Vows of sin

Romano Estate, Sicily

Alessia Romano stood at the edge of the marble balcony, the cool evening breeze teasing strands of her dark hair free from their chignon. Below, the estate was alive with light and laughter, the elite of the mafia world gathered like royalty under a canopy of crystal chandeliers and gilded ceilings. Everything was pristine, choreographed, perfect.

Except her.

The dress her father had chosen clung to her figure like a second skin—black silk, strapless, slit to the thigh. A calculated display, a silent message to every man in attendance: Look, but don’t touch. She’s already spoken for.

She traced the rim of her untouched champagne glass, jaw clenched tight enough to ache. This wasn’t a party. It was a transaction.

And she was the currency.

Below, her father, Don Lorenzo Romano, lifted his glass in the center of the grand ballroom. His voice, smooth and authoritative, rang out across the hall.

“To peace,” he announced, eyes gleaming with triumph. “To an alliance forged not through bloodshed, but through unity. And to the future of our families—bound by honor, and by marriage.”

A murmur of applause rose, echoing against the frescoed ceilings. Alessia’s pulse pounded in her ears as her father turned slightly, his hand gesturing to the man beside him.

Dante Moretti.

He stepped forward, and the world seemed to narrow around him. No fanfare. No dramatics. Just raw presence.

Tall. Impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit, no tie, shirt open at the collar like he couldn’t be bothered with the pretense of civility. His hair was dark, tousled just enough to hint at recklessness, and ink danced along his neck, disappearing beneath the collar—a dragon, she thought, or maybe a demon.

His eyes met hers. Steel-gray. Cold. Calculating.

Dante Moretti didn’t smile.

He never had to.

A chill slid down her spine.

“As part of this historic union,” her father continued, “my daughter, Alessia, will be wed to Don Moretti.”

There it was. The sentence that sealed her fate.

The room erupted into polite cheers. Glasses clinked, women clutched pearls and whispered approval, and the men—rivals and allies alike—watched with envy thinly veiled beneath admiration.

But Alessia remained still, lips pressed into a tight line. Not a flinch. Not a gasp.

Her training had taught her to hide every emotion, but inside, she burned.

You lied to me, Father.

He’d promised her choices. Freedom. The ability to finish law school abroad. But it had all been a smokescreen, a distraction while he plotted her future behind closed doors.

Dante began walking toward her, cutting through the crowd like a blade. With every step, the tension grew. The air turned heavy, oppressive, electric.

Alessia didn’t move.

She refused to.

He stopped just inches from her, tall enough that she had to tilt her chin slightly to meet his gaze. Up close, he was even more dangerous. Refined in the way only men with too much power and too many sins could be.

“Alessia,” he murmured, voice low and dark as midnight.

She arched a brow, her voice sharp as crystal. “Don Moretti.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Amusement. Curiosity. Possession.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said.

“And you’re exactly what I feared.”

That earned the ghost of a smirk. “Good. Fear keeps things interesting.”

His hand reached for her waist, but she sidestepped him smoothly, placing her glass on a nearby tray with deliberate grace.

“If you think I’ll be obedient,” she said, voice barely above a whisper, “you’ve made a grave mistake.”

Dante leaned in, his breath brushing her ear. “Obedience is earned. Not demanded. I don’t expect a pet. I expect a queen who knows where her loyalty lies.”

Her heart thudded once, hard. Damn him for knowing exactly how to bait her pride.

“I have loyalty,” she whispered, “but it’s not yours yet.”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t threaten. That made it worse.

Because Dante Moretti didn’t need to raise his voice to command obedience. His silence was more dangerous than most men’s rage.

As he stepped back, he offered a slight nod. “We’ll speak soon.”

Then he was gone, swallowed by the crowd. But Alessia could still feel him—like smoke clinging to her skin.

She turned and slipped out of the ballroom through the side hallway, her heels clicking against the ancient stone. Her bedroom door slammed behind her, the sound echoing through the silence.

She peeled the dress off with trembling fingers, trading it for a silk robe as she paced the length of the room.

This marriage wasn’t just a deal. It was a cage. A calculated power move to end decades of bloodshed between the Romano and Moretti syndicates.

And she was the ribbon tied around the arrangement.

But Dante wasn’t just any mafia heir. He was a man with a reputation that even the most hardened killers whispered about behind closed doors.

He ran the northern territories with ruthless precision. Rumors surrounded him like smoke—women disappearing after one night in his bed, enemies buried in unmarked graves, and a lust for control that bordered on obsession.

But what scared her most wasn’t the danger.

It was the way he looked at her.

Like he already owned her. Body. Mind. Soul.

She sat at her vanity, staring at her reflection. Her lips were painted red, her eyes lined with smoke, but the girl beneath it all—the girl who once dreamed of living far from this world—was still there. Barely.

No. She gripped the edge of the table. I won’t disappear. I won’t become a shadow of myself to make a devil like him happy.

A knock came at the door. Firm. Measured.

“El,” came from her cousin Chiara’s voice. “They’re asking for you again. Your father wants you back downstairs.”

Alessia stood slowly, inhaling a steady breath before tightening the robe belt and smoothing her hair.

She had until the wedding to find a way out. Or at least, a way to survive this.

Because Dante Moretti might be her future husband, but she would never let him break her.

Not without a fight.

And if he wanted a queen?

He’d better be ready for the war that came with her crown.