The church bells tolled like a warning. Each chime echoed through Alessia's chest, heavy and final, as if the universe itself were marking the end of her freedom.
The Romano cathedral was drenched in gold and crimson, colors of power, of blood, of legacy. Rows of white roses lined the aisle, their scent sweet but suffocating. Every seat was filled with faces she recognized from whispered stories: dons, lieutenants, and heirs of Italy's most dangerous families. The air was thick with tension, alliances stitched together by fear and greed.
Alessia stood before the mirror in the bridal chamber, her reflection a stranger. The gown was exquisite—lace and silk, hand-stitched by the finest designer in Milan—but it felt like armor. Her hair was pinned in soft curls, her lips painted a delicate rose. She looked every bit the perfect mafia bride.
But inside, she was breaking.
Her maid adjusted the veil, whispering, "You look beautiful, Signorina."
Alessia forced a smile. "Beauty doesn't matter when you're being sold."
The maid's eyes flickered with pity, but she said nothing. No one dared to speak against Don Romano's will.
A knock came at the door. Her father entered, his expression unreadable. "It's time."
She turned to face him. "Do you ever regret it?"
He frowned. "Regret what?"
"Trading your daughter for peace."
His jaw tightened. "This is not a trade, Alessia. It's survival. You'll understand one day."
She wanted to scream, to tell him that survival meant nothing if it cost her soul. But she swallowed the words. There was no point.
The doors opened, and the music began.
As she stepped into the aisle, every eye turned toward her. The whispers faded, replaced by the haunting melody of the organ. Her heart pounded with each step, her veil trembling with her breath.
And then she saw him.
Damian Moretti stood at the altar, dressed in a black suit that fit him like sin. His expression was unreadable, his posture calm, but his eyes—those cold, gray eyes—never left hers.
He looked like a man who owned the world. And now, he would own her.
When she reached him, he extended his hand. She hesitated, then placed hers in his. His grip was firm, steady, almost possessive.
The priest began the vows, his voice echoing through the cathedral. Alessia barely heard the words. Her mind was a storm, fear, anger, defiance.
"Do you, Damian Moretti, take Alessia Romano to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
"I do," he said, his voice low and certain.
"And do you, Alessia Romano, take Damian Moretti to be your lawfullywrdded husband?"
Her throat tightened. She wanted to say no. She wanted to run. But her father's gaze burned into her from the front row, and she knew there was no escape.
"I do," she whispered.
The priest smiled. "You may kiss the bride."
Damian lifted her veil slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. For a heartbeat, the world fell silent. Then his lips brushed hers—soft, deliberate, claiming.
It wasn't a kiss of love. It was a declaration of power.
The crowd erupted in applause, but Alessia felt nothing but the weight of the ring on her finger.
As they walked down the aisle together, Damian leaned close, his breath warm against her ear. "Smile, princess. The world is watching."
She forced her lips into a perfect, practiced smile.
Outside, cameras flashed, and the families cheered. But behind the façade of celebration, danger simmered.
Because peace in their world was never real—it was only a pause before the next war.
And as the new Mrs. Moretti stepped into the waiting limousine beside her husband, she knew one thing for certain:
This was not the end of her story. It was the beginning of her captivity.
And somewhere deep inside, a spark of rebellion began to burn.