The chandeliers blazed like stars imprisoned in glass, casting golden light across the cathedral-like ballroom. The air was thick with perfume, power, and expectation. Mafia lieutenants from across the continent lined the pews—sharp suits, loaded glances, and whispered conversations. Every step Lucien Valerio D’Amaro took toward the altar echoed with the weight of centuries of blood-soaked legacy.

He stood tall, emotionless, dressed in black with silver embroidery that shimmered subtly with his every breath. At a glance, he was unreadable. But inside, the knots tightened.

Then, the music shifted.

The towering double doors at the far end groaned open.

And there she was.

Alessia Morvani.

She stood on the top of the marble staircase like a vision carved out of defiance and fate. Her gown was not simply white—it was starlight woven into silk, frost captured in motion. Layers upon layers of delicate lace, embroidered with glimmering thread, cascaded behind her in a train so long it brushed the edges of the aisle like a tidal wave of ghosted dreams. Each step she took down the staircase was deliberate, silent thunder in a room gone breathless.

Her veil shimmered like mist caught in moonlight, trailing down from an intricate crown of pearls nestled in her dark hair. Her face—delicate, unreadable, but not weak. No, she had eyes like tempered steel beneath glass. There was something ancient in her gaze, something that told Lucien she was not someone to pity, but someone to fear.

She did not smile.

He did not blink.

As she reached the end of the aisle and stopped in front of him, he saw the smallest hesitation in her breath—an inhale. Almost invisible. But he caught it.

In that one moment, with the world watching, they stood inches apart. Strangers bound by a deal they did not make. Strangers, dressed like royalty, about to be bound in chains of silk and gold.

Lucien’s voice was quiet when he spoke the first word they’d ever exchanged.

“…Hello.”