The Devil Wears Vows

Aria Valente had never planned to wear red on her wedding day-but then again, she had never planned to marry a monster either.

The cathedral loomed like a mausoleum. Gothic stone walls stretched toward a stained-glass heaven she didn't believe in, and every step she took down the aisle felt like a funeral march. Hers. Red silk dragged behind her like a trail of blood, whispering across the marble as if it, too, knew this wasn't a love story.

Dante Moretti stood at the altar like he'd built it with his own bare hands and dared the world to move him. He didn't smile. He didn't even blink. Just stood there in a black suit as sharp as a bullet and eyes colder than the grave.

Aria didn't look away.

Not when she reached him.

Not when their families filled the pews like wolves in velvet.

Not when the priest began reciting vows that sounded more like oaths of surrender.

"You may now join hands," the priest said.

Her fingers didn't tremble, though she half wished they would. She wanted him to see how much she loathed this-how much she loathed *him*. But Aria Valente didn't flinch for anyone.

Not even for Dante f**king Moretti.

His hand was warm, steady, and entirely uninvited as it closed around hers.

"You look like sin," he murmured, just loud enough for her ears. "Fitting."

"You look like a coffin," she replied, lips curling. "Also fitting."

A flicker of something-maybe amusement, maybe annoyance-passed through his dark eyes.

The priest continued. Their families watched with polite, predatory silence. Somewhere near the back, her uncle Pietro nodded like he'd just closed a deal.

Because that's all this was.

A deal.

A contract inked in blood.

An arranged marriage to end a war that had already cost too much.

The Valentes had power. The Morettis had fear. Now they had each other.

And Aria?

She had a cage made of gold, silence, and the suffocating scent of white lilies.

"You may kiss the bride."

Aria didn't move.

Neither did Dante.

But then his hand touched her jaw-light, controlled, almost reverent. His lips brushed hers like he was making a point, not a promise.

There was no fire in the kiss. Just frost. Just a declaration of ownership.

She smiled sweetly as she whispered, "You'll choke on me."

He didn't respond. He didn't need to. His grip on her waist tightened ever so slightly as if to remind her: *I always finish what I start.*

The applause was scattered. Tense. Forced. The kind of sound that tried to drown out everything wrong in the room but only made it louder.

They left the cathedral hand in hand. But they might as well have been shackled.

The car ride was silent.

Dante sat beside her like a statue, one hand on his thigh, the other drumming idly against the leather seat. The driver said nothing. No one ever spoke unless spoken to in Moretti territory.

Aria stared out the window as the city blurred past. Neon lights. Dirty rain. Skyscrapers like knives cutting through the sky.

"Is this the part where you tell me to behave?" she asked at last, breaking the silence like glass.

Dante glanced at her. "I don't waste words."

"Then you'll hate being married to me."

"I already do."

A small, cruel smile curved her lips. "The feeling's mutual."

He looked at her fully then. There was no heat in his eyes, only calculation. "Good. It'll keep us honest."

Aria turned away. She wasn't going to win this war in a limo, and she wasn't going to let him see how fast her heart was racing. Not from fear-but from the rage boiling just beneath her ribs.

She would survive this.

And then she'd burn every part of the deal they'd made.

The Moretti estate was a fortress disguised as a mansion.

Aria had only seen it once before-from a distance, behind bulletproof glass. Now, she stepped through its gates as a bride. A prisoner. A ticking fuse wrapped in red silk and stubborn pride.

Maids bowed their heads. Guards watched with silent eyes. Dante's mother gave her a tight nod and disappeared like a ghost. No one welcomed her. No one smiled.

She didn't expect them to.

Her suite was cold, grand, and empty. Gilded mirrors. Black marble. A bed too large for comfort.

Dante followed her in but stopped near the door. "We won't pretend," he said.

She turned. "Pretend what?"

"That this is love. Or real."

She laughed-low, sharp. "Don't worry, husband. I don't fake affection."

"Good. Then we'll get along just fine."

He left her there. No goodnight. No kiss. No consummation.

Not yet.

And Aria, staring at her reflection in the mirror-red dress, sharp jaw, storm in her eyes-smiled like someone who knew exactly where to hide a knife.

This wasn't her ending.

It was the beginning.

And the Devil?

He may have worn vows tonight, but *she* wore fire.