THE DEVIL'S CLAIM

LILIANA'S POV

I used to think weddings were supposed to feel like magic. Like every step down the aisle was a promise, every vow a fairytale.

But standing in the center of the ballroom, staring at the man who was supposed to be my happily-ever-after, all I felt was cold.

The chandeliers dripped gold. The violinists played some romantic shit that was supposed to make me cry. And my fiancé, Ethan Crawford, looked like he'd been carved out of perfection, tall, golden-haired, that sharp jawline that used to make me melt when I was younger and dumber.

Now all I could think was: Why does he look at me like I'm a fucking disappointment even on our wedding day?

His eyes flicked over me, critical as always, and I swear I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. Not in admiration. In disapproval.

Your hair should've been styled differently, Lily.

Your makeup isn't sharp enough. You're too plain.

Why can't you carry yourself like Elena?

My sister. His favorite comparison.

My grip on the bouquet tightened until thorns pricked my palm. The bastard didn't even try to hide it. Half the time we were together, I wasn't his girlfriend, I was his shadow project, a pathetic attempt to mold me into someone more like her.

And still... I stayed. Because when you grow up starved of love, even poison feels like water.

The priest's voice echoed through the hall, low and steady. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today..."

I forced a smile, though my chest was a knot of nausea. My parents sat in the front row, stiff and smug. My mother hadn't even hugged me when I walked in earlier. She just whispered, "Don't embarrass us."

My father didn't look at me at all.

And then there was Elena. My perfect sister, seven months older, practically shining in her silk dress. She sat with one leg crossed over the other, sipping champagne, her lipstick a sinful red. She smiled at Ethan once, and I saw something flicker in his eyes. Something I'd been seeing for years.

I hated her for it. I hated him more. I hated myself most of all-for still being here, still hoping that maybe after this, maybe as his wife, I'd finally be enough.

The priest lifted the Bible higher. "If anyone here objects to this union, speak now or forever hold your peace."

My lungs froze.

Because that's when the ballroom doors slammed open.

The sound ricocheted like a gunshot. Gasps tore through the crowd. And then the real gunshots followed.

Men in black stormed inside, guns drawn, masks hiding their faces. The music screeched to a halt. Someone screamed. Glass shattered.

"Down on the fucking ground!" a man roared.

Panic spread like fire. Guests dove under tables, skirts tearing, jewels scattering across the marble floor. People trampled each other trying to get out. The air filled with smoke and screams.

I stood frozen at the altar, my bouquet slipping from my numb fingers.

Ethan cursed, yanking me behind him. "What the fuck is this?"

But before anyone could answer, the man at the front ripped off his mask.

And the whole world tilted.

Because I knew his face. Everyone did.

Dante Moretti.

The Devil of New York. The man fathers threatened their kids with. The name plastered across every scandal, every headline soaked in blood.

He didn't need an introduction. He was the introduction to chaos.

My stomach dropped. What the hell was he doing here?

Ethan's grip on me tightened. I felt the tremor in his hand. He knew. He fucking knew what this was about.

"Well, well." Dante's voice carried through the chaos, smooth as whiskey, dark as sin. "If it isn't Ethan fucking Crawford. Tying the knot without paying your debts?"

My blood went cold. Debts?

Ethan squared his shoulders, voice sharp. "This is a private event. Get the hell out."

Dante laughed. A low, chilling sound that made my skin crawl. "Private? You think your little fairy-tale wedding matters to me? You owe me. And you know what happens to men who don't pay their debts."

"Fuck you," Ethan spat.

The smile on Dante's lips turned deadly. "You first."

The gunshot cracked through the hall.

Chaos exploded. Bullets rained down. Guests shrieked, diving for cover. Tables overturned, glasses shattered, chandeliers trembled. Security tried to fight back, but they were outnumbered, outgunned.

"Run, Lily!" Ethan shoved me, his voice desperate.

I stumbled, my veil ripping from my hair. My heart hammered against my ribs. I couldn't think, couldn't breathe.

Then another shot rang out. Ethan's scream cut through the air as he clutched his arm, blood soaking his sleeve.

"Ethan!" I cried, scrambling back to him.

But before I could reach him, two men grabbed me from behind. Rough, merciless hands dragged me back.

"Let me go! What the fuck, I said let me go!" I screamed, kicking, clawing.

My eyes darted to Dante.

He was watching me now. Up close, he was... terrifying. Towering, broad-shouldered, his suit stretched over muscle. Tattoos inked his skin, creeping up the side of his neck. His face was cruel beauty, a jaw made for violence, lips curved in a smirk that promised destruction.

His eyes pinned me in place. Dark, bottomless, unreadable.

