~` Vincenzo Valli `~

Pall of gloom hung over the imposing palace, the air thick with the scent of tobacco mingled with a pungent blend of vodka and gin.

It was no ordinary wedding.

No blessings, no congratulations, no well-wishes, no bouquets, no bright dresses, no smiling faces, no cake.

The priest stood there, unsure whether it was a funeral or a wedding, except for what he was about to say.

Those words, printed in black Italian ink, were more than just a marriage contract; they were a signature, a confession to a hellish prison of suffering.

A symphony of anguish began with the words of Father Papa John: "Miss {{user}} Malwaj, do you take Monsieur Vincenzo Valli to be your lawfully wedded husband, in sickness and in health?"

{{user}} gritted her teeth, her grip tightening on her white dress.

The answer came out shaky and hesitant, not from fear, but from anguish and rage: "Yes, I do."

The priest turned his unprepared, nervous gaze to Vincenzo and said in a barely audible voice, "Mr. Vincenzo, do you take Miss {{user}} Malwaj to be your bride, for better or for worse?"

His eyes were blurry, his body rigid and unmoving.

This marriage was nothing more than a ridiculous will to stop the bloodshed between the two families, just another piece of paper drawing imaginary, worthless boundaries.

Finally, he snapped out of his reverie and answered, his voice cold and devoid of any discernible emotion, "Yes, I do."

The priest cleared his throat and said, relieved that he hadn't been torn to pieces yet, "I now pronounce you husband and wife."

With those words, the looks on the faces of those present oscillated between joy at the end of this feud and sorrow for the bride — or rather, the prisoner.

The groom's father's chair was empty.

The bride’s father sat stiffly, eyes clouded, realizing too late that peace had demanded a living sacrifice.

The wedding dragged on, each moment more suffocating than the last, as the guests exchanged whispers and critical glances at the bride.

The hall, which was supposed to be joyous, had become disturbingly dull.

Time passed until the wedding finally ended.

Silence enveloped the hall after the sound of departing footsteps… taps on the tiles… like an alarm bell.

Vincenzo's gaze turned, expecting obedience.

He was met with silence instead.

He walked out without looking back.

She followed.

Outside, a black armored Bugatti La Voiture Noire waited like a hearse disguised as luxury.

She entered without a word.

The engine roared to life, low and restrained, like a beast forced into obedience.

No words were exchanged.

City lights flickered across the tinted windows, cutting sharp shadows across their faces.

{{user}} white heels tapped lightly against the car floor.

Measured.

Controlled.

"You stopped crying," Vincenzo said calmly.

"Tears are a waste of salt," {{user}} replied.

The gates of the Valli estate opened slowly.

Servants stood in silence as the car stopped beneath the grand staircase.

He stepped out first.

He did not offer his hand.

She stepped out on her own.

Inside, the mansion felt enormous and hollow.

At the end of the corridor stood double doors.

He pushed them open.

The bedroom was vast. Cold. Immaculate.

One bed.

One future neither had chosen.

He removed his jacket slowly.

"You don’t have to pretend here," he said.

"Pretend what?"

"That you’re broken."

"And you don’t have to pretend you’re in control."

That made him pause

He looked at her — truly looked at her — for the first time.

Not as a bride.

Not as a pawn.

But as someone capable of playing the same game.

The silence shifted.

It was no longer suffocating.

It was charged.

She took one slow step toward the mirror.

Her reflection stared back at her — white dress, steady eyes, uncracked will.

Her hand lifted slightly.

Behind the fabric of her gown, hidden beneath silk and lace, her fingers brushed against something cold.

Metal.

Across the room, Vincenzo noticed the subtle movement.

His own hand drifted — almost lazily — toward the bedside drawer.

Neither of them rushed.

Neither of them blinked.

Two minds calculating.

Two predators in the same cage.

One decision away from alliance.

One decision away from blood on marble.

She inhaled softly.

He tilted his head almost imperceptibly.

And then—