Chapter 4 The Vow of Possession

Lorenzo’s POV

The air in the ballroom hung thick and warm, steeped in perfume and unspoken power.

It smelled of rich perfume, aging scotch, and raw power.

This gathering was not a celebration; it was a military treaty.

Every don, every capo, and every politician who mattered was here to watch me finalize the deal.

They were watching her.

My hand was pressed against the small of Marcella’s back.

The expensive silk of her wedding dress felt smooth, but beneath it, her muscles were tight and unforgiving.

She was a coiled snake, ready to strike.

I found the tension in her body deeply satisfying.

She hated me, and that hatred was pure.

I kept her glued to my side.

We moved slowly through the crowd, like figures in a dark, silent procession.

"My wife, Marcella De Luca."

I spoke the name with a slow, deliberate pride.

It was a statement.

She is mine.

The feud is over.

Do not challenge me.

They saw her beauty and her defiance.

They saw the woman whose family I was accused of destroying.

They saw a quiet end to a bloody beginning.

They missed the truth: I had brought a dagger into my own home.

Marcella played her part with cold perfection.

Her smile was small, polite, but utterly empty.

She was a statue of icy obedience.

But I could feel the tremor of barely contained rage under my fingertips.

Don Rico delivered a polished compliment that reeked of insincerity.

"A beautiful bride, Lorenzo. May she bring you peace."

"She will bring me everything I desire," I replied easily, giving Marcella a slight, possessive squeeze.

She stiffened, but held the smile.

Good. She understood the rules of public performance.

I scanned the room, making mental notes of who was standing with whom.

My eyes found Vito by the heavy oak doors.

He stood like a shadow, his scarred face impassive.

Vito did not miss anything.

He was watching the fire escape, the entry points, and most importantly, the new threat on my arm.

He was the only man I fully trusted in this building.

Then I spotted Giovanni Vale.

Marcella’s uncle was leaning heavily on a cocktail table, sweating and drinking.

His clothes looked too tight, his face too pale.

He was trying hard to avoid my eyes.

A weak, greedy man who sold his own blood for thirty pieces of silver.

I had no respect for him, but he was a useful puppet in the beginning.

Marcella glanced in her uncle’s direction, and her controlled mask slipped.

Her eyes flashed with warmth.

"Your uncle is overindulging," I murmured close to her ear.

"He grieves deeply, he grieves his brother," she answered, her voice even.

"I am sure he does," I said.

"Grief, or guilt, they often look the same when wrapped in fine whiskey."

The orchestra began a slow, dramatic piece.

It was time for the first dance.

I guided Marcella to the center of the floor.

The other couples immediately retreated, giving us space.

We were on stage now.

I pulled her flush against me.

My hand locked onto her lower back, holding her tighter than necessary.

I made sure every camera, every jealous rival, saw the intimacy of the hold.

I wanted them to see ownership.

She was completely rigid in my arms, but she moved with me.

She was excellent at hiding her refusal.

"Look at me, Marcella," I ordered quietly, keeping my voice just for her.

She resisted, staring over my shoulder, pretending to be absorbed by the chandeliers.

I used my free hand to cup her jaw, gently but firmly turning her face up to mine.

"Do not disrespect me. When you are with me, your attention is mine."

Her gaze finally snapped to mine.

Her eyes were blazing dark fire.

She was furious that I was exposing her control.

"Forgive me, Don De Luca," she said, her voice dry and cold.

"I was calculating the number of hours until this night ends."

"It ends when I decide it ends," I corrected.

I smiled, a slow, predatory curve of my mouth.

I pulled her hips against mine, letting her feel the raw power of my body.

"You are forgetting who bought the ticket to this show."

I leaned down, my mouth just brushing her ear.

The melody swelled around us, drowning out the specific words for everyone else.

"Tell me, Marcella. Did you bring a weapon to our wedding?"

I felt her heart hammer against my chest.

Her breath stopped entirely.

The small movement was the closest thing to a confession she would ever give.

She was an assassin in a bridal gown.

She did not flinch, though.

That was her strength.

Her voice was steady when she answered, a perfect, practiced lie.

"Why would I need one? I am your wife. I am under your protection."

I laughed, a rich, dark sound.

She was testing my boundaries, and I loved it.

"You look at me like a woman who protects herself," I countered.

I let my hand slide lower on her back, dipping down, fingers brushing the upper curve of her hip.

The movement was deliberately provocative.

"Because you look at me like you want me dead."

I finished the phrase, turning it into a compliment.

"I find it intoxicating."

The tremble in her body was undeniable now.

It was a mix of fury and fear, but beneath it, I felt something else, a current of purely physical reaction.

She hated me, but she was not immune to me.

"Your arrogance is legendary," she whispered, her voice tight.

"My perception is lethal," I corrected her.

"You came into my home to find weakness. You will find none. But I will find all of yours."

I held her gaze, letting the raw possessiveness settle between us.

"You are mine now. Your revenge, your body, your defiance — it all belongs to me."

The music stopped.

The moment was over.

The applause was loud.

I held her for a few extra seconds, sealing the image in the minds of the guests.

"A perfect performance," I told her as I released my hand from her back.

"We will retire now. The House of the Serpent awaits."

I led her quickly toward the doors.

She moved stiffly, like a toy soldier under strict command.

She was beginning to realize the depth of the cage she had entered.

We bypassed the remaining guests.

I ignored Giovanni, who made a weak gesture of farewell.

Outside, the cool night air hit us.

Vito was already waiting by the car, doors open.

"Get in," I commanded Marcella.

She got into the back seat without a word.

I followed her, sitting close.

The silence in the armored car was heavy, charged with anticipation.

She was breathing deeply, trying to regain control.

Her wedding dress looked immaculate, but her eyes were wild.

"You should not have done that," she said finally, her voice low and strained.

"Done what, moglie?" I asked, looking out the tinted window.

"Told me you knew. Called out the knife."

"Why not? Secrets are boring."

I turned to her, my expression calm.

"I want to watch you play. I want to see you fight. You think you are here to destroy me. That makes you the most interesting thing in my life."

I reached out, taking her hand.

Her fingers were cold.

I brought them to my mouth and pressed a light, deliberate kiss to her knuckle.

"You should be grateful, Marcella. I am giving you exactly what you want. Access. Proximity. A chance to know the monster."

I let my thumb trace the large diamond ring on her finger.

"But tonight, you will also learn the price of that access."

I pulled my hand back.

I gave the command to Vito.

"Home."

The car accelerated, speeding us toward the coast, toward the fortress carved into the rock.

She was coming home.

My beautiful, vengeful bride was coming home, and she had no idea the danger she was truly in.

I settled back against the leather seat, a wave of dark, fierce satisfaction washing over me.

The game had just begun.