The Glass Rose

Alessia Moretti’s POV

Weddings are every girl’s dream…a happy home, a loving husband and the never ending sexual appeal. Mine was a nightmare, but I wanted to see how bad it could get.

Whoever said that never married the devil to stop a war.

“Smile, Alessia,” my father said under his breath, his eyes darting to the camera crew and glaring at me “The press is watching.”

“I hope they get my good side,” I muttered.

He didn’t laugh. Of course he didn’t. Francesco Moretti didn’t believe in humor, only in power, silence, and strategic alliances. And today, I was his most valuable asset.

Imagine entering a gold and crystal-encrusted ballroom where the ambiance is as ostentatious and manufactured as the people clinking their glasses and whispering to each other behind their manicured smiles. What do I mean? Imagine a crowd full of people you know, each one a killer in high-end shoes, a thief in a tuxedo. Is it not unbelievable that they are all acting as though this wedding is more than a blood-stained temporary truce?

And then he walked in.

Lucien Valenti.

He walked in, his face blank, not a smile, nerves, or even the faintest emotion. He was in a sleek black suit, with a silk pocket square folded to fit, and his stare was hard. As he moved through the crowd, he dominated the room. Can you imagine the stillness that fell over the room when he stepped in? It was as if everyone sensed the arrival of something dangerous.

“Your future husband,” my cousin Giada murmured at my side. “And my God, Alessia. He’s…”

“Tall?” I offered.

She shot me a look. “Lethal.”

That was more accurate.

Lucien Valenti was the heir to the Valenti crime family. A man rumored to have buried his enemies with his own hands. A man I hated before I ever met him.

I hated him for being a Valenti.

And I hated him because I believed he had something to do with my brother Enzo’s death.

“Time to play nice,” my father said, nudging me forward as Lucien approached.

He stopped in front of me. His gaze swept over my face, slow, unapologetic. I felt it like a blade dragging across my skin.

“Alessia,” he said.

“Lucien,” I replied, refusing to let my voice waver.

He tilted his head. “You look… cooperative.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

His mouth twitched. Not a smile. More like amusement laced with warning.

My father stepped in with a clap of hands. “Beautiful couple, aren’t they? A symbol of peace. Unity.”

Lucien’s father, Don Matteo Valenti, joined us with a raised glass and dead eyes. “Let’s hope the next generation lasts longer than the last one.”

My stomach twisted.

That was a shot at Enzo. My brother was murdered three years ago. Shot in an alley behind a club that both families had staked a claim on. No witnesses. No answers. Only whispers. And one name is always at the center of them.

Valenti.

Lucien’s gaze never left mine. “Are you ready?”

For what? A life sentence? A game I was going to play until I buried him?

“Of course,” I said sweetly. “After all, it’s just vows. Not love.”

The priest began to speak behind us, and the crowd hushed. I barely heard the words. My heartbeat drowned everything out. I’d practiced this for months. Smiling through glass. Strutting in those stiletto heels that hold secrets. This wedding was the ticket to uncovering the truth. It’s all about getting close enough to take down the Valentis from the inside.

The priest turned to me.

“Do you, Alessia Moretti, take Lucien Valenti as your lawfully wedded husband?”

My throat tightened.

Say yes. Smile. This is the plan.

“I do.”

Lucien didn’t blink.

“And do you, Lucien Valenti, take Alessia Moretti as your lawfully wedded wife?”

A beat passed. Just long enough to make the air go razor-sharp.

“I do.”

The crowd erupted in polite applause. A few smiles. A few cameras flashing. Somewhere behind me, someone popped a bottle of champagne.

I didn’t turn to kiss him. I didn’t give the world that satisfaction. Instead, I took his arm like a queen being led to her coronation.

Or her execution.

“You really plan to keep up the ice queen act all night?” Lucien asked as we entered the car, a sleek black thing with tinted windows and the Valenti crest etched into the door.

“I don’t pretend,” I said, settling into the seat. “I don’t need to.”

He laughed once. Low. Sharp. “You’re already the most interesting wife I’ve ever had.”

“How many have you had?”

He looked at me. “None. That’s the joke.”

I turned away, watching the city blur by through the window. The streets of Manhattan looked soft from this high up. Like everything below was part of a world I didn’t belong to anymore.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“To your new home.”

“Is there a dungeon?”

“If you’re lucky.”

I glanced back at him. “Funny. I thought you were the type to lock wives in glass boxes.”

He smiled for real then, but there was nothing warm about it. “Not glass. Steel.”

The car pulled through a black iron gate and up a long driveway. The house, or more like a mansion, looked ahead like it stepped right out of a horror movie story. It was all dark stone and shadows, with windows that seemed to watch your every movement

“You live here?” I asked.

“I rule from here.”

“How poetic.”

It felt colder inside, not in terms of temperature, but more in the vibe. Everything was shiny and looked great. But it was missing that personal touch—no pictures, no cozy feels. Just a strong sense of architecture.

Lucien led me down a hall toward a grand staircase.

“You’ll have your own wing,” he said. “Privacy. Guards. No one gets in or out without my approval.”

I stopped walking. “Like a prisoner.”

He turned. “Like Valenti.”

I stepped closer. “You keep saying that it means something. Like I should be impressed.”

“You should be afraid.”

I looked up at him, right into those storm-colored eyes. “I’m not.”

He stared back, unmoving. For a moment, neither of us breathed.

Then he said, “Good. Fear makes people unpredictable.”

“And control makes people weak,” I shot back.

He tilted his head slightly. “We’ll see.”

Lucien walked me to the door of my room. A guard posted outside nodded stiffly.

“Your things were brought in earlier,” Lucien said. “Your security codes are programmed. And your door locks from the inside.”

“How generous.”

He leaned in slightly. “Don’t mistake comfort for safety. They’re not alike.”

Then he turned and walked away without another word.

I waited until he disappeared down the corridor, then stepped inside the room. It was large. Beautiful. Like a prison, captivating but torture. I crossed to the window, pulled back the curtain, and looked down.

Guards.

Everywhere.

There was no escape. Not tonight.

I walked to the dresser. Open the top drawer. Silk nightgowns. Everything in my size. Every item is carefully selected. Controlled.

Like me.

I pulled open the second drawer.

And froze.

Tucked beneath a stack of lingerie was a single envelope.

No address. No name.

Only one word handwritten on the back in blood-red ink.

Enzo.