"This her?" he asked one of his men, his gaze never leaving mine.

"The fiancée," the man confirmed.

I thrashed harder. "Please....please don't hurt him! Take me, just don't kill him!"

The words spilled out before I could stop them, pathetic and desperate.

Dante tilted his head, amusement flashing in his gaze. "Take you?"

My heart slammed against my chest. "I'll do anything-just let him go!"

"Anything," he repeated, rolling the word on his tongue like it was a joke. Then he smirked. "We'll see about that."

"Boss," one of his men urged. "Cops'll be here soon."

Dante's eyes never left me. "Take her."

"No!" My scream ripped through the air as they yanked me back. My dress tore, pearls scattering across the floor. I kicked, bit, scratched. "Ethan! Help me!"

But Ethan didn't move. He was still clutching his bleeding arm, eyes wide but not with fear for me, but for himself.

The betrayal sliced deeper than any blade. He wasn't going to save me. He never would.

My throat burned from screaming as they dragged me down the aisle. I fought until my body ached, my voice hoarse.

"Shut her the fuck up," one of the men snapped.

A cloth clamped over my mouth. The sickly-sweet sting of chloroform filled my nose, burned down my throat.

I thrashed weakly, the world spinning. My vision blurred.

The last thing I saw was Dante's smirk, cruel and knowing, his dark gaze burning into me like fire.

And then everything went black.

DANTE'S POV

People call me the Devil of New York. They're not wrong.

I've killed men for less than a dirty look. I've gutted rats who thought they could steal from me. I've fucked women who begged for mercy and made them beg for more pain instead. My empire runs on blood, loyalty, and fear. That's the only language this rotten world understands.

And tonight, I reminded everyone of it.

Crawford thought he could play me. Thought he could borrow money from my syndicate, promise returns, and then ghost like I'm some dumb fuck banker. No. You don't spit in my face and walk away.

So I took something from him. Something that makes men bleed harder than bullets.

His bride.

The girl's slumped against the leather seat of my car now, her white wedding dress torn, veil long gone. Her head rests limply against the window, chloroform still working through her system.

I should only see her as leverage. That was the plan. Take his woman, hold her until Crawford crawls back on his knees. Maybe cut her up in pieces if he doesn't.

But fuck if I didn't notice her the second I ripped that mask off.

Wide eyes. The kind of innocence you don't find in women anymore. Not here, not in this city. She looked like she'd never seen a gun in her life. She screamed like her lungs were made of glass. And she begged for him. Not for herself-for him.

That caught me off guard.

Most women at those rich-boy weddings would've shoved their bleeding fiancé toward me and bolted. Not her. She clung. Begged. Offered herself.

And when she said I'll do anything, my cock twitched in my goddamn slacks.

Pathetic. But true.

I drag on my cigar, exhaling smoke toward the tinted glass. Outside, the city blurs by. Inside, it smells of fear, chloroform, and roses, the crushed bouquet we threw in the car with her.

She stirs, groaning softly.

My eyes snap to her.

Her lips part, full and pink. Her lashes flutter like she's fighting the weight of the drug. For a second, she looks like some porcelain doll someone forgot in the wrong neighborhood. Too soft. Too pretty. Too breakable.

"Fuck," I mutter under my breath.

I should keep my distance. Remind myself she's just a tool. But I lean closer anyway, studying the curve of her throat, the pulse hammering beneath that delicate skin. Her dress is ruined, lace ripped, one strap sliding off her shoulder. I can see more of her than I should, and my mind goes places it shouldn't.

I grit my teeth. Focus, Moretti.

She's cargo. Nothing more.

Her eyes flutter open, glassy at first, then sharper as panic slams into her.

"Wh....where am I?" Her voice is hoarse, raw from screaming earlier.

She sits up too fast, clutching her head. Her gaze darts around the car, landing on me. And just like that, fear floods her eyes.

"You," she breathes.

I smirk around my cigar. "Me."

She presses back against the leather seat, shaking her head. "No... no, no, this isn't....take me back. Please."

Her begging voice would've been pathetic if it didn't make my cock hard. I flick ash out the window, calm as ever. "You're not going back, princess. Not until your rich boy pays me what he owes."

Her lips tremble. "Ethan...?"

"Your groom, yeah. That lying sack of shit." I laugh, dark and sharp. "You really thought he loved you? That he wasn't just waiting to sink his teeth into those company shares your granny left you?"

Her eyes widen, her chest rising and falling fast. She looks like I just slapped her across the face.

Good. Better she learns now than later.

"You're lying," she whispers. "You don't know anything about us."

