The morning came with silence, and for Aria that silence was almost worse than the chaos of the night before. She had expected shouting, had expected guards at her door, had expected Lorenzo himself barging in to remind her of her place. Instead there was only the tick of an ornate clock on the wall, the muffled footsteps of people moving in the hallway beyond, and the heavy weight of reality pressing down on her chest like a stone she couldn't lift. She hadn't slept properly. Every time her eyes closed, she saw again the mocking curve of Lorenzo's mouth when he'd whispered in her ear that the kiss at the altar had been "for them." She woke in cold sweats, her fists tangled in the sheets, her heart hammering like it was trying to punch its way out of her ribcage. She had thought marriage was supposed to mean promises, vows, a shared life. What she had received was ownership, a collar disguised as a diamond ring.
A sharp knock broke the stillness. Three precise raps, neither hurried nor hesitant. Aria sat up quickly, the silk sheets sliding down to her lap, her heart jolting into her throat. "Come in," she said, though her voice cracked on the last word.
The door opened to reveal a woman in her forties, tall and severe, her posture ramrod straight. She wore a uniform of black and white, perfectly pressed, her hair scraped back into a bun so tight it seemed to pull her face taut. In her hands she carried a silver tray, but instead of food or drink, there was a neatly stacked bundle of papers tied with black ribbon. Without waiting for permission, the woman crossed the room and set the tray on the nightstand, then stepped back with the practiced precision of someone who had been trained to move like a shadow.
"The Don requests you review this," she said, her voice flat, professional, the slightest accent clinging to her vowels.
Aria blinked at the papers, suspicion stirring. "What is it?"
The woman clasped her hands behind her back, her expression carved from stone. "The rules."
The word hit like a slap. "Rules?"
"Of a wife in this house. Silence, obedience, appearances." She spoke them as though reciting scripture, as though she had said them countless times before. Her eyes flicked briefly toward Aria, unreadable, then back to some invisible point beyond her shoulder. "You would be wise to learn them quickly."
Aria's stomach twisted. Slowly, she reached for the stack, untied the ribbon, and unfolded the first page. Black ink, elegant handwriting, every line neatly numbered. She scanned the words and felt her chest tighten with each one.
A wife does not speak of family business.
A wife obeys the Don's word without question.
A wife presents herself with dignity, silence, and grace.
A wife is an ornament of loyalty, never a source of shame.
A wife must attend dinners, ceremonies, and appearances at the Don's side.
A wife's voice belongs to the Don, to be used only when sanctioned.
A wife's body is a reflection of the family, and must remain above reproach.
It went on and on, a litany of restrictions, each sentence a nail hammered into the coffin of her freedom. Aria's throat tightened as she flipped through the pages, her fingers trembling against the paper. It wasn't just a guidebook. It was a prison manual.
"This is insane," she whispered, the words more to herself than to the woman who had delivered it.
The woman gave no reply, but Aria could feel her watching. Slowly, she lifted her head, anger igniting in her chest. "Did you follow these rules?"
For a fraction of a second, something flickered across the woman's face—something too quick to define. Then it was gone, replaced with the same cold neutrality. "I am not a wife. I am staff. But I serve the same master."
Her answer landed with the weight of finality, and yet Aria caught the faintest echo of something else in it. Resignation, perhaps. Or warning.
Aria snapped the pages closed and held them tight against her chest, her jaw clenched. Every instinct screamed at her to tear the rules in half, to shred them until there was nothing left but scraps. But she forced herself to breathe, to swallow the scream building in her throat. There was no point in giving them that satisfaction yet.
"Tell him," she said, her voice sharp despite the tremor underneath, "that I'll read them."
The woman inclined her head in a small bow, then turned and left, the door shutting softly behind her.
Alone again, Aria stared at the rules. She thought of the girl she had been just a week ago—the girl who had filled out scholarship applications, who had laughed with her father over bowls of cheap pasta, who had dared to believe she might be able to build a life out of nothing but hope. That girl had been stolen in a single night, replaced with a wife who was expected to be silent, obedient, ornamental. She was expected to disappear into Lorenzo's shadow, to exist only as an extension of him.
