Bounded by vows, burned by lies

CHAPTER ONE:

Present Day – Moretti Estate

The study reeked of desperation masked by the lingering ghost of expensive cigar smoke. Dying empires always clung to their old vanities.

Seraphina Moretti stood just inside the heavy oak door, a defiant statue carved from silk and simmering fury. Her father's massive mahogany desk, a battlefield littered with unopened dossiers and half-empty glasses of amber liquid, stood between them like a barricade. The antique clock on the wall, its pendulum a relentless judge, hammered the seconds into the suffocating silence.

"You wanted to see me," she stated, her voice a polished blade, betraying none of the turmoil churning within. Too calm, even to her own ears.

Don Vittorio Moretti, a man whose shadow once stretched across the city, exhaled a plume of smoke that momentarily obscured his face. The ember of his cigar pulsed like a malevolent eye in the dim light filtering through the leaded glass windows. "Sit, Seraphina." It wasn't a request.

She remained rooted, her spine a rigid line. To sit would be to concede, and concession wasn't in her carefully constructed vocabulary.

Her father's dark brown eyes, mirroring her own yet devoid of their fire, narrowed imperceptibly. "You've heard about the Vitale situation."

A muscle in Seraphina's jaw twitched, the only outward sign of the nausea that coiled in her stomach. The whispers had been relentless, carried on the same bitter wind that carried the scent of the East River. The Vitale family had dared to graze the De Luca territory, a fatal miscalculation. Their remains were still being dredged from the murky depths. A grim reminder of the price of crossing Rafael De Luca.

"This isn't about the Vitales," she said, each word measured.

"No." Her father leaned forward, the worn leather of his chair groaning under his weight, a sound as ominous as a death knell. "It's about us."

A slim manila dossier slid across the polished wood, propelled by a flick of his wrist. Seraphina's gaze flickered to it but didn't move to touch it. She already knew its contents by heart: the stark red numbers bleeding across the balance sheets, the increasingly desperate pleas from creditors, the slow, agonizing erosion of the Moretti empire. A humiliation she felt in her bones.

"We need the De Lucas," her father stated, the words flat, devoid of emotion, as if discussing the weather.

Her stomach plummeted. "And they need...?" The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken dread.

"You."

The single syllable detonated in the quiet room.

Seraphina's fingers curled into tight fists at her sides, her manicured nails biting crescents into her palms. The sharp sting was a welcome anchor, a small point of pain to tether her spiraling thoughts and prevent the scream that threatened to erupt. "You're selling me to Rafael De Luca." The accusation was barely a whisper.

"Don't be dramatic, Serafina." Her father tapped a negligent ash into the crystal tray, the clinking sound grating on her nerves. "This is business. An alliance."

"An alliance?" A harsh, mirthless laugh escaped her lips, sharp enough to shatter glass. "You're handing me over to a man who skins his enemies alive and calls it negotiation!"

The backhand connected faster than she could register, a brutal interruption to her disbelief.

Seraphina's head snapped to the side, the searing pain blooming across her cheekbone. She tasted the metallic tang of blood as her lip split. Slowly, deliberately, she turned back to face her father, the burning imprint of his hand a brand on her skin. She didn't bother to wipe the blood. Let him see the cost of his "business."

"You will marry him," Don Moretti said, his voice chillingly calm, as if he hadn't just struck his only daughter. "You will be the perfect wife. And you will ensure the De Luca resources flow back to this family. You will salvage what I built."

A torrent of refusals surged within her – screams, pleas, desperate plans for escape. But the ghosts of their fallen soldiers lingered in the shadows of these walls, the echoes of broken deals and empty promises. The silent phones that no longer rang with the urgent demands of their once-thriving enterprise were a stark reality she couldn't ignore.

Seraphina straightened her shoulders, the blue silk of her dress suddenly feeling like a shroud. "When?"

"The contracts are signed. The meeting is tomorrow."

Her breath hitched. So soon. It felt like a swift, brutal execution.

Her father's smile, a rare and unsettling sight, was a thin, cruel line. "You'll wear the blue dress. The one that makes your eyes look like sapphires."

As if this were a debutante ball, a strategic pairing of equals, not a sacrificial offering to a monster. Not a funeral for her freedom.

Six Months Earlier – The Black Orchid Gala

The masquerade ball was a gilded cage filled with beautiful liars, each hidden behind a carefully chosen facade.

Seraphina adjusted her silver filigree mask, the cool metal a temporary barrier against the suffocating expectations of her name. For one stolen night, she wasn't Seraphina Moretti, mafia princess, a title that felt more like a life sentence. Tonight, she was simply a woman in a black velvet gown, anonymous in a swirling sea of Manhattan's elite.

"Champagne, miss?"

She took the delicate flute from the waiter's gloved hand, her fingers brushing against a small, folded envelope tucked beneath it. A crisp white rectangle holding a room key. Suite 1204.

Her father's idea, of course. Another "business meeting" disguised as a social call, another aging associate who believed her youth and lineage were negotiable assets. The thought sent a familiar wave of revulsion through her.

The delicate crystal of the champagne flute shattered against the polished marble floor, the sudden sharp sound momentarily cutting through the murmur of the crowd.

"Clumsy me," she murmured to no one in particular, stepping carefully around the glittering debris. She'd rather walk barefoot across the broken glass than ascend to that sterile hotel suite and the leering eyes waiting within.

