The white rose arrived just before dawn.
No note.
No signature.
Just a single bloom, pristine and pale, resting on the iron gate of Silvio's estate — as if the night itself had left it there in silence.
When the guard brought it inside, Silvio stared for a long moment. He didn't touch it. He didn't speak.
But the tension in his jaw shifted.
And for the first time in years…
He smiled.
---
Three days later, they were married.
No church.
No guests.
No vows spoken aloud.
The ceremony took place in the back room of a centuries-old villa owned by a retired cardinal who owed Silvio his life. The only witnesses were two men with guns under their coats and the priest — who didn't dare ask questions.
Rose wore black.
A slip of silk that clung to her like defiance.
Her eyes were lined in kohl. Her lips were bloodred. And her expression was unreadable.
Silvio wore a tailored suit, but the tension in his body made him look like he was going to war — not marrying a woman he couldn't stop thinking about.
They stood across from each other in that candlelit room, the air thick with incense and unspoken truths.
"Do you take this woman," the priest began, voice unsteady, "to be your lawful—"
"Yes," Silvio interrupted, gaze never leaving hers.
Rose tilted her chin slightly.
The priest turned to her. "And do you—"
"I do," she said coldly. "For survival."
Silvio's mouth twitched.
It was the closest thing to affection she would offer him.
And somehow, it was enough.
---
After the signatures were made and the priest quickly dismissed, they were left alone in the villa's grand hallway. Silence pressed between them, ancient and heavy.
Rose didn't speak.
She simply walked ahead of him, slow and deliberate, until she reached the balcony overlooking the city.
From here, the skyline glowed like a kingdom on fire.
She leaned her hands on the stone edge. The wind caught her veil, twisting it around her like smoke.
"You don't wear a crown," she said, "but you act like a king."
"I have no use for crowns," Silvio replied, stepping beside her. "They attract too many bullets."
She glanced at him. "So what does that make me now?"
He met her eyes. "A queen in a city built for ghosts."
She turned to fully face him.
"Don't romanticize this," she said. "You didn't marry me for devotion. You did it to cage me."
"No," he said. "I married you to shield you. The cage was always the world outside."
Rose stared at him, searching for cracks in the calm. "And if I burn it all anyway?"
"I'll hand you the matches."
That stopped her.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then, slowly, she reached up — grabbed his lapel — and pulled him toward her.
But this kiss was different.
Not wild.
Not desperate.
It was slow.
Precise.
A storm held between teeth and tongue, simmering in silence. His hands gripped her waist like he was anchoring himself. Her fingers slid into his hair, pulling just enough to make him groan softly into her mouth.
This was not affection.
This was not comfort.
This was ownership — mutual, brutal, and necessary.
When they broke apart, breathless, her lips were swollen, and his control was hanging by a thread.
"You're mine now," he whispered.
She looked up at him, voice sharp.
"No, Silvio. We belong to nothing — except the war we just declared together."
And just like that…
They both knew:
This wasn't a wedding.
It was a weapon.