Matteo stood in the living room, a glass of whiskey swirling in his hand, his eyes glancing at the wristwatch as he grew impatient waiting for her. They were already twenty minutes behind the time of the event, yet she was spending hours putting on a dress.
"What is taking her so long?" He grunted, taking another sip from the glass cup. Nico glanced into his own wristwatch. He turned to one of the men standing behind him. "Enzo, please call for the Madame. The boss is running late."
The dark-skinned man with cornrow weave nodded, striding towards the hallway to deliver the message.
Matteo poured another shot of whiskey into the glass cup.
"I've spoken to our men there, the place is clear, and the right people are there," Nico spoke, referring to Matteo. He was dressed in a black tuxedo, almost as similar to Matteo's, who wore a black bow tie as opposed to Nico's open long tie.
"It has to be safe. This is the first time I'll be stepping out with her," he circled the middle glass table and walked to the open doors. He paused. "I can't afford anyone using her as a bait to get to me."
Enzo returned to the living room. "She's ready and will be out in a minute."
"She'd better." Matteo muttered.
Heels clicked against the floor. One. Two. Three. Slow. Measured. Anastasia walked out with grace, the long black dress hugged her body like rubber gloves.
The moment she walked in, her eyes locked onto him.
Matteo stood by the front door, framed by the soft amber glow of the lights above, the whiskey glass now empty, jaw tight like he was clenching his teeth.
He didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Didn't even acknowledge her.
To Anastasia, he looked unfazed, unimpressed. Unmoved.
As if he hadn't spent the last half hour pacing, growling, and pouring drink after drink. As if her presence barely scratched the surface of his thoughts.
But it was a lie.
His eyes swept over her like a millimeter wave scanner. Slow and precise.
From the dark waves pulled into that elegant knot at the base of her head, down the black dress that clung to her like it was sewn into her skin. Her collarbones were glittering bare, kissed by soft light, and her neckline plunged low enough to test his patience. The dress sculpted her waist, slid over her hips like liquid, and ended in a slit that dared anyone to look twice.
She looked like sin wrapped in elegance. Gorgeous
And still, he said nothing.
He just extended his glass to the man by the door without looking, jaw tightening as he turned and walked out of the house.
Anastasia stood still, watching him disappear through the door. Something inside her twisted...rage, maybe. Or humiliation. Or something darker. She hadn't dressed up for his approval, but the way he stripped the moment of meaning with one blank stare. It stung.
Outside, the engine of the black car purred like a beast leashed in gold. The engine humming, headlights glowing like eyes in the dark. Nico stepped ahead, opened the door. Matteo slid inside, leather creaking under his weight. The door slammed.
But she didn't follow.
She stayed at the threshold, unmoving.
She waited.
She wanted him to notice. To ask. To get annoyed.
And he did.
The tinted window hummed as it rolled down with a slow, venomous drag, revealing him inside. That cold, unreadable stare. His bow tie sharp against the black of his shirt. His expression was unreadable, but dangerous.
His voice came low. Hard. Fury. With a warning.
Like a shot in a silent room.
"Get in the car, Anastasia." It was a quiet, deadly command. Her name dripped from his mouth like poison...sharp, meant to bruise.
But she didn't flinch. She held his gaze a second longer than she should've, then walked over the car to the other side with deliberate grace. Her chin held high, dress dragging behind her like a shadow.
Every step felt like a test. One she intended to fail just enough to make him twitch.
The door shut behind her with a soft finality. Silence thickened between them.
She smelled like something rich, forbidden. And beside her, Matteo felt like smoke and power.
He didn't say another word.
But his hand flexed once, subtle, slow, like he was restraining the urge to reach for her.
Or throttle her.
Or both. He did neither.
He didn't look at her. Didn't touch her. But the air shifted around him like he might break something if she breathed too loud.
And maybe that was the point.
Anastasia sat still, spine stiff, clutching the purse in her lap like it was armor. She couldn't stop raging at the purpose of this event.
She felt like an escort rather than a wife. A possession on display.
A pawn.
A kept woman, dressed in elegance and buried alive.
She turned her head just slightly, her voice low, bitter.
"No compliments?"
