Chapter 2 Learns of her Mafia marriage

Sienna's POV

They say you never forget the moment you meet the man you'll marry. That might be true. Especially if that moment feels like being thrown into a cage with a lion and told to tame it.

The gates to Rosetti Manor creaked open as if they hadn't been used in years, even though the estate radiated life. Not in the warm, welcoming sense. No. This was a different kind of life feral and glittering with danger.

The car rolled to a stop in front of a sprawling mansion bathed in pre-dawn shadows. The driveway was lined with marble statues of angels that looked more like fallen warriors, wings chipped, faces cold. The building itself rose like a fortress, all sharp angles and blood-red stone.

My hand trembled as I gripped the door handle. "I'd say 'good luck,'" the escort beside me said, not unkindly, "but I think you'll need more than that." I shot him a glare and stepped out. Cold air slapped me in the face and then another kind of chill crept over me the sensation of being watched.

Dozens of eyes peeked from behind curtains, balconies, cars. Armed men in black lined the entrance, their guns slung like accessories. A few of them nodded to me some with indifference, others with curiosity. One even smirked.

It hit me then I was no longer invisible. I was Rosetti blood. And apparently, that meant something before I could fully process the scale of it, the main doors swung open, and a tall man in a velvet jacket stepped out. His hair was peppered with gray, but his posture screamed dominance cold, coal-colored eyes swept over me with impatience.

"Welcome home, Sienna," he said. I didn't move. This was him. Don Riccardo Rosetti. My father. He didn't hug me. Didn't touch me. Didn't even smile. Just offered a nod as if I were an employee arriving late to a meeting. "You'll be presented to your fiancé shortly," he continued. "I suggest you clean up." My voice was dry. "You haven't seen me in sixteen years and all you care about is presentation?" His expression didn't change. "I care about power. You are the Rosetti daughter. Start acting like it."

With that, he turned and strode back inside. I stood there for a second, the frost biting at my ankles. A part of me wanted to scream. Another part-an older, quieter part-just absorbed the hit and followed.

Inside, the mansion was worse than I'd expected-dark wood walls, chandeliers heavy with crystal, oil paintings of solemn ancestors watching from every corner. It smelled of cigars, cologne, and blood. I was shown to a guest room on the second floor. "Guest" being generous-it was bigger than the entire dormitory I shared back at the convent. A maid was already waiting with a dress laid out: black silk, slit high up the thigh, sleeveless, backless.

"You want me to wear that?"

"It's tradition to greet your fiancé formally," she said, not looking me in the eye.

"He's a stranger."

"He will be your husband."

The words settled like acid in my stomach. Still, I showered. My skin felt raw afterward, as if I could scrub off everything-fear, dirt, lineage. But nothing came off. I was still me. Still Rosetti.

The dress clung like sin. My hair, freshly combed and dried, fell in waves down my back. The maid applied a touch of crimson lipstick, and I didn't stop her. Let him see the fire he was inheriting.

An hour later, I was led to a small drawing room. The sun had fully risen now, pouring light through stained glass. A fireplace burned low. Men stood around the edges of the room-some in suits, some in tactical gear.

And then he walked in.

Nico D'Amore.

I didn't need anyone to tell me it was him. The room shifted around him. Gravity bent. Tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in all black, he looked like a prince from a dark fable-one written in blood instead of ink. His hair was raven-dark, his eyes the color of burnt silver. Sharp jaw, crooked scar just below his cheekbone and a presence that wrapped around your lungs like silk and then squeezed.

He moved like a man used to being feared. When his eyes found me, I stood taller. For a long moment, he didn't say a word. He just looked. Studied me. Stripped me bare with nothing but his gaze.

Then, finally, he walked forward. "Rosetti," he said in a voice made for threats and temptations. "So this is the hidden daughter."

I met his stare without blinking. "D'Amore. So this is the brute I'm supposed to marry." One of the guards coughed into his fist, clearly trying not to laugh. Nico's eyes narrowed just a fraction. Then he smiled-slow, dangerous, a curve of his lips that made my pulse trip.

"You've got teeth," he murmured.

"And you look like you bite."

He stepped closer. Too close. The heat of him was magnetic. His eyes dropped to my mouth. "Say the word," he said, "and I'll do more than bite." My breath caught-but I didn't flinch. Instead, I stepped forward too. "You think I'm afraid of you?"

"I don't need you to be afraid," he said softly. "I just need you obedient." I laughed-sharp and defiant. "Then you've picked the wrong bride." His eyes gleamed with something dark. "Oh no, Rosetti. I think you're exactly the one I want."

Before I could form a reply, Don Rosetti cleared his throat behind us. "Enough," he said. "We're not here for verbal foreplay." I wanted to strangle him.

Nico straightened and gave my father a nod. "I'll take her."

My fists clenched. "Take me?"

"She'll be moved to the D'Amore estate tomorrow. The engagement party is in four days. Wedding, two weeks after that." I stared at them both. "I'm not some crate of wine you're trading."

"No," Nico said without a trace of humor. "You're a blood promise. One that ends a war."

"You mean one that delays another one," I snapped.

He arched a brow. "Smart girl."

"I'm not yours."

"You will be."

He left then, just as casually as he'd arrived. Not another word. Not a look back. Just walked out like a storm that had passed through, leaving everything slightly off-balance. I didn't realize I was shaking until I gripped the edge of the fireplace mantel to steady myself.

This was him. Nico D'Amore. The man I was being forced to marry. The man who hated my bloodline. The man who looked at me like he couldn't decide if he wanted to kiss me or kill me.

And somehow, I wasn't sure which one I preferred either.