The devils bride: blood and vows

Chapter 1

Lucia’s POV

Walking down the aisle to marry the most powerful Don in Italy? Yeah, that was never on my bucket list. But apparently fate has a messed up sense of humor.

Two weeks earlier.

I leaned on the window frame, letting the morning air hit my face. Blue skies. Birds chirping. The kind of day that screams freedom. And here I was, supposed to be out with Alessia, shopping, laughing, minding my own business. Instead, Papa sent for me.

Papa never sends for me. He’s always busy, locked up in that grand office of his. So whatever this was, it wasn’t small.

I made my way through the hall, tossing greetings to the staff, until I reached his office. I Knocked once.

“Come in,” he said.

The office was its usual self: leather, mahogany, the family crest glaring down like a silent judge. Everything about this room screamed control.

“Papa,” I said, walking in.

“Lucia.” He motioned for me to sit. His tone made the hairs on my arm stand.

“We need to talk.”

I sat, folding my hands, waiting. “About what?”

He didn’t waste time. “You’ll be marrying Dante Vitale in two weeks.”

I laughed. Actually laughed.

“Good one. Now tell me why I’m really here.”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t flinch. Just stared.

“Wait… you’re serious?”

“It’s for peace,” he said. “Our families have bled enough.”

Peace? My pulse spiked. “So you’re telling me you want to solve your mess by throwing me to a man who kills without blinking?”

“Lucia!” His hand slammed on the desk. The sound rattled my bones.

“No!” My voice shot up before I could stop it. “I’m not marrying him. Not him, not anyone you pick out of your little war games.” I crossed my arms tight. My jaw ached from how hard I was clenching it.

“You will marry him,” Papa said, his eyes cold steel.

“Or what?” I snapped. “You’ll ground me? Lock me in my room?” My laugh was sharp. “I’m not your soldier to order around. I’m your daughter.”

His stare didn’t budge. “Or you’ll no longer be my daughter.”

The words hit harder than the slam. My throat burned, but I refused to let him see me break. “So that’s it? I’m your only child, and you’re giving me away like some… bargaining chip?”

He looked away. That stung more than the words. “Your mother understands.”

My chest froze. “Mama agreed to this?”

“Yes. She—”

That was all I needed to hear. I stood so fast the chair scraped the floor. I didn’t wait for him to finish.

By the time I reached my room, my hands were trembling. I locked the door, pressing my back to it, breathing like I’d just run a marathon.

They were really doing this. Selling me off to a man whose very name made people whisper. Dante Vitale—the ghost, the monster, the Don.

All my life I’d been the perfect daughter, following every stupid rule, and now the first time I say no, he's threatening to disown me like yesterday’s trash.

And Mama? Her silence cut deeper than his shouting ever could. She didn’t even fight for me. She just… agreed. My own mother handing me over like I was a peace offering wrapped in silk.

I buried my face against my knees, not because I was crying—hell no, he wasn’t getting my tears—but because if I didn’t, I’d start screaming, and I wasn’t giving him that satisfaction either.

---

Papa came to me that night. I almost didn’t open the door, but his voice was softer than before. Tired.

“Lucia. Please.”

I let him in, but stayed by the wall, arms crossed.

He sighed, like the weight of the world was pressing down on him. “Figlia mia, you think I do this because I want to? No. I do this because I must. Without this marriage, our enemies will tear us apart. Dante offers protection—more than that, he offers survival. If you refuse, you’re not just saying no to me. You’re saying no to every man and woman whose life depends on this family standing.”

His words sank in like stones. Family. Duty. Survival. Words I hated, but words I couldn’t unhear.

He stepped closer, his voice low. “I would rather cut off my own hand than give you away like this. But if you don’t, blood will run. Maybe even yours.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. But the silence was enough. He knew he’d planted the seed.

---

The next three days were hell. Not fire-and-brimstone hell—no, this was worse. The kind where every hour reminded me that I was being thrown into the arms of a stranger. A killer.

