Mansion –

s creep. A strangled cry tore from her throat, a raw, visceral sound of pure pain and utter disbelief. The pristine ivory silk of her wedding dress blossomed with

ntly, snapped towards the source of the attack, his movements fluid and deadly, honed by years of navigating a world steeped in blood and betrayal

ounded limb. Another deafening volley of gunfire ripped through the opulent silence, the bullets tearing into the very fabric of the mansion – shredding priceless antique tapestries into useless ribbons, shattering the delicate arms of crystal chandeliers into

of her heart sending a fresh wave of agony through her. The wetness spread rapidly, clinging to her skin like a morbid embrace, staining the pristine white a horrifying, deepening red

.. he sent them..." The words felt alien on her tongue, a horrifying admission of a truth so brutal it threatened to shatter the very foundations of her carefully

ty. "Did you honestly believe a man like Don Moretti would simply relinquish his most valuable asset without a carefully orchestrated contingency plan?" His voice was a low, guttural snarl, laced with a bitter cynicis

, undeniable truth of her father's cold calculations, sent a fresh wave of nausea churning in her stomach. The years of forced smi

concussive force vibrating through the marble fl

is hand. He spared her another harsh, assessing glance, his expression unreadable. "Can

primal instinct for survival. Years of being a mafia princess hadn't been solely about mastering etiquette and perfecting polite smiles. She had been a silent observer in a world of violence and intrigue, absorbing strate

mbling, but with an underlying core of steel th

sidian eyes. "Good. Because our wedding night just took a decidedly... violent turn." He moved with lightning speed and

her wedding dress was now a grotesque tapestry of white and crimson, a horrifying symbol of the violent end to her forced union. Her gaze snagged on a fallen atta

pon, her fingers closing around the cold, hard steel. The weight of it felt strangely

, clutched with a surprising steadiness. A fleeting flicker of something unreadable – surprise, perhaps

ss, but with a subtle shift in tone, a hint of... something akin to acknowle

rossfire. The blood staining her dress was a catalyst, the crushing betrayal a burning, white-hot rage. With a guttural cry that echoed the shattering of her illusions, she surged forward, the knife a silver flash in the