The Devil’s Bride

Dante Moretti’s POV

Power didn’t need to shout.

It didn’t flaunt, beg, or tremble.

It watched. It waited. It crushed anything that didn’t bow.

Dante Moretti understood that better than anyone.

He stood alone on the Romano balcony long after the guests had returned to their champagne and shallow conversations, his eyes fixed on the moonlit garden below. From this height, the world looked so quiet. So still. As if chaos wasn’t pulsing just beneath the surface of it all.

As if Alessia Romano hadn’t looked at him tonight like she wanted to bury a knife in his chest.

A slow smirk curved his mouth.

She’d be a challenge. He’d known that before he ever laid eyes on her. The Romano heiress was sharp-tongued, prideful, beautiful—an untamed flame wrapped in silk and pearls.

But what the world didn’t understand was that Dante didn’t fear fire.

He consumed it.

He took a long sip from his crystal tumbler, letting the bourbon burn its way down his throat. Below, the party raged on. Don Lorenzo was playing the role of peacemaker, offering cigars and false laughter to the very men who had tried to slit his throat five years ago. Fools in tuxedos toasted to alliances they barely understood, as if a marriage could tame years of blood, betrayal, and bullets.

But Dante had never believed in peace.

He believed in power. And marrying Alessia wasn’t about love or loyalty—it was about leverage.

She was the Romano legacy in human form. And once she wore his ring, there would be no more lines drawn in blood. No more questions about who ruled the south.

He would.

Still, her defiance intrigued him.

The way she held her chin high, even when cornered. The fire in her eyes. She was raised to obey, to smile, to curtsy—and yet she’d faced him like a queen, not a pawn.

He’d half expected her to break. Instead, she bared her teeth.

And that made him want her even more.

A soft knock came at the terrace door. Nico, his right hand, entered—silent, dressed in black, like a shadow given form.

“She’s not going to make it easy for you,” Nico said with a crooked grin. “Maybe you should’ve picked a quieter bride.”

Dante didn’t glance at him. “I don’t want quiet. I want control.”

“And what if control slips?”

“It won’t.”

“She’s not one of your mistresses, Dante. She has teeth. And her father’s watching you like a hawk.”

Dante downed the rest of his drink and set the glass on the ledge.

“I’ve handled worse than a pretty heiress.”

“You’ve killed worse,” Nico corrected. “But this isn’t about killing. This is about keeping her close long enough to claim everything her last name owns.”

Dante turned then, slowly, eyes colder than winter. “You think I don’t know that?”

Nico held up his hands. “I’m just saying. Don’t let the pretty face fool you. She hates you.”

A flicker of something unreadable passed through Dante’s eyes.

“I don’t need her love. Just her obedience.”

But even as he said it, the memory of her scent—jasmine and wild defiance—ghosted over him. And for a man who ruled with discipline, who never let his flesh dictate his actions, that alone was a dangerous thing.

Later that night, Dante sat alone in his room at the Romano estate, files spread out across the antique oak desk. Contracts. Bank accounts. Shipping manifests. Every thread of the Romano empire laid bare.

But his eyes kept drifting to a single photo.

Alessia.

Taken at a charity gala two years ago. Laughing, her hand caught mid-gesture, hair in soft waves. Pure. Untouched. A princess before the storm.

He hadn’t planned to marry her at first. The alliance was meant to be ink on paper. But then he saw her—once, briefly, in Milan.

She hadn’t noticed him. But he had noticed everything.

The way her smile never reached her eyes. The way she stood apart from the crowd, poised but distant, like she was constantly calculating escape.

She was too beautiful for her own good. Too clever. Too proud.

And Dante had known, with perfect certainty, that she had to be his.

Not just to conquer the Romano name.

But because something dark and primal inside him wanted her. Craved the challenge. The resistance. The slow, inevitable breaking.

He never played with his food. But Alessia… she was the first exception.

A knock at the door broke his thoughts.

Nico entered again, brows furrowed. “We have a problem.”

Dante looked up, voice a cold command. “Speak.”

“Antonio Giordano was spotted leaving through the back garden. He wasn’t invited tonight.”

Dante’s jaw flexed. “Why the hell was he here?”

“We think he came to see Alessia. Alone.”

Dante’s blood turned to ice.

Giordano. The bastard son of an exiled Don. A minor threat, but foolish enough to dream. He’d courted Alessia briefly last year. Whispered promises. Flowers. Letters.

All before disappearing when war loomed.

Now he was back.

And he’d dared to sneak into the estate?

Dante stood slowly, like a storm rising.

“Where is he now?”

“Gone. But we found this.” Nico handed him a crumpled piece of paper, half-torn, found in the hedge.

It was part of a letter.

“—I’ll get you out. You don’t have to marry him. There’s still time.”

Rage boiled in Dante’s gut, cold and absolute.

She was plotting an escape.

Already.

His fingers curled around the paper, crumpling it until it nearly tore. A muscle ticked in his jaw as he stared into the shadows of the room.

She wasn’t just proud. She was dangerous.

But not to him.

To herself.

He found her in the old chapel, cloaked in moonlight. The stone walls were silent, the pews empty. She sat at the front, her back to him, a candle flickering beside her like some cursed saint praying for mercy.

She didn’t turn when he stepped inside.

“I thought you’d come,” she said quietly.

Dante’s voice was calm. “Then you should have burned the letter.”

Her shoulders stiffened.

“I don’t owe you obedience, not yet.”

He moved closer, every step echoing.

“No,” he agreed. “But you will.”

Alessia stood, finally facing him. No fear in her eyes. Just fury.

“I’m not a thing you can cage.”

“You already are.”

She slapped him.

The sound cracked like thunder in the silence.

Dante didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

He only reached up, caught her wrist, and pulled her close—his voice soft, lethal.

“You’re right, Alessia. You’re not a thing.”

His mouth hovered near hers. “You’re mine.”

And then he kissed her.

Not with tenderness.

With possession.

Fire met fire.

Her hands shoved at his chest. He didn’t budge. He deepened the kiss, forcing her to feel the truth of what was coming. What she couldn’t outrun.

When he finally pulled away, her breath was ragged.

His voice dropped, raw. “Try to run again, and I won’t stop kissing you.”

He left her there—shaking, furious, lips bruised from defiance—and walked into the night, darkness trailing in his wake.

She thought she could escape him.

She had no idea what kind of devil she was marrying.

What neither of them knew was that the first bullet had already been loaded—and the wedding would be paid for in blood.