The wedding was a macabre fantasy. I wore a stark white custom Vera Wang. He wore a black tuxedo and a look of triumphant possession. He slid a plain platinum band next to the monstrous diamond and kissed me—a hard, claiming kiss that stole my breath and left my lips throbbing. The priest declared us man and wife in the eyes of God and La Cosa Nostra.
My new home was a fortress on the North Shore, all sleek modern lines and impenetrable security. I had a wardrobe of couture, a credit card with no limit, and a husband who was a ghost in his own house.
For weeks, Luca was courteous, distant, and ruthlessly in control. He demanded I dine with him each night. Conversations were polite, interrogations disguised as interest. He learned my favorite art (impressionism), my favorite wine (Barolo), my fear (the dark, a holdover from a childhood locked in a closet during a home invasion). He stored every piece of data like a weapon.
The tension was a living thing, stretching tighter each day.
It snapped one stormy night. I'd had enough of the silent treatment, of being a beautifully dressed prisoner. I put on a defiant red dress he'd bought me, poured two fingers of his best Scotch, and marched into his private study—the one room I was forbidden to enter.
He was at his desk, glasses perched on his nose, studying a ledger. He looked… human. Tired. For a second, my resolve wavered. Then he looked up, and his gaze turned arctic.
"This room is off-limits."
"I'm your wife," I shot back, placing the Scotch on his desk. "Not your employee. We need to talk."
He slowly removed his glasses. "About?"
"About this! About you buying me like a painting! About me having guards who follow me to the goddamn farmer's market!"
He stood, a panther uncoiling. "The guards are for your protection. The Vizzinis are not pleased with our arrangement."
"Our arrangement?" I laughed, hysterical. "I had no say in this arrangement!"
In two strides, he was around the desk, crowding me against the bookshelf. The storm outside mirrored the one in his eyes. "You had a choice. You chose life. Now you live with the consequences."
"I want a real marriage," I spat, pushing against his immovable chest.
His expression darkened, a hunger igniting in the storm. "A real marriage?" His hand gripped my waist, pulling me flush against him. I gasped at the hard, shocking heat of him. "You want me to treat you like a beloved wife? To cherish you? To take you to my bed and make you forget your own name?"
His mouth descended, but this kiss was nothing like the one at the altar. This was conquest and punishment and raw, undeniable need. It was teeth and tongue and a possession so complete I felt branded. I fought for a second, then a traitorous fire ignited in my veins, and I kissed him back, my hands fisting in his hair.
He broke the kiss, breathing ragged, his forehead against mine. "That is a real marriage, Alessia. It's not gentle. It's a battlefield. And you just marched into my camp."
He scooped me up into his arms, carrying me through the dark house, not to my pristine guest room, but to his stark, masculine bedroom. He laid me on the dark sheets, his body covering mine, his eyes holding mine captive.
"The deal was your obedience," he murmured, his fingers tracing the strap of my red dress. "But I don't want your surrender. I want your fire. Even if it burns us both."
That night, the gilded cage door swung open, and I stepped into the fire with my husband, the devil I was bound to, discovering that in the heart of the darkness, there was a heat that felt terrifyingly like coming home.