Her hands trembled, but not from fear anymore. From fury. From resolve.
She placed the papers back on the tray, her chin lifting. I will not break. You can bury me in your rules, you can dress me in chains, you can shove me into your world of marble halls and blood money. But I will not break.
The hours that followed were suffocating. Aria was escorted through the house by members of the staff, introduced not with warmth but with formality. Every person she met—maids, cooks, groundskeepers, even the silent guards stationed at every door—bowed their heads respectfully when her presence was acknowledged, but none of them looked her in the eye. They spoke as little as possible, answering only when necessary. Their loyalty to Lorenzo was evident in the way they carried themselves, in the way their silence seemed to echo his commands.
At first, Aria tried to break through the wall. She asked questions—about the history of the mansion, about what rooms were hers to use, about how long they had all served here. But her words floated into the void, met with murmured deflections or polite silence. She felt less like a bride being welcomed into a home and more like a prisoner being processed into her cell. The house itself seemed alive with Lorenzo's presence, every polished chandelier, every velvet curtain, every painting on the walls a silent reminder that she was standing in his kingdom, not hers.
By the time evening arrived, Aria felt raw. The maid who had dressed her for dinner had insisted she wear a deep red gown, the kind of dress she would never have chosen for herself. The fabric clung to her body, the neckline plunging in a way that made her feel exposed. When she had tried to protest, the maid had simply said, "The Don prefers this color," as though that explanation made the discomfort irrelevant.
Aria had wanted to refuse, had wanted to storm down to dinner in her nightclothes just to make a point. But when she caught sight of herself in the mirror, she froze. The woman staring back was both herself and not herself. The fury in her eyes made her seem sharper, the tension in her shoulders giving her an edge of strength she hadn't known she possessed. She hated the dress, but she refused to let it make her small.
"Fine," she whispered to her reflection, her voice hard. "I'll wear it. But I'll wear it my way."
The dining hall was a theater of power. A long table stretched across the room, heavy with silverware and gleaming crystal. Candles flickered in golden holders, their flames casting shadows that danced across the polished wood. Men and women in suits and gowns filled the seats, their laughter and conversation filling the space like a low hum of electricity. The moment Aria entered, the sound dipped, dozens of eyes turning toward her in perfect unison.
And there he was, at the head of the table. Lorenzo.
He rose as she stepped into the doorway, his expression unreadable, his dark suit immaculate. "My wife," he said simply, and the words rolled across the room like a declaration, like a warning.
Aria's pulse thundered in her ears, but she forced her chin up, forced her spine straight. She walked forward with measured steps, every eye tracking her, every whisper brushing against her skin like invisible fingers. She sat beside Lorenzo because there was no other place to sit, her hands trembling as she folded them in her lap.
The meal began, and the room filled again with conversation. They spoke in Italian and English, their words weaving together into a tapestry of business, politics, family. Aria didn't understand half of it, but she understood enough to know these were not simple dinner companions. These were people who wielded influence like a blade, who had carved their places at this table with blood and cunning.
Every so often, someone glanced at her, their eyes lingering a moment too long, their lips twitching in faint, knowing smiles. She recognized it for what it was. A test. They were waiting for her to stumble, waiting for her to break etiquette, waiting for her to reveal herself as unfit to stand at Lorenzo's side.
She refused to give them that satisfaction. She lifted her glass when Lorenzo did, tasted the wine without flinching, held her silence with the same stubbornness that had carried her through everything else. Her mind screamed with defiance, her body hummed with tension, but outwardly she was the picture of composure.
And still, beneath it all, her vow burned bright. I will not break. Not for them. Not for him. Not for anyone.
The candles flickered, the wine flowed, the laughter rose and fell around her. She sat at Lorenzo's side, a diamond band burning like a chain on her finger, and knew that this was not a dinner. It was a performance. An examination. And every second she endured without faltering was another victory, however small.
They wanted her to vanish into the role of obedient wife. They wanted her to become an ornament, silent and pliant. But Aria vowed, as she met Lorenzo's cool, unreadable gaze across the rim of her glass, that she would never let them see her break.
Not tonight. Not ever.