The veil was white, but the blood on her hand was not.
Aria tightened her grip around the silk fabric, her knuckles pale, her chest heaving under the heavy corset that the maids had forced onto her body. The sound of gunfire still echoed in her ears. It hadn't even been twenty-four hours since her brother's coffin was lowered into the ground, and now she was being delivered like an offering to the very man whose name was whispered as his killer.
The chapel doors groaned open.
And there he was.
Dante Moretti.
The man they called the crowned devil of the underworld. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a suit darker than midnight. His eyes—sharp, storm-grey—did not look at her like a bride. They looked at her like property.
"Walk," her father hissed under his breath, his hand digging into her arm. "Do not embarrass this family. Do you understand me?"
Aria's lips curled. Embarrass the family? Her brother's blood was barely dry in the earth, yet here they were, shaking hands with the monster who had put him there. This wasn't a wedding. This was a transaction. A peace treaty sealed in silk and sin.
Her heels clicked against the marble floor as she walked toward Dante, each step heavy with rage. She hated him already. Hated the way he stood so calm, so untouchable, while her world burned.
When she reached the altar, he leaned closer, his breath ghosting over her cheek.
"Smile," he murmured, voice low enough for only her to hear. "You wouldn't want the photographers to catch the bride looking like she's walking to her own funeral."
Her head snapped toward him, eyes blazing. "Funny," she whispered back, "because that's exactly what this feels like."
Dante smirked. It wasn't the smile of a groom. It was the smile of a man who had just won a war without firing a bullet.
The priest cleared his throat. "We are gathered here today…"
Aria's heart hammered against her ribs. She couldn't let this happen. Not like this. But with every vow spoken, every word binding her closer to him, she felt the walls of the chapel closing in.
When the priest finally said the words, "You may kiss the bride," Dante's hand snaked around her waist, pulling her against him.
The crowd erupted in applause. Cameras flashed.
But Aria? She bit down hard on her tongue until she tasted blood. Because she knew something no one else did.
Her brother's death wasn't just a feud casualty.
She had proof.
And the man standing before her, the one whose lips hovered over hers, was about to find out that the bride he had just crowned in sin wasn't a lamb for slaughter.
She was a wolf in silk.
And she wanted vengeance.