The mansion doors closed behind her like the end of a prayer.
Aaravi stood in the grand foyer again—this time, not as a visitor. The ring on her finger felt heavier with every breath, even though she knew it wasn’t real. It gleamed under the crystal chandelier above like it belonged on someone else’s hand. Someone who didn’t tremble at mafia names whispered in alleyways. Someone who didn’t barter her freedom for blood-tinted truths.
A woman with no choice becomes dangerous.
And Aaravi Mishra was out of choices.
“Follow me,” said the housekeeper in a muted sari, her voice clipped. “Mr. Leone wants you in the East Wing.”
The hallway stretched on like a palace of shadows. Portraits of long-dead men with cold eyes lined the walls. A lion’s head was carved into every archway—Leone. Lion.
She was marrying a ghost who bore the name of a king.
They entered a bedroom that looked like a five-star suite fused with a war bunker. Polished teak furniture. Monochrome art. Black silk sheets stretched across a bed too large for intimacy. Floor-to-ceiling windows stared out at the Mumbai skyline like it was prey.
“You’ll stay here,” the woman said. “Closet’s been stocked with the wardrobe Mr. Leone selected. You’ll attend dinner in an hour. Wear black.”
Then she vanished before Aaravi could ask her name.
—
The closet was a cathedral of couture. Each dress whispered wealth in foreign tongues. Labels she only saw in fashion magazines stared back at her. And yet, she reached for a plain black velvet slip dress that clung to her curves like a lover’s memory.
She hated it.
She wore it anyway.
Dinner was in a smaller room, intimate in size but not in atmosphere. Matteo was already seated at the head of the table, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, tattoos peeking along his forearms. A glass of wine swirled lazily between his fingers.
“You clean up well,” he said, voice like a slow pour of bourbon.
“You shop like a dictator,” she shot back, sliding into the chair beside him.
He smirked. “I am one.”
They ate in silence for a while, the only sound the clinking of crystal and the soft music playing from a corner gramophone. A song in Italian—low, haunting.
“Why me?” she asked finally.
His fork paused.
“I told you.”
“No. You told me what you wanted. Not why you chose me. There are hundreds of women who would sell their souls to play the role of Mrs. Leone.”
His eyes lifted slowly to meet hers, and something dangerous sparked behind them.
“Because you’re not one of them.”
Her lips parted.
“You’re not chasing power, or money, or my name. You don’t belong in this world, Aaravi—and that’s exactly why you’re perfect for what’s coming.”
“What is coming?” she whispered.
His gaze grew colder.
“A war.”
—
The next morning, the ring had a twin—a contract stamped with legal insignia and written in ice. It declared her Matteo’s fiancée. All fake, of course. Except for the consequences.
By noon, her phone was taken. By afternoon, her belongings delivered from the bookstore. By evening, she was standing beside Matteo at a fundraising gala hosted by the Ashcroft Trust, a front for one of the city's oldest syndicates.
The ballroom was gold. Gold walls. Gold chandeliers. Gold masks on men who wore secrets like cufflinks.
And Matteo… he wore power like perfume. Sharp. Subtle. Omnipresent.
As he escorted her in, murmurs rippled like electricity. Men bowed. Women stared. She was suddenly the most envied woman in the room.
And the most trapped.
“You’ll smile. Laugh at my jokes. Drink when I drink. And never show them what scares you,” Matteo whispered against her ear as a photographer flashed. “You’re not prey tonight, Aaravi. You’re the queen of the predator.”
Aaravi swallowed.
“Don’t I get to act like myself?”
He chuckled. “Not in this world.”
But she did.
She stood taller, smiled brighter, and charmed an oil baron’s wife so thoroughly that even Matteo’s gaze lingered a second too long.
“You’re better at this than I expected,” he murmured later, refilling her glass.
“Maybe I’m not as innocent as you thought.”
He smirked. “No. You’re dangerous. And I like that.”
—
But then he arrived.
The man with silver hair and a face that looked like it belonged in a courtroom or a crime scene—depending on the lighting.
Luciano Bellini.
Matteo’s old rival. His father’s sworn enemy. And the head of a European arms syndicate that once tried to bury the Leone legacy.
“Matteo,” Luciano said, voice smooth, as he approached their table. “You never fail to surprise me. A fake engagement? How very dramatic.”
Aaravi froze.
Luciano’s eyes flicked to her. “She’s beautiful. And very brave.”
Matteo rose slowly, his hand resting on the small of Aaravi’s back like a threat.
“Careful, old man,” Matteo said. “You’re mistaking performance for weakness again.”
Luciano’s smile never reached his eyes. “Not weakness, boy. Desperation. And that always makes a man sloppy.”
Aaravi felt Matteo’s hand tighten.
But before he could speak, she stepped forward and extended her hand.
“Aaravi Mishra. You must be Luciano Bellini. Matteo told me you once tried to have him killed. It’s so lovely to finally meet you.”
Luciano’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve got fire.”
She smiled sweetly. “Only when provoked.”
Matteo was silent for a long moment after Luciano walked away.
Then he said, almost reverently, “Remind me never to underestimate you again.”
—
That night, in the car on the way home, the silence was heavier than before.
Aaravi stared out the tinted window.
“Dev,” she said suddenly. “Is he alive?”
Matteo didn’t respond immediately.
“He’s not dead. Yet.”
She turned to him, her voice sharper than glass. “What does that mean?”
“It means the people who took him want something. Something they think I have.”
“And do you?”
“I always have what they want,” Matteo said quietly. “That’s the problem.”
She stared at him, anger and panic curling in her gut. “Why won’t you tell me more?”
“Because knowing more will get you killed.”
She clenched her fists. “I’m already in danger, Matteo.”
His hand reached out, gripping her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his.
“Not while I’m breathing.”
And for the first time, she didn’t see the Red Ghost.
She saw the man behind him.
Tired. Haunted. Fighting demons that didn’t bleed easily.
She whispered, “Why do I feel like you’ve done this before?”
He released her. Looked away.
“Because I have.”
—
She dreamed of Dev that night.
Tied to a chair. Blood on his lip. Calling her name.
And when she woke up, breath ragged, Matteo was standing at the window again, shirtless this time, his body a canvas of scars and ink.
Without turning, he said softly, “They sent me a message tonight.”
She sat up.
“They mailed me one of his fingers.”
Aaravi didn’t scream. She didn’t cry.
She got out of bed, walked over to him, and placed her palm against his bare back.
“I’ll help you get him back,” she said.
He turned to her, eyes burning.
“This isn’t your fight.”
“It is now,” she whispered.
And in the silence that followed, something shifted between them. A truce. A vow. A beginning.
Of what?
Neither of them knew.
But war had a new queen.
And Matteo Leone… had finally met a woman he couldn’t silence.
