The sky was a canvas of smoke and sorrow, the stars too afraid to shine over blood-soaked streets. The Vercelli name was carved into every brick and alley, in clubs, prayed against in dark corners.
In the heart of it all stood Alessio Vercelli, drenched in black from suit to soul, watching the flames eat through what used to be an enemy's safehouse.
His expression didn't flicker as the building collapsed.
No satisfaction. No mercy.
Only cold control.
"Let it burn," he smile darkly, slipping a ring into his coat pocket—his mother's ring. The one he was supposed to give to a real fiancée one day.
Instead, tomorrow he'd place it on the finger of a woman he didn't trust.
A stranger.
A liar.
Yet the only one who could save the empire from falling apart.
---
(Elsewhere…)
She stood in front of the mirror, heart pounding louder than the city sirens outside.
Violetta Rivera, —touched the wire hidden inside her heel. A device that would record ever conversation, every mafia secret she could gather while pretending to love a man she'd sworn to destroy.
Alessio Vercelli.
The name made her stomach churn.
They said he slit throats with a smile.
That he'd inherited his father's empire at twenty, and killed his first man at five.
She'd seen him once.
Five years ago.
On the night her father was executed in front of her eyes.
Now, the Agency had sent her back as bait… as a bride.
Fake the love.
Find the proof.
Destroy the family from the inside.
Easy.
Except…
Why did the memory of his eyes haunt her already?
Why did she feel like she was the one being hunted?
Tomorrow, they'd pretend.
They'd smile, pose, kiss.
Play lovers.
But tonight?
Tonight, they prepared for war, unleashing they hate for the last time openly.
---
"VERCELLI PALACE"
The chains around Emilia's wrists were decorative.
Silver. Delicate. Pretty enough to look like jewelry. Tight enough to remind her she was property.
She was marched through the palace halls barefoot, the silk of her tattered gown dragging behind her like a broken wedding veil. Two guards flanked her sides. The third—older, cruel-eyed—led her by the chain.
"Your new master awaits," he said. "Be silent. Be obedient."
Emilia only smiled. "What if he prefers screaming?"
The guard didn't answer. He didn't look at her again.
---
At the throne room doors, they stopped. The high marble arches loomed above like stone teeth. Behind them—him.
Jericho Delacroix.
The cursed prince. The beast.
The man Emilia was gifted to like a lamb at sacrifice.
The guards opened the doors.
She stepped into a world of shadows.
---
He sat on the throne like a statue carved in war.
Black coat. Collar open. Gloves off. His hands rested on the throne's arms—strong, veined, scarred.
Jericho's eyes lifted to meet hers.
No welcome.
No lust.
No pity.
Only silence.
His gaze dragged across her like a knife, and Emilia felt something cold wrap around her spine.
He hates this, she thought. Good.
The guard bowed deeply. "The tribute. From the Clarke Kingdom. Her name is—"
"Take her to the east tower," Jericho said flatly. His voice was deep. Hollow. Like stone cracking.
The guard blinked. "Your Highness?"
Jericho stood. The air shifted. The room darkened, though no clouds passed the sun. "Did I stutter?"
"But she is—"
"A slave." Jericho's eyes never left Emilia. "Not a guest. Not a bride. Not my whore. I don't want her in my bed. I want her contained."
His voice dropped, and the glass vases near the throne cracked.
"She will stay locked until I decide what to do with her. Or until I forget she exists."
---
They dragged her away.
But not before she laughed.
---
Later that night…
The east tower was cold. Stone walls. One window. A single blanket. And a metal collar hooked to the wall by a long chain.
They didn't even pretend it was anything but a cell.
Emilia sat cross-legged on the hard floor, humming softly, tracing dust into symbols she didn't remember learning.
He didn't touch me.
Not once.
Not a glance of desire. Not a cruel smirk. Nothing.
Interesting.
Men always wanted something from her—her body, her madness, her kingdom's secrets. But Jericho had looked at her like she was a disease.
Or maybe like he was afraid she might infect him.
Emilia giggled and whispered to the moon through her bars, "Oh, beast prince... you've locked the wrong creature in a cage."
---
Later that night, Emilia stood at her tower window, robe slipping off one shoulder, skin glowing silver in the moonlight.
She whispered to the air, to the shadows, to the silence.
"Come out, coward. I know you're watching."
She felt it—the weight of a gaze, heavy and hungry, somewhere in the dark.
Her lips curled into a smile, soft and cruel.
"Don't make me come find you."
Far across the palace, something growled.
The glass in her window cracked.
And Emilia laughed.
---