Chapter 2 House of blade

The walls whispered at night.

That was the first thing I learned in the Moretti estate. It wasn't just a house-it was a cage dressed in silk and marble, where shadows moved with purpose and secrets curled in the corners like smoke.

I spent the first few days wandering through silence.

No sign of Luciano.

He vanished after the wedding like I didn't exist. No instructions. No greetings. Not even a damn courtesy knock at my door.

Fine. If he wanted to play ghost, I'd haunt him back.

But I didn't stay quiet.

I explored.

Every locked door I found was a challenge. Every hushed voice in the hallway was a breadcrumb. And the more I looked, the more I realized-this place wasn't just guarded for show. It was built for war. Bulletproof windows. Cameras in every corner. And a panic room hidden behind a painting in the east wing.

What kind of home needed a panic room?

I tried asking the housekeeper, Elena, once.

She paled and whispered, "You don't want to know, Signora."

She was right.

But I wanted to know anyway.

I watched her on the cameras.

Not out of curiosity. Out of necessity.

Aurora Romano was not the kind of bride who sat and sewed. She moved like someone used to survival-counting exits, tracking patterns, reading people with sharp, assessing eyes. She wasn't soft like I assumed. She was forged.

It irritated me.

And fascinated me.

The men at the compound already whispered. The bride walks like a spy. The bride looks like she's plotting murder. Good. Let them talk.

I needed her to be cold. Focused. Obedient.

But I was learning quickly-Aurora Romano would never be obedient.

It took four days before I saw him again.

I barged into the library without knocking. My hands trembled, but I masked it with rage.

He sat behind a massive desk, sleeves rolled up, tattoos winding down his forearms like vines made of fire and ruin. Papers were spread before him-maps, files, photos I couldn't see.

He didn't even flinch when I entered.

"You've avoided me for four days," I snapped.

His pen paused. "Did you miss me, wife?"

I ignored the mocking tone. "You married me. You owe me answers."

He set the pen down and looked up-finally, fully. And it was like staring into a blizzard. Cold. Beautiful. Deadly.

"You want answers?" he said. "Fine. You're here because your father sold you to keep breathing. You're my wife because it keeps our enemies quiet. And you'll stay alive because I said so."

I didn't flinch. "That wasn't an answer. That was a power play."

He stood, slow and deliberate.

"You think this is a game?" he asked softly.

"No," I said. "But I think you're used to people being too scared to challenge you. I'm not scared, Moretti."

His eyes narrowed.

I took a step forward. "And I'm not your prisoner."

"No," he said. "You're my property."

The silence cracked like a gunshot.

Then-he was suddenly in front of me. Not touching. Not threatening. Just... close enough to feel the storm he kept buried beneath his skin.

"Be careful, Aurora," he said quietly. "You don't know what I break when I'm angry."

"And you don't know what I survive when I'm pushed."

He stared.

And-for a heartbeat-I saw something flicker behind the frost.

Recognition.

Then he stepped back.

"Dinner. Seven. Be on time."

She was dangerous.

Not in the way enemies were. Not in the way bullets or betrayals were.

She was dangerous because she made me feel.

When she looked at me like I wasn't a monster. When she spoke to me like I wasn't made of ash and history.

That kind of danger was harder to kill.

Dinner was silent.

He sat at the head of the table like a king with no kingdom. I sat opposite him, untouched plate in front of me, every bite of caviar and rare steak tasting like poison.

He didn't speak.

So I did.

"What happened to you?" I asked softly.

His fork paused midair.

"Is that your version of small talk?" he asked.

"I figure if I'm married to a ghost, I might as well ask how he died."

Silence.

Then, very quietly, he said, "She was killed."

I blinked. "Who?"

His gaze met mine. Cold. Shuttered. "The last woman I loved."

The words hit harder than I expected.

"I'm not here to replace her."

"No," he said. "You're just here to survive me."

Later That Night

I sat on the balcony, staring at the stars. For the first time since the wedding, I felt something that wasn't anger or confusion.

Pity.

For the man whose heart was buried with a ghost.

And fear-because I wasn't sure what was more dangerous:

Luciano Moretti...

Or what I might become in his world.