I lean in, close enough that she can smell the smoke on my breath, the danger dripping off me. "Sweetheart, I know everything. I know he fucked your sister before he ever proposed to you. I know he only stuck with you 'cause you were the key to doubling his empire. And I know he didn't even lift a finger to stop me from taking you tonight. You think that's love?"

Her eyes glisten with tears, her throat bobbing as she tries to hold them back. She looks so fucking breakable it almost pisses me off.

"Stop," she chokes.

I chuckle low. "The truth hurts, doesn't it?"

"I said stop!" She snaps, surprising me with the sudden fire in her tone. She pushes at my chest, weak but defiant.

For a moment, silence stretches between us.

Then I grab her wrist, hard enough to make her gasp. "Careful, doll. I don't like being touched unless I say so."

She freezes, staring at me with wide, terrified eyes.

Fuck. There it is again. That rush in my blood, that sick mix of power and hunger. I like watching her squirm. Like knowing I could ruin her in a hundred ways, and she couldn't do a damn thing to stop me.

My grip eases, and I let her go. She snatches her hand back like she's been burned.

We ride in tense silence after that. Her breathing uneven, my thoughts darker than they should be.

When the car finally pulls into the gates of my estate, she stiffens. The mansion looms ahead ,all black stone, steel gates, guards with rifles pacing the perimeter. This isn't a home. It's a fortress.

And now, it's her prison.

The car stops. My men yank the door open. One of them reaches for her, but I stop him with a look.

"I'll take her," I say.

She flinches as I grab her arm and pull her out. She stumbles in her heels, nearly falling, and I catch her against my chest. For a second, our eyes meet.

Up close, she's fucking beautiful. Too beautiful for Ethan. Too beautiful for this world.

And I hate her for it.

I shove her forward. "Move."

Inside, the mansion is dim, lit with chandeliers that cast long shadows on the marble floors. My men trail behind, silent.

I drag her up the stairs, down the hall, into one of the guest rooms. It's not a dungeon, though I've got plenty of those. It's luxury, silk sheets, gilded mirrors, a balcony that overlooks the estate.

She looks around, confused.

"You'll stay here until I decide what to do with you," I tell her flatly.

Her head snaps toward me. "You can't just keep me here like some... some fucking hostage!"

I grin, wolfish. "Sweetheart, that's exactly what you are. A pretty little hostage."

Her chest heaves. "Ethan will come for me."

I laugh, harsh and cruel. "If you believe that, you're dumber than I thought."

She flinches, but lifts her chin anyway. Brave little doll.

I step closer, backing her toward the bed. She stumbles, her calves hitting the mattress, and she drops onto it with a gasp.

I lean down, bracing my hands on either side of her. Our faces inches apart. Her breath hitches, her lips part.

"You offered yourself to me back there," I remind her, voice low. "Said you'd do anything. Be careful what you offer, doll. I always collect my debts."

Her pulse hammers in her throat. Her scent fills my lungs-roses and fear.

For one dangerous second, I want to taste her. Just to see if she tastes as sweet as she looks.

But I pull back instead, smirking at her trembling form.

"Get some sleep," I say coldly. "Tomorrow, we'll see what you're really worth."

And with that, I walk out, locking the door behind me.

Her muffled sobs follow me down the hall.

And for reasons I don't want to admit, I can't stop thinking about them.

LILIANA'S POV

When I wake up, the first thing I notice is that I'm not dead.

The second thing I notice is that I wish I were.

My eyes snap open, heart pounding. For a second, I don't recognize the ceiling above me was vaulted, carved wood, lit by a golden chandelier. The sheets beneath me are silk, smooth and cool, nothing like the hotel sheets at the bridal suite I should've been in last night.

And then it all comes back.

The gunshots. The blood. Ethan screaming. Dante Moretti's hand gripping my arm.

The chloroform.

I jolt upright, breath ragged. My dress is torn at the seams, one strap hanging by a thread, my veil gone. My bouquet... gone. My fucking wedding, gone.

Instead, I'm in a gilded cage.

The room is bigger than my entire apartment in the city-velvet drapes, marble floors, mirrors with golden frames. Everything screams wealth, power, danger. And the door is locked. Of course it is.

I stumble out of bed, my legs weak. My bare feet sink into the plush carpet as I rush to the door. I twist the handle-solid, unmoving. I pound against it with both fists.

"Let me out! You can't fucking keep me here!" My voice cracks, echoing back at me.

Silence.

Panic claws at my throat. I whirl around, searching for another way out. The balcony. I shove the curtains aside, step out into the cold night air. High walls stretch around the estate, guards patrolling with rifles slung across their chests. The gates are steel, the kind that doesn't open for anyone but the Devil himself.

