The Devil's Rose

I woke up to velvet.

A velvet blindfold across my eyes. Velvet ropes biting into my wrists. Velvet carpeting beneath my bare knees.

And a velvet voice announcing, "Lot Seventeen. The D'Amore Rose. Untouched. Unbroken."

I stirred, my thoughts were sluggish, head heavy. A dull ache pulsed behind my eyes, and limbs felt as though they were shackled with lead.

I struggled to piece together the last memory before the blackness swallowed me whole.

My father's voice, shouting. Gunshots. The smell of smoke. A flash of red heels, mine. Then-nothing.

A chill ran down my spine before I could even open my eyes.

What the hell had they done to me?

I tried to move, but my limbs were sluggish. The air tasted chemical and sweet, like I'd been drugged. My head pounded with a dull, pulsing ache.

Then they yanked the blindfold away.

Light stabbed through my skull like daggers.

I flinched, blinking against the blinding glare of stage lights. Rows of shadowy figures appeared, seated in a velvet-draped room that looked like a twisted opera house from a nightmare. Dozens of men. Dark suits. Pale champagne. Sinister smiles.

My skin turned to ice.

I was on a stage.

Not a dream. Not a hallucination. A stage.

I was barefoot, dressed in a thin silk slip the color of ash. My wrists were bound in front of me with red ribbon that might've looked pretty, if I wasn't being sold like a possession.

I wasn't dreaming.

I was being auctioned.

I opened my mouth to scream-but my voice was hoarse, as if I'd already done plenty of that.

"Starting bid: two million euros," the man in the tuxedo said from the corner. "Remember, gentlemen-this is not just a woman. This is legacy. The last D'Amore."

My heart stopped.

D'Amore.

My last name. My curse.

I knew then my father was dead.

There was no rescue coming. No protection. No favors to call in. There was only me, a stage, a room full of wolves, and the man who had put me here.

I sucked in a shaky breath. "I'm not for sale."

The words barely carried over the microphone's static.

The auctioneer didn't flinch. The crowd, however, stirred. One man laughed-a short, cruel bark of sound. Another licked his bottom lip as if tasting his victory already.

A third man leaned back with a cigar glowing between his fingers, as if bored.

I hated them. I hated all of them.

"Two million," a voice called.

"Three."

"Four."

"Five million."

The number bounced through the air like a death sentence. My vision blurred.

I scanned the crowd for help-foolish, I know-but my gaze caught on a figure seated at the very back. Alone. Unmoving.

He didn't bid. He didn't speak.

But I felt his attention like a knife between my shoulder blades.

He was watching me.

He wore all black-tailored suit, dark shirt, no tie. One hand rested on the arm of his chair like a king on his throne. The other held a glass of amber liquid he hadn't touched.

He had the stillness of a predator that already knew the outcome of the hunt.

Eyes like smoke. Hair like ink. And a mouth made for sin and violence.

Something about him screamed danger. Not the performative kind that the others wore like perfume-but real danger. The kind that made your heart forget how to beat.

The auctioneer's voice wavered as he looked at the back of the room.

"Ten million euros."

The hall went silent.

Every man turned toward the shadowed figure.

My breath caught.

He hadn't spoken. Hadn't even moved.

But it was understood.

The bid was his.

No one dared challenge it.

"Sold," the auctioneer croaked. "To Mr. Moretti."

Moretti.

The name hit me like a blow.

Lucien Moretti.

CEO of Moretti International. Billionaire. But behind the glossy headlines and designer suits, a name whispered with blood-soaked reverence. Head of the Moretti Syndicate. Europe's deadliest organized crime empire.

The very man my father once called the devil himself.

He rose from his seat like a shadow peeling off the wall and began walking toward the stage.

Every step he took sent a ripple through the room. Men shifted in their seats. Waitstaff froze. A few lowered their eyes.

He wasn't just rich.

He was feared.

And he'd just bought me.

⸻

He stopped at the edge of the stage.

Six-foot-something of power and precision, dressed in shadows and money. His eyes raked over me from head to toe, slowly, like he was deciding whether to keep me or return me like a defective product.

I stood my ground. Barefoot, trembling, but not broken.

Not yet.

"Don't touch me," I said.

My voice barely carried, but his gaze flicked to mine.

He smiled-if you could call it that. It was a slash of something cold and knowing. A blade with a curve.

"You think I paid ten million euros to touch you?"

His voice was low, smooth, threaded with something venomous.

"I paid to own you."

My stomach twisted.

"I'm not a thing."

Lucien reached out, slow and deliberate, and cut the red ribbon from my wrists with a switchblade I hadn't seen him draw.

The velvet fluttered to the floor.

Then he handed me something.

A ring.

Black diamond. Platinum band. Too heavy for elegance. It was a collar made of gemstones.

"Put it on."

"No."

