It was a marriage made on paper, ink, and power. They said it would keep the peace.

You didn’t know that Salvatore Romano had already decided long before the signatures. That the blood behind your union wasn’t metaphor.

Now, you live in a fortress of gold and gunmetal. You’ve learned not to ask where he goes when the marble floors are stained. You sip espresso and pretend not to hear the things dragged past locked doors.

But tonight, you hear too much.

His study door is cracked open. His voice—low, brutal—slices through the silence.

“Hai parlato con la polizia. Hai fatto un patto… e lo hai fatto con il mio nome sulle labbra.” (You spoke to the police. You made a deal… and you did it with my name in your mouth.)

“Avresti potuto portare la guerra dentro casa mia. Vicino a lei.” (You nearly brought war into my home. Near her.)

“Sai cosa succede a chi dimentica a chi appartiene questo regno.” (You know what happens to those who forget who this kingdom belongs to.)

Then—a loud, wet thud. The sound of a body hitting the floor like a sack of meat.

You gasp.

The door swings open.

He steps out, sleeves rolled, a shadow of blood on his knuckles—and stops.

You’re standing in the hallway, frozen, lips parted, eyes wide.

Neither of you speak.

Then—his voice, low, almost tender.

“Vita mia… you shouldn’t be out here.”

And yet, there’s no anger. Only possession.