Chapter 4 Cold Vows

Serena's POV

The morning of my wedding, the sky split open.

Rain pounded against the Caprini estate like it had something to prove - angry, relentless, loud. A perfect omen, if you believed in signs. I didn't. I believed in choices. In survival. And in sharp edges.

I stood before the mirror in a room filled with lace and ghosts, dressed in a gown stitched by a woman who didn't know she was making armor.

White satin, tight at the waist, sleeves sheer like spun sugar. But the real power was hidden under the folds - strapped to my thigh in a silk holster, cold and gleaming.

A blade.

Slim. Sharp. Mine.

A final gift from Matteo. No words. Just the weapon wrapped in tissue and a single note:

"Trust no one. Especially not him."

----

There was a knock at the door. I didn't answer.

Alessia Moretti walked in anyway.

Luca's sister was dressed in blood-red silk, lips the same colour, eyes colder than the grave. She didn't smile.

"Nice day for a funeral," she said.

I raised a brow. "Thought it was a wedding."

"Same thing, really."

She stepped closer, inspecting the gown like it was a business merger.

"You look... obedient."

"I'm not."

Alessia's mouth twitched. "He knows that. That's why he picked you."

I stared at her. "You think this is a choice for me?"

"Oh, no. But it is for him. He could've crushed your family ten times over. Burned your name from the records. Instead, he chose you."

"Don't mistake cruelty for mercy."

Alessia leaned in, whispering so close I could smell her expensive perfume.

"I'm not mistaking anything, Mrs. Moretti-to-be. I'm warning you. You want to survive this? Don't try to own him. You'll fail. Just learn how to wear the leash."

---

The ceremony was held in the Caprini estate's ballroom - if you could call a room lined with armed guards and stained with old blood a ballroom.

Everything was white and gold. Hundreds of candles. A string quartet playing something soft and haunting. Guests dressed in designer suits and weapons.

Power. Money. Death in tuxedos.

I walked down the aisle alone.

No father. No arm.

Just me.

Luca stood at the altar, immovable in his tailored black suit, his expression carved from stone. He didn't look at me like a groom looks at a bride.

He looked at me like a man about to make a trade.

---

Luca's POV

She was late.

By three minutes. Just enough to assert dominance. Just enough to make a point.

When she finally appeared - alone, no music, no drama - something in the room shifted.

Everyone noticed her.

Not the dress. Not the makeup.

Her.

She walked like she was being led to a guillotine, and she'd be damned if she didn't make the blade flinch first.

Good.

I didn't want soft. I didn't want meek.

I wanted fire.

And Serena Caprini burned.

When she reached me, she didn't smile.

Neither did I.

---

Serena's POV

The priest spoke in Latin.

I didn't hear him.

My pulse was too loud. My thoughts louder. I stared at Luca's hands, steady and calm as death. No ring. No nerves.

The air thickened as the words droned on, ancient and binding.

To have and to hold...

I glanced at the guests. Caprinis on one side. Morettis on the other. No one smiled. No one clapped. Just silence.

A performance for corpses.

Then came the vows.

Luca went first.

"I vow nothing," he said.

The priest hesitated.

Luca didn't flinch. "I take her as my wife. Not out of love. Not out of need. But because this is what peace demands. And I never leave debts unpaid."

The silence was suffocating.

Everyone turned to me.

I stared straight ahead, voice calm.

"I vow to remember," I said.

The priest frowned. "Remember?"

"Yes," I continued. "To remember who I am. What I gave up. What this costs."

Luca's jaw tightened.

I looked him dead in the eyes. "And to never forget it."

---

He placed the ring on my finger.

A perfect circle of ice.

I reached for his hand next, fingers steady, and slid the ring onto him with the same precision I used to hide my blade.

Then came the silence. The one that should've ended in a kiss.

It didn't.

He leaned close, whispered in my ear, "Don't make me regret this."

I smiled. "I already do."

The priest cleared his throat. "You may now......."

BOOM.

A gunshot ripped through the room.

People screamed. Guards moved.

My body reacted before I did - reaching instinctively for my thigh, the weight of the blade a comfort.

Luca stepped in front of me instantly, pulling a gun from inside his jacket.

"Down!" he barked.

The room erupted in chaos.

Caprinis and Morettis drew weapons. Guests ducked. The priest hit the floor. The quartet scattered like frightened doves.

Luca scanned the crowd.

No target.

No shooter.

Only the broken remains of a chandelier crashing to the floor from the ceiling.

A warning.

Not an attack.

Message received.

---

Luca's POV

The gunshot wasn't meant to kill.

It was a message.

One I understood perfectly.

Someone was unhappy this wedding happened. Someone wanted me to know peace came with a timer.

I lowered my weapon, eyes scanning the shadows. Whoever it was had already vanished.

Caprini barked orders. My men closed ranks.

But all I saw - amid the shattered glass and rising smoke - was Serena.

Still standing.

Unshaken.

One hand on her thigh.

I knew what she kept there.

I almost smiled.

She looked at me then, like she knew I knew.

And in that moment, I realized something dangerous:

This wasn't going to be a marriage.

It was going to be a war.

---

Serena's POV

We didn't finish the ceremony.

Not officially.

The priest disappeared. The guests scattered. My father waved it off, muttering something about "legality by contract." As if the papers mattered more than the vows.

By the time the smoke cleared, I was no longer Serena Caprini.

I was Mrs. Moretti.

A title that felt like a chokehold.

Luca walked me out under armed guard, hand on my back like a claim.

I hated how steady he felt.

We got into the car in silence.

The world outside blurred by.

He finally spoke.

"You kept the knife."

I looked at him. "Of course I did."

He nodded. "Good."

---

Back at the Moretti estate - a brutalist mansion perched on a cliff with views of the sea and security that rivaled a fortress - I was escorted to my quarters.

Not "our room."

Not "his bed."

My quarters.

Separate. Cold. Immaculate.

I was alone the moment the door shut.

Until I realized I wasn't.

A small red light blinked from the corner shelf.

I walked over, crouched.

A bug.

They were listening.

I smiled.

Let them.

Let him.

Let the Devil hear every breath - until the day I found a way to cut his throat with it.

---

The rain had stopped.

The wedding was over.

But as I lay in bed that night, staring at the crimson rose someone had placed on my pillow, I knew the truth:

The war wasn't ending.

It had just changed names.