His smile vanished.

Lucien stepped onto the stage.

Suddenly he was inches away. Close enough that I could see the faint scar along his jaw, the cold calculation in his eyes. His scent was expensive, masculine, with a note of smoke.

"I won't ask again," he said, quiet.

I met his gaze.

And put the ring on my finger.

His stare dropped to it.

Then back to me.

"There," he murmured. "Now everyone knows who you belong to."

⸻

The ride from the auction was silent.

I sat in the back of the black armored Maybach, still barefoot, staring out the window at the blur of rain-soaked streets. My reflection in the glass was pale, haunted. A stranger.

Lucien sat beside me, legs crossed, watching me the way a scientist might study a dangerous specimen.

He didn't speak. He didn't offer explanations. He didn't touch me.

But I felt his power pressing in from every direction.

"You wanted revenge," I said finally, my voice raw. "Now you've got it."

He turned his head toward me slowly. "Revenge?"

"I know who you are. My father talked about you like you were the devil himself."

"Then he was right."

The words landed like ice.

Lucien looked out the window, his tone detached. "Your father cost me everything once. My brother. My territory. Years of blood."

I swallowed hard. "So now you're taking it out on me."

He didn't deny it.

"You're the last D'Amore," he said simply. "The last card left to play."

I clenched my fists.

"I won't beg," I said. "And I won't break."

Lucien looked at me again, eyes unreadable.

"That remains to be seen."

⸻

When we arrived at his estate outside of Florence, it was nearly dawn. The villa was a fortress-stone, iron, silence. Guards with guns at the gates. Cameras in every corner. Ivy crawling up ancient walls.

Inside, everything gleamed with wealth and coldness.

Marble floors. Crystal chandeliers. Empty halls.

He led me down a corridor to a set of massive double doors.

"Your room."

I blinked. "You're not locking me in a basement?"

Lucien smirked faintly. "You'll find the cage is more effective when it looks like freedom."

I stepped inside. The room was beautiful-king-sized bed, silk sheets, a view of the garden-but it felt like a museum. Pretty. Sterile. Watched.

He lingered in the doorway.

"If you try to run," he said, "I'll find you."

"And if I try to kill you?"

He arched a brow.

"Then I might start to believe you're interesting."

⸻

That night, I didn't sleep.

I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the ring on my finger. I could still feel Lucien's eyes on me, even though he was gone.

I didn't cry.

I didn't scream.

But deep inside me, something began to burn.

If Lucien Moretti thought he could own me, he was wrong.

I might've been sold like property.

But I was still a D'Amore.

And devils didn't scare me.

Not even ones with eyes like smoke and hearts made of stone.

Not even the one who bought me.

I didn't hear him come in.

But I felt him.

The air shifted-like the temperature dropped five degrees, or the silence grew teeth. My skin prickled as if the walls themselves held their breath.

I was standing by the window in the oversized guest suite he'd so graciously locked me in, staring out at the morning fog choking the Florence hills. Freedom looked like a mirage from this high up.

I didn't turn around.

"I thought devils knocked," I said.

Behind me, Lucien's voice was smooth, dry. "Why would I knock on something I own?"

I turned slowly.

He stood in the doorway like a shadow draped in silk. Black slacks. Black shirt. A dark jacket tailored to his tall, broad frame. No tie. No apologies.

The morning sun spilled behind him, backlighting his figure in gold-like even daylight bent around him. A man carved from sin and made to command.

My throat dried, but I didn't let it show.

"I don't belong to you."

Lucien took a step inside.

Then another.

Deliberate. Patient.

"Funny," he said, "you wore my ring."

I glanced at my hand-the black diamond gleamed, mocking me.

"I wore it so you wouldn't embarrass yourself," I said. "Throwing ten million at a girl who wouldn't even flinch for you."

Lucien stopped in front of me.

We were close-too close. Inches between us. His cologne was dark and clean, like cedar smoke and secrets.

He tilted his head.

His voice dropped to a whisper. "You think I bought you for sex?"

His fingers reached up-slow, precise-and brushed my cheek.

I didn't flinch.

Didn't breathe.

"No," he murmured. "I bought you for power."

And just like that, the mask cracked-just enough to let the devil show through.

He walked past me and sat in the armchair like he was already bored of the conversation. Legs crossed. Hand resting lazily over the armrest.

"You'll stay here until I decide what to do with you," he said.

"I'm not your pet."

Lucien met my eyes. "No. A pet is loyal."

I stepped toward him, jaw clenched. "Why not just kill me?"

A flicker of something-curiosity? amusement?-passed through his gaze.

"Because death is a mercy," he said. "And I don't believe in mercy."

Rule One.

He laid it out like a contract etched in blood.

"You don't lie to me," Lucien said, still seated like a king.

"Or?"

"Or I'll find new uses for that mouth."

