Chapter One: The Vow

The rain poured over Naples like it had been waiting for this exact day to weep.

Inside the grand cathedral, light filtered through stained glass windows, casting bloody reds and icy blues over the crowd. The pews were filled with stone-faced men in designer suits and glittering women whose smiles were carved in diamonds. The Romano wedding wasn’t just a union—it was a declaration of power.

Elena stood at the altar, her fingers trembling around the silk bouquet. Her gown was hand-stitched lace, ivory like the moonlight, the corset squeezing her ribs until she could barely breathe. But none of it was as suffocating as the man standing beside her.

Marco Romano.

The groom.

Her soon-to-be husband.

He stood like sin incarnate in a black tailored suit, the collar of his shirt just loose enough to show the inked edge of a tattoo curling up his neck. His hair was slicked back, his jaw dusted in a rough shadow. His hands were large, veined, and twitching—as though even now, at the altar, he was fighting the urge to touch her.

To claim her.

When he looked at her, it wasn’t with love.

It was hunger.

"I vow to protect you," Marco said, voice low and thunderous, sending a shiver down her spine. "To provide for you. To punish you when necessary. To own every inch of you—heart, body, and soul—for as long as we both breathe."

Gasps rippled from the crowd. Elena's breath caught. That wasn’t the vow they agreed on. Her lips parted, but before she could speak, the priest continued. "Do you, Elena DeLuca, take this man as your lawfully wedded husband?"

Her voice was barely a whisper. “I… I do.”

God help me.

When their lips met, it wasn’t gentle.

Marco kissed her like a man who had waited his entire life to devour his prize. His fingers laced through the back of her hair, pulling just enough to make her gasp. She could feel his control wrapping around her like silk and steel.

And somehow, horrifyingly…

She liked it.

Hours later, Elena stood in the penthouse Marco had prepared for their wedding night. The bedroom was massive—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, candles flickering along the walls, shadows dancing like ghosts. The bed was a black velvet monster in the center of the room, draped in red silk sheets.

She turned when she heard the click of the door.

Marco stepped inside, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. His eyes never left hers.

"Take it off," he said.

Elena blinked. “What?”

He stalked forward, jaw tight. “The dress. Take it off. Or I will.”

Her hands trembled as she reached for the zipper. He watched in silence, eyes dark with desire and something more dangerous. When the dress finally slipped to the floor, he let out a low growl and stepped forward, pressing her against the windowpane.

"Everyone in Naples saw you become mine today," he whispered against her neck. "But only I get to see you like this."

He kissed her throat, then bit gently. She whimpered.

“Marco—”

“I know you’re scared,” he said, his voice rough with restraint. “Good. You should be. But you should also know this…”

His fingers slipped between her thighs, parting her slowly. She gasped, her body betraying her fear with need.

“I’ll never let you go. You can run, you can scream, but in the end—” he pressed a kiss to her lips, slow and punishing, “—you’ll still crawl back to me.”

And when he lifted her in his arms, carried her to the bed, and took her with all the violence of a man starved, Elena realized something terrifying:

She didn’t want to escape.

She wanted more.

[End of Chapter One]

Chapter Two: Caged Luxury

Morning crept into the room slowly, golden light slipping between blackout curtains that Marco had never bothered to close all the way. Elena woke tangled in sheets, her thighs still sore, her lips bruised, and her heart pounding with something that felt too close to addiction.

She turned her head to the other side of the bed.

Empty.

But still warm.

Marco had been here, then left. He always moved like that—in silence, in shadows, without asking permission or giving explanation.

Elena sat up and winced slightly. Her entire body was marked. Not just bruises—bite marks, fingernail scratches, deep aching muscles. Evidence of his obsession. His ownership.

Last night hadn’t been just sex. It had been a vow sealed in flesh. He’d whispered words between thrusts, promises and threats tangled together like silk and rope:

“You’re mine.”

“If you leave, I’ll find you.”

“Every man who even looks at you will die.”

She hadn’t known if she wanted to cry or come harder.

Now, wrapped in one of his silk shirts, Elena padded barefoot down the hall of the penthouse. The marble floors were cold. The silence was loud. The entire place was luxury bordering on obscene—glass, chrome, velvet, and gunmetal.

A cage made of wealth.

She reached the sun-drenched terrace where Marco stood shirtless, sipping espresso and reading the morning paper like he wasn’t the reason she couldn’t walk straight.

“Good morning, wife,” he said without turning.

Elena crossed her arms. “You left before I woke.”

“I had to check on some business.”

Mafia business. That’s what he meant. She didn’t ask. She never did.

He turned, finally, and his eyes trailed over her like she was still naked. “You look good in my shirt.”

“You look like a liar,” she snapped.

His brow rose. “How so?”

“You said you’d give me space. Freedom. But you lock me in this place like I’m some fucking porcelain doll.”