He looked at her then...slowly, like it took effort not to snap her in half.
Then he looked away and grabbed a cigar from his inner. She sat still, quiet, watching the brown come to a red ember, and smoke that almost choked her lungs. Still, she held it together.
His gaze dragged over her again, darker now.
"You don't dress for compliments."
A pause.
"You dress to remind everyone you belong to me."
Anastasia's stomach coiled. Every word was cold steel.
The car rolled into the night, carrying the weight of her new reality.
And just like that, she knew...
The night wasn't just about appearances.
It was about power.
The car pulled to a stop outside the grand hall, headlights flashing against the polished marble steps leading into a towering building wrapped in gold and shadow.
Security lined the perimeter like statues. Expensive cars pulled up in silent procession.
Power dripped from every inch of the scene.
The door opened first for him.
Matteo stepped out, calm, sharp, lethal in black. He adjusted his cufflinks, scanned the crowd without emotion, then turned. The crowd recognized him instantly. Heads turned. Hands moved to adjust suits. Conversations shifted.
He didn't smile.
He didn't need to.
Anastasia stepped out next, the night air wrapping around her like smoke.
The moment her heels touched the ground, she felt it. That silence, heavy and knowing. Eyes were already on her. Reading her. Judging her.
Another woman on Matteo Ramirez's arm?
Or something else?
She circled the car, slow and elegant, as if she had a choice in any of this.
When she reached him, his hand slipped around her waist.
Tight, possessive branding.
She tensed, her body revolting beneath the dress. His touch was heat and ash and blood...everything she wanted off her skin. His fingers pressed just enough to bruise.
She hated it.
Hated him.
His body close enough that she could smell his cologne…dark spice, smoke, and violence. It made her insides twist, her skin crawl. Made her stomach knot with contempt.
She wanted to shove him off.
Wanted to scream.
Instead, she stood still, her throat burning.
He leaned in.
His breath spilled over her hair, hot and deliberate. Just a whisper against her ear.
"Behave."
A threat disguised as affection. It landed like a slap in velvet.
She didn't respond.
She couldn't. If she opened her mouth, she wasn't sure whether she'd scream or shatter.
Instead, she let him guide her up the stairs.
Each step up the stairs was a weight. A punishment. Not from the heels, not from the dress, but from the sheer weight of the stares that clung to her like spider silk.
Men watched her like she was merchandise.
Women draped in couture and diamonds judged her like she was competition.
They looked at her like she was new stock. Fresh blood Matteo Ramirez had pulled from the shadows and wrapped in silk.
Matteo's new display.
A thing.
By the time they reached the entrance, she no longer felt human.
Inside, the venue was a cathedral of corruption. Crystal chandeliers floated above like glass monsters, their teeth glinting. Waiters passed with silver trays of cocktails, red wines, delicate desserts no one touched.
Soft jazz played from a corner stage. Tables were draped in black velvet. The air reeked of wealth and control.
The world of power...dripping in money, legacy, and secrets scrubbed clean in designer suits. Men who ruled from the shadows. Women dressed like currency. The kind of people who made governments sweat and people vanish without a whisper.
The kind of people Matteo Ramirez called his own.
Men stood in small circles, laughing too easily. Women in red, gold, and black clung to their sides, perfect and poised, eyes like glass. Dressed to dazzle, to distract, to obey.
Nico followed behind, eyes always scanning. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His silence was its own language.
"Ramirez!"
A loud voice cut through the soft hum of piano music and polite murmurs.
An older man approached with a wide cheeky grin, gold rings thick on his fingers, his cane tapping against the marble. His black suit shimmered faintly under the lights, like oil slick on pavement. A younger woman in a red dress clung to him, her gaze sliding over Anastasia like she was sizing her up.
"Look at you," the man said, reaching for Matteo's hand, then leaning in for a shoulder-clap.
The man then turned his full attention to Anastasia.
"Didn't think I'd see you bring arm candy tonight," he said, voice loud, greasy with charm.
"What's this one called? Or does she come without a name?"
Anastasia's jaw tightened. The heat rose in her throat like acid.
