Twisted Vows

Wearing white, Alessia Moretti entered the Valenti mansion. But it was not the delicate white of a sweet, innocent bride; this was a punchy, crisp silk that, like armor, offered her protection. Echoes of her high heels clicked sharply on the marble floor and the sound got louder step by step, reverberating the large space behind her as if announcing her arrival. Through the tension, she stood tall. She did not flinch at the heavy doors swinging shut behind her, nor when the curious gazes of everyone in the room settled on her, a girl sheathed in lace, brought here against her will.

It was a palatial mound of excess that felt tainted with something wrong, like it was built on lies and blood. The large chandeliers glimmered like frozen water droplets and old portraits of dour men hung on the walls, all of them staring at her. And on the opposite end of the room, in front of a large mahogany table, was the man she was about to marry.

Nico Valenti.

He was sharp in his black suit, the kind that could slice air itself. His angle, sharp; his hair slicked back in a way that announced confidence. His eyes were deep stones — cold and unreadable. He was obviously a man used to having everything buttoned down.

In the corner sat Alessia’s father, pale, threadbare, breathing shallow and laboriously. He hadn’t spoken since they pulled him out of wherever they had him stashed. Nico had kept him living, but just barely, just as he vowed.

Steeling herself, Alessia lifted her chin and spoke, willing her voice to remain steady. “I’m here. Let’s just get this over with.’”

said home, beginnings could often be the most lethal moments within Her gaze fell on Nico who looked at her coldly, yet a glint of interest resonated in his eyes for a moment as he nodded. “Follow me.”

He did not call to her or smile as if this was a friendly encounter. Nico Valenti never soft-pedaled it.

He followed him into a small room with stone walls and heavy curtains, behind which a priest’s face was a study in regret. It was a private, quick wedding, a tryst in shadows.

“No guests?” she asked, the tone tight with uncertainty.

Nico did not even look at her and replied, “There are fewer witnesses, therefore there are fewer graves.”

A shiver passed through her, but she stayed calm.

The priest started murmuring rites in Latin, sounding serious, like he was officiating a funeral rather than a wedding. Alessia replied when she had to; the words felt weighted on her tongue. The only time her hand trembled was when Nico slipped the ring on her finger. It was platinum — chill and solid.

“You may kiss the bride,” the priest said, but there was no warmth in his tone.

Nico didn’t move. Neither did she.

There was silence between them, charged with tension. Then he faced the priest and shooed him away. “That’s not necessary.”

With that, Alessia was married to a man who had become a monster, not a husband.

The chapter was blank between the Valenti estate and the drive there. Alessia stared out her window, images of the city slipping into dark roads and shadows. The rain mottled the glass like a curtain.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she said, shattering the quiet.

Nico didn’t look her way. “You should be.”

“I’m not a naive girl you can make submit through fear.”

His men were contending with a rival gang vying for control, and old alliances were splintering. It was a tactical move to gain leverage, plain and simple, to marry Alessia.

At least that was what he told himself.

But there was something about her that he found unsettling. Her eyes were shrewd, a little too even, with no hint of a breakdown in this pressure cooker of a situation.

“Boss,” his lieutenant Matteo said, breaking his thoughts and entering the room. “We crossed paths with the Vescari. Three of their men attempted to trail the convoy.”

“And?”

“They’re dead,” Matteo said, matter-of-factly.

Nico nodded sharply. “Let them know that anyone who sets foot on Valenti turf will suffer the same fate.”

Matteo looked hesitant. “And the girl?”

Nico clutched the glass tight. “She’s not a threat.”

“Even so, she’s Moretti’s daughter. That name—”

“That name isn’t a name of power anymore. She belongs to me now.”

As the clock near midnight, Alessia tiptoed out of her room.

She ghosted through the halls learning the layout, the guards’ patrol patterns, and the location of locked doors. She didn’t come here to be some prisoner. She had a plan, and she would not wither away inside these walls while her father roiled in the dregs of defeat.