Alessia was the only person I told. Big mistake. The girl practically turned into a walking crime blog, whispering all the rumors she’d ever heard about Dante Vitale. Ruthless. Cold. Dangerous.

I had never seen him, but with every word Alessia spilled, my mind built the perfect image: ugly, short, probably balding, projecting his insecurities through bloodshed. I hated him already.

And then came today. Dress shopping with Mama.

I hadn’t spoken a single word to her since I found out she was in on Papa’s betrayal. My own mother. My ally. My—

Well. So much for women supporting women.

The bridal consultant fluttered around me, holding up gowns one after the other. Lace. Silk. Diamonds stitched into seams. My answers were clipped, my interest flat. Nothing felt right. How could it, when every thread reminded me this was a cage dressed up in silk?

“Do you have any other styles?” I asked finally, my tone sharp.

The consultant tapped her chin, then her eyes lit up. “We do, but they’re from our special collection. Pricier, though. What’s your budget?”

I smirked, though my chest still felt like stone. “Budget? There is no budget. Show me.”

Her smile widened, and she led me down a long hallway lined with racks of gowns, each prettier than the last. When we reached the end, she opened a door into what looked like a dream carved out of silk and light.

Crystals sparkled from every angle. Dresses so divine they didn’t belong on Earth hung like treasures in a museum.

For the first time in days, something inside me lifted. My lips curved before I could stop them.

“Are those crystals on that one?” I whispered.

“Yes,” she said, beaming.

My mood shifted, sharp and dangerous. An idea hit me. A wicked, beautiful idea.

“Show me the longest gown you have,” I said. “With the most dramatic veil. Something that screams unforgettable.”

The consultant’s eyes lit up, and she hurried off. Moments later, she returned with a gown that was practically a weapon in itself—yards of fabric, endless veil, a queen’s armor, masquerading as a dress.

“This will do,” I said, fingers brushing the fabric. “Now…” I tilted my head, letting my smirk show. “Do you have it in black?”

The consultant blinked, stunned. But Mama? Mama’s face was drained of all colors.

She knew exactly what I was planning.

Black wasn’t just a dress. It was war paint. It was me walking down that aisle on my terms, even if the whole thing was a farce. If I had to be paraded like some prize, then fine—let them remember the girl who refused to play bride, the girl who turned her own wedding into a funeral march.

If Dante Vitale thought I’d come to him in white, soft and willing, he had another thing coming.

I paid for the gown and Mama and I headed home. I still didn't speak to her. I wasn't going to. She looked at me like she wasn't happy. Like she felt guilty but If she was so unhappy then maybe she would not have agreed to it.

Marriage? I didn't even get a say and that makes my blood boil and almost erupts like a volcano. I was being sold. My mother sold me to Don.

Really funny. So funny that I had to bite my lip and shut my eyelids to restrain myself. To stop my brain and body from protesting. To stop myself from running out of this car while it's driving at 70m/h.

My plans, my visions, my dreams were all dead now. The wife of the Don has no say and I was going to be the wife of the Don in the next few days.

When the door clicked shut behind him, I stood frozen in the silence of my room. Papa's words still clung to me like chains, heavy, suffocating. Survival. Family. Duty. All of it was pounding in my head until I thought I’d go mad.

My eyes drifted to the gown hanging in the corner, black and perfect and cruel. It wasn’t just fabric. It was a sentence. A future I never asked for stitched into lace.

My chest cracked, and before I could stop it, the tears came hot and sharp. I pressed my fist against my mouth to keep from sobbing too loud, but it was no use. The dress blurred behind the water in my eyes, and I hated it—hated myself—for breaking like this.

When I finally slid to the floor, knees pulled tight to my chest, the sobs ripped out of me, raw and ugly. Hot tears streamed down my cheeks until the dress blurred into nothing but black shadows. My chest ached, my throat burned, and for the first time I let myself unravel. I cried like I’d never cried before—and like I swore I never would again.