Matteo didn't answer right away. As always, he took his time. He didn't blink. He looked at her for a longer second, as if deciding how much of her he wanted to reveal.
Then his hand, still wrapped around her waist, tightened. Claiming her.
"Anastasia Matteo Ramirez," he said. His voice was soft. Final.
It was a statement. A title. A crown with shackles.
All around her, the eyes returned, as if Matteo's quiet voice somehow managed to slice through all the music and murmurs.
She wasn't just being seen anymore. She was being assessed. Weighed to see if she could carry the name.
The old man's grin widened, all teeth.
"Wife now, is she? Impressive."
He raised his glass to Matteo, then gave Anastasia a mocking nod of approval.
"You wear his name well," he said. "Try not to wear it out."
Then turned to the woman beside him. "See, darling? This is how you keep power interesting."
The woman smirked.
The laughter came soft, shallow, staged.
Anastasia stood there, perfectly still.
She couldn't breathe. Not properly. Her ribs felt locked in place.
And just like that, she knew...
The war she was fighting wasn't just in secret anymore.
It was right here.
After drifting from high-top tables to the next, moving through shallow conversations drenched in accents and language she couldn't quite understand, Anastasia found herself sinking into a low leather couch tucked into the farthest corner of the room. A velvet booth tucked away at the far end of the banquet hall.
Finally. Away, but never alone. Matteo beside her. Nico within reach. Eyes always watching. The smoke-filled air hung heavy with the stench of power, cash, and expensive cologne.
Men lounged like gods in black suits, spinning tales and bartering control over territories like it was a casual game of poker. Laughter boomed in a crooked rhythm, hollow and self-indulgent... not at jokes but at stories that reeked of blood and betrayal.
Sipped on aged whiskey and lit cigars like they were toothpicks, flicking ash without care. Each of them had a woman attached. Lovers? Escorts? Wives? She didn't know. She didn't care. She just wanted to leave.
Anastasia felt her jaw tighten, her fingers clench around the flute of untouched champagne.
She sat stiffly beside Matteo, her spine locked tight, legs crossed, fists hidden, her rage simmering beneath like a sleeping viper.
She leaned slightly toward him, voice low. "I need to use the restroom."
He didn't turn to her. Just gave a subtle nod in Nico's direction, a signal she was getting used to... it reminded her she didn't need permission, just supervision.
Nico moved instantly, stepping forward like a shadow cast too long.
He trailed behind her like a dog with a gun in his jacket, not for her protection, no. To make sure the prized possession didn't wander too far from its cage.
"What?" she snapped once they reached the gilded bathroom door. "You want to come in with me too? Hold my hand while I piss?"
Nico didn't respond. She didn't scare him.
She shoved the door open and slipped inside.
Inside, silence. White tiles. Golden-framed mirrors and a faint humming of distant jazz.
She stood in front of the mirror, breathing like she'd run ten miles barefoot. She dropped her purse on the marble.
Her hands moved to the back of her neck, pressing into the tension coiled there like a snake. She wanted to cry. She wanted to vomit. She wanted to run and scream and disappear.
But instead… something shifted.
A thought. A darker impulse.
If Matteo wanted her to be a puppet on strings, dress her like a doll and parade her like a trophy. She might as well give him a show and set the whole stage on fire.
She leaned over the sink and washed her face, splashing away the powder and foundation, the mask they'd painted on her.
The red lipstick bled into the water, smeared like a wound.
She stared at her reflection as she peeled off her earrings, unclasped the diamond necklace that weighed like chains.
Her hand went to the split in her dress, the seam gave way like skin, a jagged rip up her thigh. She didn't stop. She pulled the fabric, let it fall wild and uneven.
Then her hands reached up, loosened the tight. Her hair fell in dark waves over her shoulders, wild and unruly.
She looked up at the mirror again.
She did look familiar.
Not the before.
The after.
The Anastasia, who'd been dragged across floors, locked in rooms, screamed into voids. Who'd been broken and bent, but never quite destroyed.
Her chest rose and fell slowly. Her lips curled, not into a smile, but something far more dangerous.
Let them watch now.
Let them look at what Matteo Ramirez owned.
Because tonight, she would be the thing they couldn't control.