As she turned a corner, her path nearly crossed Nico’s.

He didn’t flinch. Of course, he wouldn’t. Instead he studied her with that unsettling intensity.

“Enjoying your new home?” he asked, his voice silky but terrifying.

“I don’t sleep much in different places,” she said frankly.

A slight smile appeared. “That’s smart. But don’t confuse discomfort with danger. And if I wanted you dead, you’d be nothing but ashes by now.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “Comforting thought.”

“What’s your destination?”

“Out,” she answered boldly.

His brow quirked upwards, intrigue igniting his gaze. “Try again.”

With a step forward, she dared him. “What are you going to do if I don’t obey? Lock me up? Kill my father anyway?”

He stepped closer, bridging the gap between them. He smelled like money, smoke and leather. His voice became a low growl.

“You think this is a game? Just because, you think, that I haven’t made a move, I won’t? You’re mistaken. Each rule you cross comes with a cost. Choose wisely.”

Her heart raced, and she hid it well. “Then maybe you shouldn’t pretend that you are showing mercy.”

He brushed her cheek as he tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. The touch surprised her — it was surprisingly tender.

“I don’t hold back with you,” he whispered, before walking away, leaving her shaken and uncertain.

The following morning, the estate was chaotic. A warning had been delivered: a body was left at the gates, its throat cut and eyes gone — a statement from the Vescari, plain to all. Nico inspected the grisly sight with a stony expression, barking orders to and fro. It was Alessia who stood on the balcony, watching it all from the shadows.

She mentioned how his men followed his orders not only because they were afraid but also because they respected him. He was ruthless but careful. He knew what he was doing.

That made her mission difficult, however.

For Alessia Moretti wasn’t merely here to rescue her father; she planned to kill the Valenti empire piece by piece, starting from inside.

And Nico, the man she had just married, was the key wall in her way.

That night, Nico found her in the study, riffling through one of the leather-bound volumes.

“You’re braver than I gave you credit for,” he said, entering.

She glanced away from her reading.

“Is it because I’m reading?”

“No, it’s because you don’t flinch in the face of danger.”

“I’ve known men like you all my life. You’re not special,” she said.

He advanced, and there was a shift in the atmosphere. “No?”

“Cold. Arrogant. Dangerous. You bleed just like everybody else.”

His face didn’t change, but there was something electric between them. An undercurrent neither could pretend away.

“What do you bleed for, Alessia? he asked quietly.

She paused, surrounded by a web of truth, too dangerous to speak.

Instead, she asked, “Why me? What makes me different from the rest?”

“Because you’re crafty. You have self-control. And because marrying you is a message your father’s enemies cannot afford to miss.”

“And what does that mean for me?”

He tilted his head slightly. “That’s for you to decide. Would you like to take a part in this war?”

She paused. “I want to survive it.”

“Then don’t lie to me.”

Their gazes met — two predators in the same jungle, neither willing to back down.

It wasn’t love, not just yet.

But it was something equally fraught.

A flicker.

A beginning.

In the dangerous world they

As the iron gates of the Valenti estate creaked open, Alessia felt an irreversible shiver trickle down her spine. It wasn't just the unfriendly creak with which they jangled against each other or the starched glares from the guards as her black car glided up the long, pebbly driveway. It was the ultimate in finalities. The deafening crash of the gates slamming close behind her dropped her heart like the last and final nail in her coffin.

This was not a house. It felt more like a tomb.

The mansion before us loomed like a monolithic shadow, its high spires reaching for the heavens in a futile endeavor. Perched atop a cliff, it had front-row seats to the violent dance of the sea crashing into the rocks below, as if the water tried to wear down the estate from the ground. Its gray stone walls, soaked by the rain that had once fallen, surrounded the grounds like a black fortress. Security cameras glowed with a quiet, censorious vigilance here and there as they tracked her eve