My knees buckle. I grip the railing, nausea rising.

This isn't real. This can't be real.

I'm supposed to be on my honeymoon. Ethan's supposed to be holding me, telling me everything will be okay. But instead, I'm trapped in the mansion of a man whose name makes grown men piss themselves.

And Ethan didn't even fight for me. He just... let them take me.

Tears burn my eyes. I scrub them away furiously. Don't cry, Liliana. Don't you fucking cry.

The door clicks.

I freeze, breath caught in my chest.

Then he walks in.

Dante Moretti.

Tall. Broad. Darkness wrapped in a tailored black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, tattoos curling over his forearms, veins visible as he runs a hand through his messy dark hair. He looks like sin, like violence, like every bad decision I've ever been warned against.

And his eyes find me instantly.

"Well, good morning, princess," he drawls, a smirk tugging at his mouth. "Sleep well?"

I glare at him, my heart pounding so hard I feel it in my ears. "Go to hell."

He chuckles, low and mocking, as he shuts the door behind him. "Sweetheart, I brought hell to you."

He strolls further in, casual as if he owns me already. Maybe he does.

"Stay the fuck away from me," I snap, backing up until the edge of the bed hits the back of my legs.

He tilts his head, eyes gleaming. "Or what? You'll scream? Go ahead. Everyone here works for me. They'll just enjoy the show."

My stomach twists.

He's right. I'm alone.

"What do you want from me?" My voice cracks despite how hard I try to steady it.

He stops in front of me, so close I have to tilt my head back to look at him. His presence fills the room, heavy and suffocating.

"What do I want?" he repeats, his smirk fading into something darker. He leans down, his breath brushing my ear. "I want Crawford crawling on his knees, begging me for your life. I want him choking on the blood of his empire while he watches me keep what's his. And I want you...." His fingers hook under my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. ".....to understand that you belong to me now."

My breath hitches. His touch is rough, his grip unyielding, and still, my skin tingles where he holds me. My body is a traitor.

I slap his hand away, my voice shaking. "I'll never belong to you."

He laughs, low and cruel. "That's what they all say."

Something in his eyes makes my stomach flip. It's not just hunger it's possession. A predator staring down prey.

I push past him, moving toward the balcony again, desperate for space. "Ethan will come for me," I whisper, clinging to the last shred of hope I have.

Dante barks out a laugh that chills me to the bone. "Your groom?" He shakes his head, smirking. "Sweetheart, Ethan didn't even look at you when I dragged you out. He was too busy pissing himself over a bullet in his arm. That man wouldn't crawl through hell for you. He wouldn't even crawl across the fucking floor."

The words slice through me.

I shake my head violently. "Shut up! You don't know him."

He stalks toward me, eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. "I know men like him better than you ever will. I know he only stuck his dick in you long enough to get your shares. I know he compared you to your sister every chance he got. And I know that right now, he's thanking God I took you, because it means he doesn't have to keep pretending to love you."

Tears spill over before I can stop them. My chest caves, my knees threatening to give out.

And Dante watches me crumble with a smirk that makes me want to claw his eyes out.

"Fuck you," I whisper, voice broken.

He steps closer, crowding me against the railing. His hand grabs my chin again, rough, forcing my wet eyes to meet his.

"That mouth," he growls. "Careful with it. Unless you want me to find a better use for it."

My stomach knots. Heat flushes my skin, equal parts fear and something darker I don't want to name.

I shove at his chest. "You're disgusting."

He smirks. "And yet, you're still breathing because of me. You think your pretty little fiancé would've kept you alive if our positions were reversed? No, doll. He'd have sold you himself."

I hate him. God, I hate him. But I can't deny the sick twist inside me when he's this close.

"I want to go home," I whisper, hating the way my voice trembles.

His eyes harden. "This is home now."

And before I can protest, he grabs me by the waist and tosses me back onto the bed. I gasp, silk sheets sliding under me as he looms over me, his shadow swallowing me whole.

My heart thunders as his hand brushes the torn strap of my dress, pushing it off my shoulder. My breath stutters, my skin burning.

He doesn't touch further, just leans down, lips inches from mine, his voice a dark promise.

"You offered yourself to me last night," he murmurs. "Said you'd do anything. Don't think I've forgotten. And don't think I won't collect."

My throat goes dry.

He pushes off the bed, straightening. His eyes rake over me one last time before he turns toward the door.

"Get some rest, doll. Tomorrow, I decide how far you're willing to go to keep that little fiancé of yours alive."

The door slams behind him, the lock clicking in place.

I curl into the sheets, shaking, hating him.

And hating myself more for the heat still lingering between my thighs.