Chapter 3: The Rules of Ruin
The scream was swallowed by the roar of gunfire.
I didn't have time to think. Dante's hand was around my wrist, yanking me off the altar steps and into the chaos. Chandeliers shattered. Glass rained down like diamonds soaked in blood. Guests dove under tables, and the priest—a man who'd barely finished blessing our union—crumpled to the floor with a red flower blooming across his chest.
But Dante didn't run.
He stood in the center of the chapel, my body pressed against his, and he *watched*. His eyes swept the balcony, the stained-glass windows, the shadows where the gunmen had to be. And then he smiled.
It was the most terrifying thing I'd ever seen.
"Thirteen seconds," he said, his voice calm, almost bored. "They got off ten rounds in thirteen seconds. Amateurs."
I tried to pull away, but his grip tightened. I could feel the heat of him through the silk of my dress, the steady thrum of his heartbeat against my back. He wasn't afraid. He'd stepped into a warzone like it was a ballroom and I was his dance partner.
"Who are they?" I breathed.
Dante finally looked at me, and for one flickering second, I saw something dark and ancient pass behind his eyes. "Your new family," he said. "Welcome to the Marchetti name, wife."
The gunmen were dead by the time we reached the car. Men in black tactical gear—Dante's men—dragged bodies into the shadows like they were clearing table scraps. The chapel smelled of gunpowder and roses. His mother stood at the door, her face a porcelain mask, and she whispered something I couldn't hear as I passed.
*Don't let him see you bleed.*
Then the door closed, and the night swallowed us whole.
---
The Marchetti estate was a fortress disguised as a home. Marble floors. Vaulted ceilings. Security cameras blinking from every corner like mechanical eyes. I was led through a labyrinth of hallways until we reached a master suite that could have housed a small army.
Dante closed the door behind us. The click of the lock echoed like a gunshot.
"Strip."
I froze. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." He unbuttoned his jacket, tossing it onto a chair. The movement was casual, but his eyes were anything but. They tracked me like prey. "The dress, the veil, the jewelry. Everything off. I need to see what I'm working with."
My heart hammered. "This isn't a cattle auction, Dante."
"No." He stepped closer, and I backed against the bed. "This is a merger. And I need to know if you're carrying any hidden weapons, any wires, any loyalties that don't belong to me."
"I'm not—"
"Then strip."
The air crackled. I reached behind my back, fingers trembling, and unzipped the gown. It pooled at my feet like a white silk puddle. The veil followed. I stood in my lace undergarments, arms crossed, jaw clenched.
He circled me. Slowly. Deliberately. His fingers brushed my shoulder blade, my hip, the curve of my spine. I flinched, but I didn't move.
"Good," he murmured. "No wires. No weapons. But that's not enough." He stepped in front of me, so close I could smell his cologne—smoke and cedar and something colder. "I need your vow, Aria. Not the one you gave the priest. That one's worthless. I need yours."
I met his eyes. "You already own everything I have."
"No." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I own everything you *know*. Your father's debts. Your brother's gambling. Your mother's medical bills. I've purchased them all. But your heart?" He touched my chest, just above my breast, and I felt my pulse jump against his palm. "That's still free. And I need it to beat for me."
"Or what?"
His eyes darkened. "Or it stops beating altogether."
It should have sounded like a threat. It *was* a threat. But something in the way he said it—soft, almost reverent—made my stomach flip. He was a monster, but he was a monster who wanted me to *want* him.
I stepped forward. Stupid. Reckless. But I was tired of being prey.
"Show me yours first," I said, and I reached for his shirt.
He caught my wrist. "Careful, wife."
"Or what?"
For a long moment, he just stared at me. Then, slowly, he released my wrist and unbuttoned his shirt himself. The fabric fell open, revealing a chest of carved muscle and scars—so many scars. But it was the one over his heart that made me freeze.
It was a brand. An old wound, healed and twisted, shaped like a broken crown.
"What is that?" I whispered.
Dante's jaw tightened. "A promise."
"From who?"
"From the man who made me what I am." He took my hand and pressed it flat against the scar. The skin was rough beneath my palm, his heart hammering beneath it. "He carved it into my skin when I was sixteen years old. He told me I'd never be king. Never be worthy of the crown."
I should have been horrified. Instead, I felt something dangerous stir in my chest—curiosity, anger, a pull I couldn't name.
"And you killed him," I said. It wasn't a question.
Dante smiled, and it didn't reach his eyes. "I buried him under the garden where he used to make me kneel."
The silence between us was thick, charged with something darker than desire. I didn't pull away. I didn't want to.
"Is that what you're going to do to me?" I asked. "Brand me. Break me. Bury me?"
He cupped my face in his hands, tilting my chin up. His thumb traced my bottom lip, and I felt the ghost of a kiss before it even landed.
"No," he said softly. "I'm going to do something far worse. I'm going to make you love me."
And then he let go, leaving me breathless and unsteady in the center of that massive room.
"Sleep," he ordered. "Tomorrow, we begin."
"Begin what?"
He was already at the door. He paused, looking back at me with those dark, unreadable eyes.
"The game," he said. "And I always win."
The door clicked shut. I stood alone in the dark, the smell of gunpowder still clinging to my skin, and I realized I didn't know if I was the bride or the sacrifice.
The lights flickered. The phone on the nightstand rang once.
I picked it up.
"Hello, little dove." A voice I didn't recognize—smooth, amused, dripping with venom. "I hope you survived your wedding night. Because I have something you lost."
My blood ran cold.
"Your mother says hello."