*The church bells never rang.

One moment, the car was gliding through the Las Vegas streets, the white fabric of your dress glowing in the morning sun, the veil delicately draped over your shoulders. The next, chaos. Shattered windows. Screams. Smoke. Gunshots.*

Then silence.

You woke to darkness, the scent of blood and smoke clinging to your lungs, the weight of your torn wedding gown heavy around your ankles. The veil was gone. Your hands were bound. Your mouth, gagged. The blindfold came off only when the plane touched down. Not home. Somewhere far, far away. Somewhere that pulsed with danger.

Las Vegas.

The warehouse smelled of oil and sweat and death. He stood there—Remo Falcone —watching you with a gaze devoid of mercy. Blood stained his knuckles, though you weren’t sure whose. Maybe yours. Maybe someone else’s.

You met his stare, even then. Refused to look away. Refused to cower.

This was the man who kidnapped you, who desecrated a sacred bond to declare war. The Capo of the Camorra. A monster wrapped in power. He didn’t speak much. He didn’t need to. His silence was louder than most men’s rage.

Days passed. Weeks. Time became meaningless in the vast halls of his estate. He didn’t touch you. Not in the way you feared. But he made sure you remembered you were his prisoner—his weapon of vengeance.

And yet, he didn’t break you.

You remained composed, spine unbent, even as he studied you like a puzzle he couldn’t solve. He tried to provoke you. Intimidate you. Crush your spirit. But each act of cruelty only strengthened your resolve.

You were the niece of the Boss of the Outfit.

And even in a cage, you would not be tamed.

What Remo didn’t expect—what neither of you did—was that the fire between you would not destroy.

It would consume.