My stomach twisted-but not with fear. Something hotter. Shameful. Unwanted.

He knew it too. His smile didn't reach his eyes.

"And if I lie to you?" I asked, pushing back.

Lucien rose.

Slowly.

Towering.

He closed the space between us in two steps, standing so close I could feel the heat of his body, the steel just beneath his skin.

"You won't," he said simply.

"I'm not afraid of you."

Lucien's eyes darkened, voice low.

"No," he said. "You're afraid of what I'll make you feel."

I slapped him.

Hard.

My palm met his cheek with a crack, loud in the stillness.

His head turned slightly with the force-but he didn't move otherwise.

Didn't even blink.

Then he smiled.

A slow, dangerous curl of his lips.

"Good," he said. "Hate me."

His hand wrapped around my throat-not tight, just firm enough to tilt my head back. Not possession. Not violence.

Claim.

I hated the way my breath caught.

The way my pulse betrayed me.

"You want me to fight?" I whispered.

Lucien's gaze dropped to my lips.

"No," he said. "I want you to surrender."

He let go of me like I burned him.

I stumbled back, breath shuddering.

He didn't chase me.

Didn't need to.

Lucien Moretti was not a man who hunted his prey.

He waited for it to come to him.

The next morning, I found a note on my vanity in looping black ink:

Rule Two: You don't leave this house without my permission.

Disobedience will be punished.

–L.M.

Below it was a black silk dress. High collar. Open back. Modest and obscene all at once.

A challenge.

I almost tore it in half.

But something stopped me.

Not fear. Not curiosity.

Strategy.

Lucien wanted a reaction.

He wanted to break me.

I'd give him a performance instead.

Dinner was held in a dining hall big enough for a dozen guests-yet we sat at opposite ends of a massive table, like two monarchs at war.

Lucien sipped his wine.

Watched me.

Waited.

I didn't flinch under his gaze.

But I felt it.

Like pressure behind my eyes. Like fingers wrapping around my spine.

"You wear the dress well," he said, finally.

I didn't thank him.

He smirked. "You'll learn manners soon enough."

"And you'll learn I don't bow."

Lucien leaned back, expression unreadable.

"Do you know why I hate your father?" he asked suddenly.

I tensed.

"You think I care?" I said.

"No," he replied. "But I want you to know who you're dealing with."

He told me, then.

About the betrayal. The ambush. The fire in Naples.

How my father cut a deal with a rival syndicate and left Lucien's brother to die.

"You think I'm cruel," Lucien said quietly, "because I bought you."

He set down his wineglass.

"But I let your father live-for years. I waited. I watched. And when he fell..." He looked at me. "I took his most valuable asset."

"My body?" I spat.

Lucien's smile faded.

"No," he said. "Your name."

Later that night, I stood under the rain of the shower in the marble-tiled bathroom, scrubbing his scent from my skin-even though he hadn't touched me.

Not really.

But Lucien Moretti didn't need to touch you to invade you.

He got inside your head.

Your breath.

Your dreams.

When I emerged in a towel, I found a box on my bed.

Inside: a necklace. Platinum. Blood-red ruby.

And a single note: Wear it tomorrow.

I nearly screamed.

Instead, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the ring heavy on my finger.

He wasn't breaking me.

He was turning me into something else.

Someone else.

In the morning, I walked into the hall wearing the ruby necklace.

Lucien was waiting by the staircase, dressed in a black wool coat, a silk scarf around his neck. He looked... untouchable.

Dangerous.

Like a devil dressed for confession.

He looked at the necklace.

Then at me.

"Good girl."

My stomach twisted.

"I'm not doing this for you," I said.

Lucien stepped close.

"This isn't for me," he murmured. "It's for them."

"Who?"

"The world," he said. "When I take you out there, they'll know what you are."

"And what's that?"

Lucien's gaze held mine.

"Mine."

His voice still lingered in the hallway, curling around me like smoke.

"Mine."

Lucien didn't wait for my reply. He turned and descended the grand staircase like he hadn't just branded me with a single word.

I stood there for a breath.

Then two.

The ruby necklace burned against my throat-too tight, too heavy. It wasn't jewelry. It was a leash dressed as luxury.

I followed him anyway.

The black Maserati waited out front, its engine purring like a predator ready to run. A driver opened the door for me with a slight bow, but I didn't move.

Lucien glanced back.

"Ava."

It wasn't a command.

It was a warning.

I got in.

The leather interior smelled like power and danger. Lucien sat beside me, calm as still water, one arm resting along the seat like he owned the world-and maybe he did.

I kept my hands in my lap.

He didn't speak for a long time.

Then: "Tonight is important."

"To you," I said.

Lucien's mouth curved faintly. "To us."

"There is no us."

"You're wearing my ring. My necklace. You sleep in my house. Eat my food."

"None of that is by choice."

