BLOOD TIES: VELVET LIES

People always say your wedding day is supposed to be the happiest day of your life.

Whoever said that never married the devil to stop a war.

"Smile, Alessia," my father said under his breath, nodding toward the approaching camera crew. "The press is watching."

"I hope they get my good side," I muttered.

He didn't laugh. Of course he didn't. Francesco Moretti didn't believe in humor, only in power, silence, and strategic alliances. And today, I was his most valuable asset.

The ballroom was a sea of gold and crystal, as overdone and fake as the people clinking glasses and whispering behind polished smiles. I knew every one of them. Thieves in tuxedos. Killers in designer heels. All pretending this wedding wasn't a truce sealed with blood.

And then he walked in.

Lucien Valenti.

He didn't wear a smile. Or nerves. Or even a trace of emotion. Just that tailored black suit, a silk pocket square folded with ruthless precision, and eyes like cold steel. He moved through the crowd like a shadow in a storm. The room shifted when he entered, quieted, like it recognized something dangerous had arrived.

"Your future husband," my cousin Giada murmured at my side. "And my God, Alessia. He's..."

"Tall?" I offered.

She shot me a look. "Lethal."

That was more accurate.

Lucien Valenti was the heir to the Valenti crime family. A man rumored to have buried his enemies with his own hands. A man I hated before I ever met him.

I hated him for being a Valenti.

And I hated him because I believed he had something to do with my brother Enzo's death.

"Time to play nice," my father said, nudging me forward as Lucien approached.

He stopped in front of me. His gaze swept over my face, slow, unapologetic. I felt it like a blade dragging across my skin.

"Alessia," he said.

"Lucien," I replied, refusing to let my voice waver.

He tilted his head. "You look... cooperative."

"Don't get used to it."

His mouth twitched. Not a smile. More like amusement laced with warning.

My father stepped in with a clap of hands. "Beautiful couple, aren't they? A symbol of peace. Unity."

Lucien's father, Don Matteo Valenti, joined us with a raised glass and dead eyes. "Let's hope the next generation lasts longer than the last one."

My stomach twisted.

That was a shot at Enzo. My brother had been murdered three years ago. Shot in an alley behind a club that both families had staked a claim on. No witnesses. No answers. Only whispers. And one name always at the center of them.

Valenti.

Lucien's gaze never left mine. "Are you ready?"

For what? A life sentence? A game I was going to play until I buried him?

"Of course," I said sweetly. "After all, it's just vows. Not love."

The priest began to speak behind us, and the crowd hushed. I barely heard the words. My heartbeat drowned everything out. I'd practiced this for months. Smiling through glass. Walking in stilettos made of secrets. This wedding was the key to finding out the truth. To getting close enough to destroy the Valentis from within.

The priest turned to me.

"Do you, Alessia Moretti, take Lucien Valenti as your lawfully wedded husband?"

My throat tightened.

Say yes. Smile. This is the plan.

"I do."

Lucien didn't blink.

"And do you, Lucien Valenti, take Alessia Moretti as your lawfully wedded wife?"

A beat passed. Just long enough to make the air go razor-sharp.

"I do."

The crowd erupted in polite applause. A few smiles. A few cameras flashing. Somewhere behind me, someone popped a bottle of champagne.

I didn't turn to kiss him. I didn't give the world that satisfaction. Instead, I took his arm like a queen being led to her coronation.

Or her execution.

"You really plan to keep up the ice queen act all night?" Lucien asked as we entered the car, a sleek black thing with tinted windows and the Valenti crest etched into the door.

"I don't pretend," I said, settling into the seat. "I don't need to."

He laughed once. Low. Sharp. "You're already the most interesting wife I've ever had."

"How many have you had?"

He looked at me. "None. That's the joke."

I turned away, watching the city blur by through the window. The streets of Manhattan looked soft from this high up. Like everything below was part of a world I didn't belong to anymore.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"To your new home."

"Is there a dungeon?"

"If you're lucky."

I glanced back at him. "Funny. I thought you were the type to lock wives in glass boxes."

He smiled for real then, but there was no warmth in it. "Not glass. Steel."

The car pulled through a wrought iron gate and up a long, winding driveway. The house-or mansion, really-loomed ahead like something out of a gothic novel. All dark stone and shadow, with windows that stared like eyes.

"You live here?" I asked.

"I rule from here."

"How poetic."

Inside, it was colder. Not the temperature, but the feeling. Everything was polished. Perfect. But there were no personal touches. No photographs. No warmth. Just power in architecture.

Lucien led me down a hall toward a grand staircase.

"You'll have your own wing," he said. "Privacy. Guards. No one gets in or out without my approval."

I stopped walking. "Like a prisoner."

He turned. "Like a Valenti."

I stepped closer. "You keep saying that like it means something. Like I should be impressed."

"You should be afraid."

I looked up at him, right into those storm-colored eyes. "I'm not."

He stared back, unmoving. For a moment, neither of us breathed.

Then he said, "Good. Fear makes people unpredictable."

"And control makes people weak," I shot back.

He tilted his head slightly. "We'll see."

Lucien walked me to the door of my room. A guard posted outside nodded stiffly.

"Your things were brought in earlier," Lucien said. "Your security codes are programmed. And your door locks from the inside."

"How generous."

He leaned in slightly. "Don't mistake comfort for safety. They're not the same."

Then he turned and walked away without another word.

I waited until he disappeared down the corridor, then stepped inside the room. It was large. Elegant. Imprisoning. I crossed to the window, pulled back the curtain, and looked down.

Guards.

Everywhere.

There was no escape. Not tonight.

I walked to the dresser. Opened the top drawer. Silk nightgowns. Everything in my size. Every item carefully selected. Controlled.

Like me.

I pulled open the second drawer.

And froze.

Tucked beneath a stack of lingerie was a single envelope.

No address. No name.

Only one word handwritten on the back in blood-red ink.

Enzo.