The Devil’s House

The ink was still drying when Riccardo slid the contract back into the folder with the precision of a man sealing someone’s fate.

Camilla stared at the paper, her pulse thudding in her ears. Her signature looked foreign beside her father’s. Like a final breath before drowning.

“That’s it?” she whispered. “It’s done?”

Riccardo nodded. “Congratulations, Mrs. Falcone.”

The words hit her like a slap.

She wasn’t married. Not really. Not in the way it was supposed to mean. This was a transaction. She had sold herself to the devil and signed it in ink instead of blood.

And he wore satisfaction like a tailored suit.

“You’ll move into my house by tonight,” he added. “You’ll find the terms of your… stay quite livable.”

“Like a gilded prison,” she muttered.

He smirked. “Only if you try to run.”

She shot him a glare, but he’d already turned his back, reaching for his phone. “Car will be outside in twenty minutes. Pack light.”

“I’m not a stray dog you picked up off the street.”

Riccardo looked at her over his shoulder. “No. You’re a lioness in chains. Dangerous, angry, and trying very hard not to show how afraid you are.”

Her heart caught. Because damn it—he was right.

But she refused to let him see it again.

—

The car that arrived was sleek, black, and armored. The kind of vehicle that didn’t obey traffic laws and had bulletproof windows. Riccardo opened the door himself, motioning with a small, mocking bow.

“After you, Mrs. Falcone.”

She wanted to punch him.

Instead, she got in without a word, clutching the single bag she’d thrown together. A few clothes. A toothbrush. Her mother’s necklace.

Nothing that would tie her down. Nothing that could be taken from her—except herself.

Riccardo sat beside her like a king in his throne, legs spread casually, phone in hand. She hated how effortlessly he wore power. Like he didn’t even need to try.

“So what’s the next step?” she asked after a while. “Do I get a wedding ring or a cage?”

He chuckled. “Both, eventually.”

“You really are the devil.”

He met her gaze, something unreadable flickering behind his dark eyes. “No, Camilla. I’m worse.”

—

His house—mansion was more like it—was perched at the edge of a cliff in Long Island. It overlooked the Atlantic Ocean, waves crashing below like distant thunder. The gates alone looked like they could withstand a military assault. The estate was wrapped in stone walls, security cameras, and silence.

“You call this home?” she asked as they stepped out of the car.

He didn’t answer. Just led her inside.

The interior was… elegant, in a way that made her feel instantly out of place. Marble floors. Chandeliers. A grand staircase. Every corner was spotless and cold. Like no one actually lived here.

A maid appeared almost immediately. Young. Blond. Pretty. She gave Camilla a curious glance before turning to Riccardo with a bow of her head.

“Your room is ready, sir.”

Riccardo gestured for Camilla to follow. “Come.”

She didn’t move.

“I said I’d marry you. I didn’t say I’d follow you like a dog.”

He turned slowly, arching a brow. “That’s true. But this isn’t about obedience, Camilla. It’s about survival. And if you want to survive here, you’ll learn which battles are worth fighting.”

She met his gaze, her chin lifted. “Then lead the way, husband.”

He smirked and walked on.

—

Her room was on the second floor. Huge. Overlooking the ocean. White walls, dark wood furniture, a fireplace, and a walk-in closet that looked more like a boutique.

Camilla stared at it in disbelief. “You’re joking.”

“What?”

“You kidnapped me, forced me into a marriage contract, and now you’re giving me a five-star suite?”

Riccardo leaned against the doorframe. “I told you. This isn’t a cage, unless you make it one.”

“You think you can buy me with silk sheets?”

“No,” he said simply. “But I know comfort softens the edge of resentment. Eventually.”

She wanted to scream. Cry. Punch him. But instead, she asked the one question that had been eating at her since he’d shown up.

“Why me?”

Riccardo’s eyes darkened.

She took a step closer. “You could’ve killed my father. Wiped the debt clean. But you wanted me. Why?”

His jaw tightened, and for the first time, she saw a crack in his armor.

“Because he owed me something I couldn’t put a price on,” Riccardo said quietly. “And you… you were the only thing he ever valued more than himself.”

The words stunned her.

She barely remembered a time her father had looked at her with anything other than regret. Could that be true?

“You’re lying.”

“Believe what you want. But you’re mine now.”

And with that, he left.

—

Night fell like a curtain of silence.

Camilla stood at the balcony, arms wrapped around herself. The ocean roared below, wild and untamed—just like her thoughts.

What the hell had she gotten herself into?

She didn’t sleep much. Her dreams were filled with smoke, gunshots, and a man with eyes like fire and ice. Every time she turned, he was there. Watching. Waiting.

The next morning, a knock came at her door just after dawn.

“Get dressed,” Riccardo’s voice called through the door. “We’re going to church.”

She blinked. “Church?”

“You want a wedding, don’t you?”

She yanked the door open, scowling. “A little late for that, don’t you think?”

He looked her over, still in her pajamas. “Ten minutes. Wear something white.”

And just like that, he was gone.