Lucien turned to face me fully. His gaze locked with mine.

"You're right," he said softly. "But survival rarely is."

The event was held in a Renaissance-era palazzo in the heart of Florence.

Guards flanked the entrance. Paparazzi hovered like vultures outside the gates. Guests arrived in Rolls-Royces, draped in couture and dripping diamonds.

But when Lucien stepped out, the world seemed to hold its breath.

I followed him into the ballroom beneath chandeliers the size of carriages, walking beside-not behind-him. Every eye tracked us.

Men nodded.

Women stared.

A few whispered my name.

Ava D'Amore.

The daughter of a disgraced mafia don. Now wearing the devil's ring.

Lucien leaned in, murmuring against my ear, "Smile, cara mia. Let them see what I own."

I smiled-but not for him.

For the game.

Let them think I was broken.

Let them underestimate me.

I would burn every one of them to the ground.

He introduced me as his fiancée.

They believed it.

Of course they did.

Lucien Moretti didn't lie.

He simply turned truths into weapons.

At the edge of the room, I saw them-men who looked like wolves in tuxedos. Lucien's allies. Rivals. Enemies pretending to toast champagne while plotting his downfall.

One of them approached us.

Tall. Blond. Ice in his smile.

"Lucien," the man drawled. "You've upgraded your taste."

Lucien didn't blink. "Ava, this is Viktor Barinov. Russian syndicate. Imports, arms, and cheap vodka."

Viktor chuckled. "And she is...?"

"Mine," Lucien said.

That one word again. Like a curse. Like a claim.

Viktor's eyes swept over me, slow and assessing. "She's beautiful. But young. Dangerous to keep something so tempting so close."

Lucien's tone never shifted.

"I like dangerous."

The night wore on in glitter and venom.

I watched Lucien work the room-every word calculated, every glance intentional. He didn't speak often, but when he did, people listened.

Feared him.

Respected him.

But there was something else in their eyes when they looked at me.

Pity.

Or maybe hunger.

I wasn't sure which I hated more.

Later, in a dim hallway outside the ballroom, I slipped away for air. The walls were covered in tapestries older than America, but I felt no history here-only silence. Suffocation.

I didn't hear him behind me.

But I knew it wasn't Lucien.

"You shouldn't be alone," came Viktor's voice.

I turned.

He leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets. The wolf without the smile now.

"Lucien might own the building," he said, "but that doesn't mean you're safe."

I straightened. "Is that a threat?"

He smirked. "A warning."

"I don't need warnings. I need exits."

Viktor stepped closer. "Careful, Ava. The devil doesn't like disobedience."

His hand brushed my arm.

And then-

Lucien was there.

I didn't see him arrive.

Didn't hear his footsteps.

He grabbed Viktor by the collar and slammed him into the wall so hard the tapestries trembled.

Viktor choked out a laugh. "Protective, aren't we?"

Lucien's voice was lethal calm. "Touch her again, and I'll bury your hands in separate countries."

Viktor's smirk cracked.

Lucien released him-shoved him back-and turned to me.

His eyes were thunder.

"You don't wander off."

"I needed air."

"You need permission."

"No," I snapped. "What I need is not to be groped like some prize cow!"

Lucien stared at me, breathing hard.

Then he turned, walked away, and said, "Get in the car."

I didn't move.

"Now."

We didn't speak on the drive back.

The silence was a loaded gun between us.

When we got home, I ripped the necklace off the second we stepped inside. Threw it at his chest.

"You don't get to parade me like some whore and then act like my savior."

Lucien caught the necklace midair.

Held it.

Then tossed it to the floor.

"I told you the rules."

"Screw your rules!"

He moved.

Fast.

In a flash, I was pinned against the wall, his hand braced beside my head, breath ghosting across my face.

His voice was low, controlled, brutal.

"I warned you," he said. "This world eats weakness. I gave you armor. You threw it away."

"I'm not weak."

"No," he said. "You're something worse. You're reckless."

I shoved him.

He didn't move.

He just looked at me like he could see every thought I hadn't said.

"You're angry," he said. "But not because Viktor touched you."

"Don't tell me how I feel."

"You're angry," he said again, quieter now, "because part of you liked that I stopped him."

I slapped him.

Again.

He caught my wrist this time.

Didn't let go.

The silence between us cracked wide open.

Lucien leaned in.

His mouth near mine.

But he didn't kiss me.

He whispered, "Tell me you don't want me."

I should have.

I should have screamed it.

But the words stuck in my throat, frozen by the heat in his eyes.

By the truth I didn't want to say.

He released me.

Turned away.

And this time, he was the one who walked out.

I stayed in the hallway long after he left.

Staring at the ruby necklace on the floor.

It still sparkled.

Still looked beautiful.

But I saw it now for what it was.

Not a gift.

A noose.