The white lace of my wedding dress felt like a shroud.
Outside the Saint Jude’s Cathedral, the sun was shining, a cruel mockery of the internal winter I was currently living. Inside, the air was heavy with the oppressive scent of lilies, incense, and the sharp, metallic tang of the guns hidden beneath the expensive black suits of the guests. I was walking down an aisle lined with men who looked more like executioners than friends. This wasn't a wedding; it was a hostile merger signed in blood, and I was the collateral.
"Deep breaths, Sloane," my father, Marcus King, whispered. He didn't sound comforting. He sounded terrified. I could feel his hand trembling violently as it rested on my forearm. The King Tech Empire—the company he had built from nothing—was crumbling. A rival faction, led by a man named Victor Petrov, had decimated our stock and was hours away from a hostile takeover that would leave us destitute.
Marcus had found the only solution he was willing to accept. He’d sold me to the devils.
"He’s the only one who can stop Victor," he continued, a desperate, frantic mantra. "The Moretti name is untouchable. They will guarantee our safety. The King line will survive."
I didn't look at him. I stared straight ahead, focusing on the man standing at the end of the aisle. Dante Moretti.
Even from this distance, he loomed over the priest like a mountain. He was taller than the rumors had suggested, his shoulders broad enough to carry the weight of an empire. His hair was as black as a raven’s wing, swept back to reveal a face that was symmetry and brutality combined. He stood perfectly still, a statue carved from obsidian. He didn't smile. He didn't adjust his cuffs. He just waited.
As we reached the steps of the altar, the weight of the moment crushed my lungs. My father placed my hand in Dante’s. His skin was searingly hot against my cold, trembling fingers, a contrast so stark it was jarring. In that moment, as our skin met, a spark—sharp, sudden, and electric—shot up my arm. For a split second, a memory flashed in my mind: smoke, a burning hallway, and a pair of strong arms carrying me to safety. I could have sworn the smell of ozone in the air matched that memory from ten years ago.
No. It couldn't be him, I told myself, a fierce denial taking root. The man who saved me was a hero, a guardian angel. This man is a monster.
The priest began the ceremony, his voice echoing in the hollow silence of the vast stone church. The traditional words about love and honor felt obscene. When the moment finally came, the air seemed to leave the room.
"Dante Moretti," the priest intoned, his voice trembling slightly. "Do you take Sloane King to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
The silence that followed was deafening. Seconds ticked by, stretching into an eternity of humiliation and dread. The guests shifted uncomfortably, the soft rustle of expensive fabric sounding like static. My father held his breath, his face turning an ash-gray color.
Dante didn't speak. He couldn't. The "Vow of Silence" wasn't just a rumor; it was his brand, his punishment. Instead, he reached out with his free hand, his dark, structured glove moving with a deliberate slowness. His fingers, covered in black leather, slid beneath my veil and settled on my jaw, gently but firmly tilting my chin up so I was forced to look directly into his stormy sea eyes. They were the color of a tempest, devoid of warmth but filled with an intense, unblinking focus that made my knees weak. He didn't say a word, but his gaze burned with an intensity that promised possession. He stared into my eyes for a full minute, until the very air in the cathedral seemed ready to ignite.
Then, he gave a single, slow, and solemn nod.
"The groom accepts," the priest whispered, his voice cracking with relief.
As Dante leaned in to seal the vow, his face coming close enough that I could smell the scent of clove and clean spice on his skin, his lips brushed against my ear. He didn't speak, but I felt the warmth of his breath, and for a fleeting heartbeat, I could have sworn I heard a ghost of a sound—a jagged, broken, and agonizing sigh that sounded like my name.
Sloane.
Then, the heavy, ancient oak doors of the Cathedral burst open.
"Get down!" a voice screamed, its echo swallowed by the chaos.
The sound of automatic gunfire shattered the rose window, raining shards of colored glass onto the expensive guests. Women screamed, men dove for cover, and before I could even process the threat, Dante’s arm was a band of steel around my waist, lifting me off the ground and pulling me behind the massive, ancient marble altar as the world outside turned into a storm of lead and silver.
Dante was already moving with lethal efficiency, shield-and-sword, shielding my body with his own as his other hand drew a dark, silenced handgun from his jacket. The monster had just become my shield, and the Vow of Silence was about to be broken by the sound of bullets.