Marco walked toward her slowly, setting his cup down with eerie calm. “Space doesn’t mean abandonment. Freedom doesn’t mean danger. And you, Elena, are not a doll. You’re a queen in a lion’s den. And queens don’t walk the streets alone.”

“I’m not afraid of your world,” she whispered.

Marco grabbed her chin gently, tilting her face up. “But I am.”

The softness in his voice almost broke her.

Then he kissed her—soft at first, then harder, devouring. His hands slid up her thighs, lifting her onto the marble table behind them. She gasped as the cool stone met her skin, and he smirked, spreading her legs with forceful ease.

“You think this is a cage?” he growled, sliding the silk shirt off her shoulders. “It’s not. It’s a throne.”

He sank to his knees before her like a sinner at the altar. And when his mouth found her—hot, hungry, relentless—she forgot every reason she had for being angry.

Pleasure blurred her vision. His tongue was merciless, his fingers precise. She moaned, arching against him, clutching his hair like a lifeline.

And when she came—screaming his name into the morning sun—Marco stood, mouth glistening, and kissed her lips.

“Next time you think about running,” he said darkly, “remember how I make you fall apart.”

Elena stared at him, heart racing, the city stretching out below them.

She wasn’t in a cage.

She was in a fire—and Marco was the one holding the match.

[End of Chapter Two]

Chapter Three: Jealous Blood

Elena hadn’t planned to go out. But when Sofia—her childhood friend and one of the few people Marco tolerated—invited her to a gallery opening downtown, she decided to test the edges of her so-called freedom.

Marco hadn’t said no. He hadn’t said yes, either.

Which, in Elena’s mind, was enough.

She wore a black silk dress with thin straps, the hem brushing her thighs and the neckline dipping low enough to draw eyes without demanding them. Her heels clicked sharply against the marble floors as she descended the penthouse staircase, her pulse already beating faster at the thought of defying Marco’s unspoken rules.

The driver Marco assigned waited downstairs, expression unreadable. He opened the door without a word. When Elena stepped into the car, she felt like she was already doing something illicit—even if it was just a night of art and wine.

The gallery buzzed with people, laughter, and the sharp clinking of champagne glasses. White walls showcased abstract canvases in bold color, but nothing in the room was as bold as the man who approached her.

Tall. Dark hair. A smile that wasn’t just charming—it was dangerous.

“You must be Elena Romano,” he said, eyes flicking to her bare shoulder. “The wife of the infamous Marco.”

She gave a tight smile. “Depends who’s asking.”

“Luca Bianchi.” He extended a hand. “I’m one of the featured artists tonight. Your friend Sofia told me you were coming.”

She shook his hand, careful not to linger.

He leaned closer. “You don’t look like the type to be locked away in a high-rise. But maybe that’s why you’re here, hmm?”

Her heart skipped. “I’m here for the art.”

Luca chuckled. “And I’m here for the view.”

Before she could answer, a voice behind her sliced through the crowd like a blade.

“You’re staring at something that doesn’t belong to you.”

Elena turned, her stomach dropping.

Marco stood in the entrance of the gallery, suit immaculate, rage practically radiating from him. His jaw was clenched, his eyes locked on Luca like a wolf scenting blood.

“Marco,” Elena said, reaching for him, “It’s fine—”

But Marco didn’t hear her. Or rather, he didn’t care.

He was already closing the distance between him and Luca.

“You touch her?” Marco asked, low and venomous.

Luca held up his hands, unbothered. “No, but I’m tempted.”

Wrong answer.

Before anyone could react, Marco’s fist slammed into Luca’s jaw.

Gasps rippled across the gallery. Champagne spilled. Someone screamed.

Elena’s eyes widened as Marco grabbed Luca by the collar and shoved him against a canvas, smearing paint across the wall and his suit.

“She’s mine,” Marco hissed. “Next time you look at her like that, I’ll carve your eyes out and feed them to my dogs.”

Two of Marco’s guards were already stepping forward, ready to drag Luca outside.

“Marco, stop!” Elena shouted, grabbing his arm.

He turned to her, still breathing hard. His eyes were wild—possessive and burning. “You left without telling me. You wore this,” he gestured to her dress, “and let men look at what’s mine.”

“We’re in public,” she whispered, cheeks flaming.

“And I don’t give a fuck.”

He grabbed her waist, pulling her against him so forcefully it knocked the air from her lungs. Then—right there in the middle of the gallery—he kissed her. Hard. Dominating. His tongue pushed past her lips like a claim, not a request.

She melted against him, her fists curling in his shirt, the world spinning.

He broke the kiss and growled in her ear, “Let them watch.”

The gallery was silent. Shocked. Frozen.

Marco looked around with cool disdain and said, “My wife doesn’t talk to other men. Not unless I say so.”

Elena stared at him, breathless and flushed.

And somewhere deep inside, she wasn’t afraid.

She was turned on.

[End of Chapter Three]