Signed in blood

Aria didn't sleep that night.

She sat on the cold windowsill of her tiny apartment, staring out at the city skyline, watching the neon lights blur into streaks of color against the rain-smeared glass.  

Everything inside her was a warzone — anger, fear, resentment, and something darker she didn’t want to name.

Luciano Moretti.

She hated him.  

She hated the way he spoke to her like she was a disobedient child.  

Hated the way his eyes pinned her in place, making her feel seen in a way no one else ever had.  

Hated that underneath all the hate… was heat.

Dangerous, forbidden heat.

She pressed her forehead against the glass and closed her eyes.  

If she didn't sign the contract, she'd be alone. Vulnerable.  

The Bellini name would mean nothing without Luciano’s protection. She would be a target for every enemy their family had ever made — and there were plenty.

The truth was simple: she couldn’t survive this world without him.

And maybe, deep down, she didn’t want to.

The next morning, Aria showed up at Luciano’s mansion — a towering stone fortress perched at the edge of the city like a king’s castle. Black iron gates. Armed guards. Security cameras hidden in every corner.

She hated it on sight.

A butler led her through dark, echoing hallways until they reached a study lined with heavy leather books and the faint scent of gunpowder.

Luciano was already there, standing by the fireplace, a glass of whiskey in hand.

He didn’t look surprised to see her.  

Of course he didn’t. He’d known she would come.

Without speaking, Aria slammed the signed contract onto the desk.

"There," she said, voice tight. "Happy?"

Luciano set his glass down with a soft clink and moved toward her with slow, deliberate steps. His presence filled the room, heavy and inevitable.

"I don’t do happiness," he said.

He picked up the contract, scanned it, and nodded once.  

Final. Irrevocable.

"You’re mine now," he said, like it was a fact of nature. Like gravity. Like death.

Aria's throat tightened. "This doesn’t change anything," she said. "I still hate you."

Luciano's mouth curved in a way that made her skin flush.  

"We’ll see."

***

The wedding was a farce.

A small, private ceremony held in the Moretti family chapel, witnessed only by a few loyal men and a cold-eyed priest who knew better than to ask questions.

Aria wore a simple white dress — no frills, no lace, just a stark symbol of her surrender.  

Luciano wore black, like he was attending a funeral.

In a way, he was.

Aria’s heart pounded as the priest intoned the vows.  

She barely heard the words. Barely registered when Luciano slid a heavy platinum ring onto her finger.

When it was her turn, her hands shook so badly she almost dropped the ring.

Luciano caught her wrist, steadying her with a grip like iron.

"Look at me," he said under his breath.

She looked up — and drowned in his gaze.

Those cold, storm-gray eyes burned into her, stripping away every lie she told herself.  

He wasn’t indifferent.  

He wasn’t detached.

He wanted her.  

Badly.

Aria slid the ring onto his finger with trembling hands.

"You may kiss the bride," the priest said.

The room held its breath.

Luciano didn’t move for a long, terrible second. Then he cupped her face with both hands — rough palms, calloused fingers — and kissed her.

It wasn’t soft.  

It wasn’t sweet.  

It was possession, pure and brutal.

His mouth claimed hers, forcing her lips apart, taking what he wanted without apology.  

Aria gasped against him, her hands flying up to push him away — but when she touched him, she found herself clutching his suit instead, holding on like she was falling off a cliff.

Heat exploded through her.  

All the hatred, all the resentment — it fed the fire instead of putting it out.

When Luciano finally broke the kiss, they were both breathing hard.

His thumb brushed over her lower lip, swollen from his kiss.

"Mine," he murmured so only she could hear.

Aria yanked away from him, fury and shame battling inside her.

She hated him.  

She wanted him.

And now she was his wife.

***

That night, Aria lay in the giant bed in Luciano’s mansion — **their** bed — staring up at the ornate ceiling.

She still wore her wedding dress. She hadn't changed, hadn't showered, hadn't even cried.

She felt… numb.

The door opened without warning.  

Luciano stepped inside, loose tie hanging from his neck, black shirt unbuttoned at the collar.

He closed the door behind him with a soft click, trapping them together.

Aria sat up, heart hammering.

"What do you want?" she snapped.

Luciano didn’t answer with words.  

He prowled toward the bed like a predator stalking its prey.

Aria scrambled back until her spine hit the headboard.

"Don’t touch me," she warned, her voice shaking.

Luciano stopped at the edge of the bed, looking down at her with a hunger that made her blood run cold — and hot.

"I gave you my word," he said. "I won’t take what you don’t give."

Aria blinked.

She hadn’t expected that. Not from him.

"You’re my wife now," he continued, voice rough. "But I’m not a monster, Aria. Not with you."

For a moment, she saw something flicker in his eyes — something almost human.

Almost.

Then it was gone, and he was the cold mafia king again.

"Get some sleep," he said. "You’ll need it."

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and left, leaving her alone with her racing heart and the dangerous warmth blooming in her chest.

She should have felt relief.  

Instead, she felt something far worse.

Disappointment.

***

The days that followed were a blur.

Aria was thrust into a world of endless rules, blood-soaked politics, and silent threats.

Luciano expected her to attend dinners, sit at his side during meetings with dangerous men, smile and play the part of the obedient wife.  

He never touched her. Never even looked at her in a way that crossed the line.

And that — more than anything — drove her crazy.

Because Aria could feel the tension between them, coiling tighter and tighter with every passing day.

She caught him watching her sometimes — when he thought she wasn’t looking. His eyes would darken, his jaw would clench, and he would look away like a man fighting his own demons.

And she was no better.

She dreamed of him at night — dark, wicked dreams that left her aching and furious with herself.

She hated him.

She wanted him.

She was losing her mind.

***

One night, it finally snapped.

They were at a private dinner with a few of Luciano’s captains.  

Aria wore a blood-red dress that clung to her body like a second skin — a deliberate act of rebellion.

She laughed too loudly, leaned in too close to one of the captains.  

She saw Luciano’s jaw tighten.  

Saw the cold fury in his eyes.

Good, she thought savagely.  

Let him burn.

When the dinner ended, Luciano said nothing as he led her back to their mansion.  

Nothing as he closed the door behind them.

The silence was deafening.

"You made a fool of yourself tonight," he said finally, voice low and dangerous.

Aria crossed her arms, heart pounding.  

"I had fun."

Luciano stalked toward her.

"You embarrassed me."

"Good," she said, lifting her chin. "Maybe now you’ll remember I’m not some toy you can shove in a corner."

He stopped a breath away from her.  

The air crackled between them.

"You want my attention, Aria?" he growled.  

"You have it."

Before she could react, he grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head against the wall.

His body pressed into hers, hard and unyielding.

Aria gasped, heart slamming against her ribs.

"Careful," he said, voice rough. "You’re playing with fire."

Her eyes blazed. "Maybe I want to burn."

Something in Luciano snapped.

His mouth crashed down on hers — brutal, claiming, unstoppable.  

And this time, Aria didn’t fight it.

She kissed him back with all the fury and longing she’d bottled up for weeks, pouring every ounce of hate and hunger into him.

Luciano groaned low in his throat, his grip tightening on her wrists.

"You drive me insane," he growled against her mouth.

"Good," she panted. "I hope you suffer."

He laughed — a dark, broken sound — and kissed her again, deeper, harder.

For the first time, they weren't pretending.

For the first time, they let the truth between them blaze.

It was wrong.  

It was dangerous.

And it was inevitable.

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