The music swelled, the elegant strains of a waltz filling the vast ballroom, and the tightly packed crowd parted with an almost reverent hush. That's when she saw him.

A solitary figure at the edge of the swirling dancers, a man in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo, his face obscured by a stark onyx mask. He wasn't dancing, wasn't engaging in the practiced schmoozing that permeated the room. He stood like a silent observer, a king surveying his dominion, a glass of amber whiskey dangling from long, elegant fingers.

Across the crowded room, through the shifting kaleidoscope of masks and gowns, their eyes met.

Seraphina's breath hitched in her throat. It was a connection as sudden and visceral as a physical blow. An unexpected pull in the chaotic current of the gala.

He moved first, a predator cutting through the throng with an effortless, almost predatory grace. When he reached her, he didn't speak, didn't offer a polite greeting or a practiced line. He simply took her hand, his touch sending a jolt of unexpected heat through her glove, and pulled her onto the dance floor.

"You don't belong here." His voice, a low, resonant rumble that vibrated against her skin, was a stark contrast to the saccharine pleasantries that filled the air.

"Neither do you." She let him draw her closer, her body betraying her carefully constructed defenses with its instant, undeniable response to his nearness.

Up close, she could discern the faint shadow of stubble along his jawline, the intriguing line of a thin scar bisecting his left eyebrow. His cologne was something dark and intoxicating, a blend of expensive woods and a hint of smokiness that conjured images of crackling fireplaces and forbidden desires.

"Name," he demanded, his gaze intense even behind the mask.

"Sera," she lied without hesitation, the alias feeling surprisingly liberating.

"Just Sera?"

"Just for tonight." A dangerous promise whispered on the crowded dance floor.

His hand slid lower on her back, the pressure increasing until she was pulled flush against the hard planes of his body. She could feel the subtle flex of his muscles through the thin silk of her gown, the steady beat of his heart mirroring the sudden frantic rhythm of her own.

They danced. One song bled into another, their movements a silent conversation in the opulent chaos. Between the third and fourth waltz, he stole her away from the ballroom's watchful eyes, leading her through a maze of hushed corridors to a shadowed balcony overlooking the glittering expanse of the city lights, spread out before them like a king's ransom in stolen diamonds.

"Who are you?" she finally asked, her voice a breathless whisper as his lips brushed the sensitive skin of her neck.

"A man who wants you." His teeth grazed her pulse point, sending a shiver down her spine. "That's all that matters tonight."

And for once in her carefully controlled life, Seraphina let herself believe the seductive lie.

Present Day – De Luca Penthouse

The elevator ascended to the penthouse with a hushed efficiency, each of the forty-seven seconds feeling like a step closer to an inevitable reckoning.

Seraphina watched her reflection in the mirrored walls, the woman staring back a carefully constructed stranger. She wore the blue dress, a silken cage her father had chosen for its supposed allure. Her dark hair was styled in soft waves that framed a face deliberately devoid of emotion, the artfully applied makeup concealing the dark circles beneath her eyes – the sleepless testament to her stolen night and the grim reality that followed.

The perfect mafia bride. Polished, compliant, and utterly powerless.

The doors slid open silently, revealing a cavernous living room that epitomized cold, ruthless power. Glass and steel dominated the space, reflecting the unforgiving cityscape beyond. At the far end, a figure stood silhouetted against the floor-to-ceiling windows, a dark and imposing presence.

Rafael De Luca.

Her future husband.

Her anonymous lover.

Her enemy.

He turned slowly as she stepped out of the elevator, and for the first time in six agonizing months, Seraphina saw him in the full, unforgiving light. The sharp, chiseled cut of his jaw. The cruel, precise line of his mouth. The eyes... the eyes were like polished obsidian, absorbing the light and revealing nothing.

"Miss Moretti." His voice was colder, more formal than she remembered, the intimate roughness of that night completely absent.

"Mr. De Luca." She stepped forward, her heels clicking against the stark marble floor, the sound echoing in the vast space. "I believe we have business to discuss." Her voice remained steady, a carefully constructed mask of composure.

A flicker of something dark, something unreadable, crossed his face, gone so quickly she almost doubted she'd seen it. "Indeed."

Her father's lawyer, a nervous man with sweat beading on his forehead, began to drone on about terms and conditions, his voice a monotonous counterpoint to the turmoil in Seraphina's chest. But she wasn't listening to the legal jargon. Her focus was solely on Rafael. She watched him intently, searching for any flicker of recognition in those impenetrable eyes, any hint that he remembered the breathless gasps that had escaped her lips when he'd kissed her, the way she'd whispered his invented name against his skin.

Nothing.

His gaze swept over her, impersonal and assessing, as if she were a piece of property, a business acquisition to be evaluated.

The lawyer's voice trailed off, the silence that followed thick with unspoken tension.

Rafael stepped closer, the polished silence amplifying the sound of his expensive shoes on the marble. He moved with a predatory grace that sent a shiver down her spine. His cologne, different from the smoky scent she remembered, was still undeniably his – expensive, dangerous, and utterly captivating.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice low and demanding.

Seraphina lifted her chin, meeting his gaze directly.

Their eyes met. Held.

And in that moment, as she stared into the cold depths of Rafael De Luca's eyes, Seraphina realized two devastating things:

First-Rafael De Luca absolutely remembered her.

Second-he was going to make her pay for that unforgettable night.