The black sedan pulled up to an iron gate that groaned open like the maw of a beast. Beyond it stood a villa older than the city itself, draped in ivy and shadows. Armed guards lined the driveway, their gazes sharp, their rifles sharper.
Aria sat stiffly in the back seat, her hands folded neatly in her lap, though her dagger pressed against her thigh beneath the folds of her black dress. Dante sat beside her, calm and unreadable, as though they weren't about to walk into a den of wolves.
"Remember," he murmured, eyes fixed ahead, "you speak only when spoken to. This isn't a dinner party. It's a war council."
Her lips curved. "Don't worry, husband. I wouldn't want to embarrass your empire."
His storm-grey eyes flicked to hers, something sharp glinting within. Approval? Amusement? She couldn't tell.
The car stopped. A guard opened the door. Dante stepped out first, commanding the space with his presence. When Aria followed, all eyes shifted to her—the new bride of the crowned devil.
Whispers rippled. Curiosity. Suspicion. Hunger.
Inside, the council chamber stretched wide, its ceiling painted with faded angels who seemed to weep down at the devils below. A long table dominated the room, around which sat the heads of the five ruling families. Men in tailored suits, faces carved with years of sin and smoke. Their eyes glittered like knives as Dante and Aria entered.
At the head of the table sat Salvatore Romano, the oldest of them all, his hair silver, his hands gnarled, but his gaze sharp enough to flay flesh from bone.
"Ah," Romano drawled, his voice a rasp of gravel, "the newlyweds arrive. Tell me, Dante—did you marry for love, or strategy?"
A ripple of laughter broke around the table.
Aria kept her face smooth, though her nails dug into her palm.
Dante's smirk was slow, deliberate. "Both. Strategy for my empire. Love… for the game." His hand slid casually onto Aria's knee beneath the table, a display of possession that made her blood boil.
Romano's gaze shifted to her. "And what of you, bella sposa? Do you love your husband?"
The room quieted. All eyes fixed on her, hungry for a crack, a weakness.
Aria met Romano's stare head-on, her voice steady as steel. "Love is irrelevant in a crown built on sin. But loyalty? That, I have sworn."
A murmur of surprise swept the room. Even Dante's hand stilled on her knee for the briefest second.
Romano chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "Spoken like a true queen."
But before relief could settle, another voice cut in—smooth, mocking. Marco Valenti, youngest of the bosses, with eyes too bright and a smile too sharp. "Or spoken like a woman who knows where the bullets are aimed."
The tension spiked. Guards shifted. The scent of smoke and blood seemed to thicken the air.
Dante's smile vanished. He leaned forward, his presence darkening the room. "Careful, Valenti. The next time you speak of my wife, you might choke on the words."
For a moment, silence. Then Valenti smirked and raised his glass. "To the happy couple."
The others followed, some in mockery, some in calculation.
Aria raised her glass too, though her fingers trembled just slightly around the stem. She felt the weight of it—their eyes, their suspicion, their judgment. In this world, one slip could mean her death.
But as she sipped, her mind burned with another thought.
One day, I'll sit at this table not as his shadow, but as his downfall.
And when Dante's hand found hers beneath the table, squeezing just enough to remind her who held the power, she squeezed back harder—her silent vow that the war between them had only just begun.