti and Volkov families—moved around the room like pieces on a chessboard, exchanging pleasantries, shaking hands, making deals hidden beneath polite smiles. This was not a celebration of love. It was a performance. A performance I wanted no part in. I stood beside my father, Giovanni Moretti, who greeted each guest with the confidence of a man who ruled his world. To his right was him—Damian Volkov. My fiancé. The man I had been forced

The dim light from the chandelier cast long shadows across my father’s study, making the already heavy atmosphere feel suffocating. The room smelled of leather, old books, and faint traces of cigar smoke—a scent I had grown up with, one that always meant serious conversations were about to take place. But tonight was different. Tonight, my father wasn’t just making a decision about business or alliances. He was deciding my fate. I sat stiffly in the high-backed leather chair, my hands clenched in my lap as I struggled to keep my emotions in check. Across from me, Giovanni Moretti, my father, sat in his usual position behind the massive wooden desk, his expression unreadable. He had always been a man of power, someone who rarely showed emotion, but tonight, I could see something lurking in his eyes—determination, maybe even a hint of regret. “You know this is the only way, Isabella,” he said, his voice even and controlled. The words felt like a death sentence. I had heard them