Chapter 1 — The Binding Contract

Ella

The scent of incense hangs heavy in the air, curling around the cold, stony silence of St. Michael’s Cathedral. My fingers tremble as I clutch the bouquet of pale white roses, their thorns biting into my palms like a quiet warning. The pain is sharp, grounding, a small defiance against the numbness threatening to swallow me whole. Their fragile beauty mocks me—a delicate façade hiding the iron chains that are tightening around me. I glance up at the vaulted ceilings, where fractured beams of light filter through the stained glass, casting kaleidoscopic patterns of saints and sinners onto the marble floor. Saints and sinners, intertwined. I wonder which one I’m supposed to be.

The scrape of polished shoes against stone echoes through the cavernous space, sharp and deliberate, dragging my attention to the man waiting at the altar. Zane Romano. My husband-to-be.

He stands tall, a figure carved from shadows and precision. His sharply tailored black suit absorbs the dim light, its perfect lines emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and the imposing stillness of his stance. His face is a study in severity: the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones, the tight press of his lips, the deliberate set of his dark brown eyes. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t falter, and yet… at his wrist gleams a silver watch. It’s subtle, almost understated, but impossibly out of place amidst his impenetrable aura. A rare crack in the armor he wears so ruthlessly. My eyes can’t help but linger on it. He adjusts the strap briefly, a small, unconscious motion that feels more human than anything else about him.

The only thing about him that feels real.

Behind him, Dante Romano looms like a specter, his icy blue eyes cutting through the air with the precision of a blade. He doesn’t need to speak to assert his dominance; it’s there in the rigid set of his shoulders, the glint of cold satisfaction in his gaze as he surveys the room. His disdain is palpable—directed at me, at the priest, at everything that isn’t his absolute control. His presence is suffocating, a weight pressing down on the cathedral’s sanctity itself. This place, meant to be sacred, feels defiled by his aura.

Beside me, my father’s grip on my elbow tightens, his fingers digging into the soft flesh with a force that borders on painful. “Don’t embarrass me,” he hisses, his voice a low, venomous whisper. His cologne clings to the air, cloying and suffocating.

Embarrass him. As if I have any power left to embarrass anyone. The man who sold me doesn’t deserve even the shame he fears. A surge of bitterness stirs, hot and sharp, but it fades as quickly as it came, swallowed by the icy dread creeping through my chest.

The priest clears his throat, the sound cutting through the silence like a blade. My legs feel like lead, but I force them to move, one step at a time. Each step down the aisle feels like a descent into something darker, heavier. The nearly empty pews gape like hollow eyes, their occupants—men in dark suits, capos and soldiers—silent and watchful. Their presence feels like an unspoken threat, a reminder of the power that binds me here. Even the air seems unwilling to move, thick and oppressive, clinging to my skin.

Step by step, I inch closer to the altar, to the man waiting for me. My heart pounds in my chest like a bird trapped in a cage, its frantic rhythm growing louder with each step. When I finally reach him, it’s like walking into the shadow of a mountain. Up close, Zane is even more startling than I expected. His eyes meet mine, dark and unyielding, and the breath catches in my throat.

There’s no warmth in them, no flicker of kindness or reassurance. But there is something else. Calculation. Restraint. And beneath that, something far more dangerous—a storm brewing just beneath the surface, held tightly in check. His stillness is unnerving, like the quiet before a thunderclap.

The priest begins to speak, his voice a low drone that fades into the background as my focus narrows. Zane doesn’t move, doesn’t shift, but when he offers his hand, it’s commanding, absolute. A silent order. My own hand trembles as I place it in his, the strength of his grip swallowing mine whole. His skin is warm—unexpectedly so—and the contrast sends a shiver through me. I glance at his silver watch again, catching the faintest movement as his thumb brushes the edge of its face. A fleeting hesitation. Or maybe I imagined it.

“Do you, Zane Romano, take Ella Avril to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

His response comes immediately, low, deliberate, and steady. “I do.” The words echo through the cathedral, weighted and final, as if they’ve been carved into stone.

“And do you, Ella Avril, take Zane Romano to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

I hesitate, just for a fraction of a second. But in that moment, the cathedral seems to hold its breath. My father’s grip on my arm tightens, a silent threat. From the corner of my eye, I catch Dante’s gaze—sharp, unrelenting, like a predator circling its prey. My chest tightens, the air turning colder, as if the saints in the windows have turned their backs.

“I do,” I whisper, my voice barely audible, a thin thread of sound that carries the weight of a thousand unspoken protests.

The priest’s voice drones on, solemn and heavy, the words of a sacred ritual twisted to serve the ambitions of men like Dante and my father. The exchange of rings passes like a haze, half-remembered fragments of a dream I can’t wake from. My focus sharpens only when Zane’s hand releases mine, though the warmth of his touch lingers, an unsettling reminder of his strength and control. He steps back, his face unreadable as he turns toward Dante.

“Good,” Dante says, his voice smooth but laced with quiet thunder. “The family is stronger for this union. Do not forget what this means, Zane.” His words hang in the air, heavy and unyielding, like the weight of the cathedral itself. The threat beneath them is clear, though unspoken.

Zane nods, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. It’s the barest hint of resistance, gone too quickly to be certain if it was ever there at all. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t look at me.

I glance at him, searching for something—anything—that might tell me what he’s thinking. But his face is a fortress, impenetrable and unyielding. Whatever storm brews beneath the surface, he won’t let it show.

As we step out of the cathedral, the cold gray light of the outside world seeps into my skin, chilling me to the bone. The weight of Zane’s silver watch catches the light, a fleeting glimmer against the darkness that seems to cling to him. For reasons I can’t explain, I hold onto that image—the light, so faint and fleeting, yet undeniably there.

A glimmer of humanity, buried beneath stone and shadow.

Perhaps it’s foolish, but I find myself clinging to that sliver of hope. Because if there’s something human in Zane Romano, maybe—just maybe—there’s something in him worth saving. And maybe, if I hold on long enough, I might find a way to save myself.