Elena's pov –
I never imagined I'd wear a wedding dress like this.
Heavy, suffocating, pure white — the kind of cruel irony only fate would find funny. A virgin's color. A symbol of peace. But there was nothing pure or peaceful about the reason I stood in front of this mirror, hands trembling like a liar in confession.
"I do," I was going to say.
To the son of the man who murdered my father.
My fingers clenched the edge of the dressing table. Lipstick smeared on my bottom lip from nervous biting, and my veil—silk, threaded with pearls—felt like a shroud choking me. I could barely breathe through the scent of roses and rage.
"Elena?" My aunt tapped on the door. "It's time."
I didn't answer. I looked at my reflection and saw a stranger. Cold. Hollow-eyed. But under all that… something else.
Vengeance.
I wasn't marrying for love.
I wasn't marrying for family.
I was marrying for revenge.
Five years ago, my father was executed in front of our home, shot in the back like a dog. The De Rossi name—once feared across the southern cities—died with him. My mother, broken. Our allies, scattered. And the Morettis… they thrived. Took our docks, our money, our legacy.
Now I was about to become one of them.
My marriage to Luca Moretti was a political solution. An arranged truce. A pretty knot to tie two bleeding empires together. But they didn't know my secret. They didn't know what I planned to do once I got behind their golden gates.
Burn them from the inside.
One by one.
And it would start with my husband.
The cathedral was ice-cold, despite the glittering chandeliers and the rows of armed men pretending to be guests. I walked down the aisle with my back straight, eyes focused ahead — and the moment I saw him, my stomach turned.
Luca.
Tall, in a custom black suit that probably cost more than what was left of my family's assets. Broad shoulders. Face like it was carved from stone — sharp, hard, arrogant. His jaw was clenched so tightly I thought he might break his own teeth.
He didn't smile.
He didn't even look at me.
Good.
I didn't need a husband. I needed a target.
"Do you, Elena De Rossi, take this man—"
The priest's voice faded as I locked eyes with Luca. For a second—one strange, gut-twisting second—I saw something flicker in his gaze. Recognition? Regret?
No. It was gone before I could name it.
"I do," I said, my voice steady.
"And do you, Luca Moretti, take this woman—"
Silence.
Then, a curt nod. "I do."
A muscle in his cheek ticked. He didn't take my hand. He didn't kiss me. He signed the papers like it was a business deal, and in many ways, it was.
Just not the one he thought it was.
The reception was extravagant. Loud. Tasteless. And every champagne flute, every fake toast, every forced smile made me want to scream.
I didn't drink. I watched.
From across the room, Luca was talking to a man I didn't recognize — dark suit, scar on his left hand. Russian, maybe. My instincts twitched.
Whoever he was, he leaned in close, whispering something in Luca's ear that made my new husband's expression shift. Something icy. Something dangerous.
They were hiding things already.
Good.
I'd make them pay for every secret they kept.
It wasn't until we were in the car — an armored Bentley, of course — that I heard his voice directed at me for the first time.
"Are you going to keep pretending to be the good little bride? Or should we drop the act?"
I turned my head slowly, meeting his stare.
"That depends. Are you pretending to be a husband?"
His smirk was cruel. "I'm exactly what they paid for. Nothing more."
"So am I."
We stared at each other — not like lovers, but like wolves. His cologne was sharp, laced with smoke and spice. His cufflinks glinted like weapons.
"You have no idea what you've walked into," he said finally.
"And you have no idea what I'm capable of."
The estate was a fortress disguised as a mansion. High walls. Men with guns. Rooms built like palaces but hollow with silence. They called it the Moretti Legacy.
To me, it looked like a cage.
Our bedroom — of course — had one bed.
Luca walked in, took one glance, and said flatly, "I'll be sleeping in the west wing. Don't wait up."
He walked out before I could respond. I stood in the doorway of the room that was supposed to be mine, listening to his footsteps disappear like the echo of a bad decision.
I should have been relieved.
But something about his retreat unsettled me.
I wasn't supposed to feel anything. Not the heat when his eyes lingered on mine, not the ache in my chest when he left.
I was supposed to be in control.
Later that night, when the house was quiet, I wandered the halls like a ghost. I needed to find his office. Start small. One file. One piece of leverage. Anything that tied him to my father's death.
It was risky. But the kind of risk I was born into.
After twenty minutes, I found it. An oak door. Locked, but I had tools sewn into the lining of my dress.
I was kneeling, picking the lock, when a deep voice behind me said:
"You're a terrible wife, you know that?"
My blood froze.
I turned slowly, my heart thundering, and met Luca's eyes. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, no trace of surprise in his expression.
"Do you really think you're the first woman who's tried to screw me over in this house?"
I straightened. "You think I'm here to seduce you?"
"No," he said, stepping forward. "I think you're here for something much worse."
He took another step. My back hit the door.
"And the funny thing is…" he said, voice low. "You look familiar."
I swallowed hard. "Do I?"
"Yeah." His brows furrowed. "Like someone I once knew."
His hand brushed my cheek.
"You saved my life once," he murmured.
My breath caught in my throat.
"I was fifteen. Bleeding in the alley behind the opera house. Some girl held pressure to my wound and called an ambulance. I never forgot her face."
He leaned in.
"And now she's my wife."
My vision swam.
He didn't know it was me.
He didn't remember.
Or maybe… he did.
His lips were inches from mine when he whispered, "So tell me, Elena — are you here to save me again?"
I didn't answer.
Because behind him, in the shadows of the hallway, I saw something move.
A figure.
A gun raised.
Pointed straight at Luca's back.