Married to My Father's Killer

The satin felt like ice against my skin.

I stood in front of the mirror, draped in ivory lace and lies. The veil floated softly over my shoulders, but all I saw was a ghost staring back at me-a woman dressed to wed the man who murdered her father.

"Do you like it?" the stylist asked with a cheerful smile, clipping the final pin into my hair.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced a nod. "It's perfect."

But nothing about this day was perfect. It was a trap. My trap. And Dante Moretti was walking straight into it.

The man I was about to marry was sin wrapped in a three-piece suit. Billionaire. Mafia king. And the reason my life had shattered into ashes at seventeen. I'd spent years building myself from those ashes-every fake name, every back-alley deal, every sleepless night had led me here.

To this moment.

To this wedding.

To him.

I will smile as I walk down that aisle, I reminded myself. I will kiss him like I love him. And then I will burn him from the inside out.

A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts.

"Miss," the coordinator said, stepping in cautiously. "They're ready for you."

My heart thundered in my chest.

It's not too late, Serena. You can still run. Change your name again. Disappear.

But I didn't move. Because running was for the girl I used to be-the girl who cried over her father's blood-soaked body and begged for justice that never came.

I wasn't her anymore.

I was Mrs. Dante Moretti now.

Or I would be, in exactly twenty minutes.

The ballroom was drenched in gold and roses. Strings of crystal dripped from the chandeliers like rain. Everyone who mattered in the underworld was here-mafia leaders, corrupt politicians, billionaires with blood on their hands.

And then there was him.

Dante.

He stood at the altar, tall and imposing in a black tuxedo that clung to his frame like sin. His dark eyes locked on me the moment I entered the room. I felt his gaze like a brand on my skin.

There was no smile on his lips. There never was. His face was carved from stone, jaw sharp, expression unreadable. But there was something dangerous in his stillness-like a lion watching his prey walk willingly into his den.

I kept my head high as I walked toward him, heart thudding against my ribs. My steps were steady, deliberate. Each one whispered: I'm not afraid of you.

But that was a lie, too.

Because the moment I stood before him, Dante Moretti leaned in, just enough for only me to hear.

"You look beautiful," he murmured. "Too bad beauty means nothing in this world."

My breath caught.

"And yet here you are," I replied, just as softly. "Marrying it."

A flicker of something-amusement? danger?-passed through his eyes.

He took my hand as the officiant began speaking, and I felt it then. The cold press of his palm against mine. A vow not yet spoken, but already heavy with secrets.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife."

A round of polite applause. Flashes of cameras. Champagne uncorked.

Dante turned to me, fingers brushing my cheek. "Kiss me, Mrs. Moretti."

And I did.

Because I had to.

Because this kiss was my dagger.

Our lips met-soft at first, then hard, claiming. His hand gripped the back of my neck, and for a moment, I felt the heat of him, the pull of something raw and wrong.

When we pulled away, my lips were trembling-and not from fear.

I hated that.

The reception was a blur of clinking glasses and hollow smiles. Everyone wanted a piece of the couple of the year. But I couldn't breathe with him beside me. I couldn't think.

So I escaped to the balcony, gripping the railing, trying to still the storm in my chest.

"You shouldn't run from your own wedding, wife."

I turned sharply. Dante stood in the doorway, drink in hand, gaze sharp.

"I just needed air," I said.

He stepped closer. "And space from me?"

I didn't answer.

He smirked, setting the glass down. "You know, most women dream about this moment-the dress, the ring, the first dance. But you? You look like you're at a funeral."

I met his gaze, my voice steady. "Maybe I am."

He studied me for a long moment, as if trying to peel back the layers I'd so carefully built.

"You're not like the others," he finally said. "You don't flinch. You don't fawn. Why did you agree to marry me?"

I smiled, sharp as glass. "Maybe I like the danger."

"Or maybe," he said, stepping closer, "you're hiding something."

The air between us crackled.

If he knew-if he even suspected-everything I'd worked for would be over.

So I leaned in, lips brushing his ear. "Aren't we all?"