Ira’s POV

The room had never felt so small.

The walls were the same soft ivory. The curtains still moved gently with the breeze. But the air—it was heavy. Like the silence before a storm.

I felt it before I saw him.

The door creaked open, slow and deliberate, like a predator who knew his prey had nowhere left to run.

Luca.

He didn’t speak.

Not at first.

He just closed the door behind him and walked toward me with that familiar stillness—like he owned the air in the room, the floor beneath my feet, and the blood in my veins.

I stood by the window, back straight, trying to hide the tremor in my fingers.

But when his shadow fell over mine, my body betrayed me. My breath hitched. My skin prickled.

Then came his voice—low, rough, and terrifyingly calm.

> “Ti sei ripresa bene, serva.”

(You’ve recovered well, maid.)

I flinched, even at the softness.

He stepped closer.

Too close.

My spine met the marble frame of the window, cold biting into my back. His scent—smoke, spice, danger—wrapped around me.

He reached up without warning and brushed a strand of hair behind my ear, fingers lingering just long enough to make me shiver.

> “We’re getting married,” he murmured.

I froze.

“…What?”

His eyes held no mischief. No warmth.

Just ownership.

> “You’ll wear white. You’ll stand beside me. You’ll carry my name.”

“Mia moglie.”

(My wife.)

“No,” I whispered, voice cracking. “You can’t—”

He stepped closer, voice lower now, more dangerous.

> “Zitta.”

(Be quiet.)

I swallowed.

“I’m not marrying you. You can’t force me into this—”

But before I could turn away, he grabbed my wrist, firm and cold.

Not enough to bruise—but enough to say, you don’t walk away from me.

> “I already did,” he said. “The dress is being fitted. The priest is booked. My mother is waiting.”

“You’re insane.”

A ghost of a smile.

> “Probabilmente.”

(Probably.)

“Why?” I whispered. “Why me? Why now?”

His hand tightened just a little.

> “Because you ran,” he said. “Because you looked me in the eyes like you still had power. Because your fire keeps burning, and I want to be the only man who holds the match.”

“And because when you’re my wife, piccola, you’ll never forget who you belong to.”

(Little one.)

Then softer. Quieter. Darker.

> “Not even in death.”

---

That same afternoon, everything moved like clockwork.

Makeup artists arrived—two tall women in black suits and red lipstick. They didn't speak much English. Only Italian orders between each other, moving around me like sculptors working on a fragile statue.

One of them murmured under her breath while blending color into my cheeks:

> “Occhi grandi... pelle come porcellana.”

(Big eyes... skin like porcelain.)

I sat silently. Frozen. Not a bride—a doll being prepared for display.

---

Then came the dress.

White. Silk. Delicate. Almost beautiful… if it weren’t for the meaning sewn into every stitch.

A prison in satin.

No one asked if I liked it.

No one cared.

I tried to protest, once—quietly.

But the older woman, brushing my hair into soft waves, leaned in and whispered:

> “Non resistere, cara. Ti spezzerà comunque.”

(Don’t resist, dear. He’ll break you either way.)

---

By dusk, I stood in front of a gilded mirror, barely recognizing myself.

The girl in the reflection wore pearls on her ears and dread in her eyes.

A faint knock came at the door.

Bruno entered, nodding stiffly.

> “È ora.”

(It’s time.)

---

The ceremony was held in the back courtyard of the Moretti estate. At twilight.

Candles flickered in every corner. The moon hung low, painted in gold. Everything looked… almost holy.

If only it weren’t drenched in sin.

Luca stood beneath an arch of blood-red roses, dressed in black.

Of course.

He never wore white.

His men stood like statues behind him — Bruno, Nico, and three others. His mother sat on a cushioned bench, regal, unreadable.

There were no guests.

No laughter.

Only silence.

And the sound of my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

---

I walked toward him slowly.

Each step like a countdown to surrender.

The priest began speaking in Italian, words blurring together as I stood beside Luca, numb.

He didn't even glance at me as the vows were read aloud.

But his fingers… they never stopped brushing against mine.

Possessive.

Reminding me: you are not free. Not now. Not ever.

> “Vuoi prendere questa donna come tua legittima sposa?”

(Do you take this woman as your lawful wife?)

> “Lo voglio.”

(I do.)

> “Vuoi prendere quest’uomo come tuo legittimo marito?”

I hesitated.

I didn’t speak.

Luca didn’t turn his head.

He simply whispered under his breath:

> “Say it. Or I’ll make what comes after feel like mercy.”

I swallowed.

> “I… I do.”

---

Then came the final words:

> “Potete baciare la sposa.”

(You may kiss the bride.)

I flinched.

Luca turned to me fully for the first time.

His hand reached up—slow, sure—and cupped my cheek.

His thumb brushed over my lips.

Then… he kissed me.

Hard.

There was no hesitation. No tenderness.

His lips claimed. Possessed.

He kissed me like he was sealing a pa

ct with the devil himself.

Like he needed this to carve his name into my soul.

And despite everything—

—I couldn’t breathe.

Because the worst part wasn’t that he kissed me.

It was that part of me felt it.

And hated that I did.

---