Aria woke in the vast, cold bed alone.
The silk sheets still smelled faintly of cologne and ash—Luciano's scent—but he was gone. No note. No explanation. Just an empty space where her enemy-husband had been.
Good.
She needed time to breathe. Time to plan.
Still wrapped in the robe from the night before, she padded to the window overlooking the estate grounds. A fleet of black cars idled in the driveway below.
Business.
Luciano's world never slept.
But neither did she.
⸻
By noon, she was summoned.
Not politely. Not gently. A knock on the door, then Talon's gravel voice: "The Don wants you dressed. We're leaving."
She considered ignoring him.
But she didn't. Aria knew better than to show weakness on day one.
She chose a black fitted dress—modest but lethal. No jewelry except the wedding ring she hadn't asked for. Red lips. Dark heels.
She entered the car without speaking. Luciano sat beside her in a custom suit, eyes shaded behind expensive sunglasses.
He looked like a god of death dressed for court.
"You slept late," he said.
"I had a long night," she replied evenly.
A pause. Then: "Get used to longer ones."
⸻
They drove through the city, then into the Bronx—a part of New York Aria hadn't walked since childhood.
They stopped in front of an old stone building marked by iron gates and no signage. Men with weapons stood at the door.
"This is yours now," Luciano said casually, stepping out first.
She followed.
Inside was something between a private club and a command center. Smoke curled from cigars. Laughter echoed off marble walls. At the far end, a long table gleamed under low light—men and women seated like royalty.
They all turned when she entered.
Luciano rested a possessive hand on her back. "Gentlemen. And ladies. Meet Aria. My wife."
No applause. Just appraising eyes.
Predators.
The only woman at the table was Valeria Rossi—daughter of the southern gun-running clan. She eyed Aria like she was prey, then smirked behind her champagne glass.
"So this is the girl who ended a ten-year war," she purred.
Luciano pulled out a chair for Aria. She didn't thank him. Just sat.
"Aria ended nothing," he said coolly. "She changed the terrain. The war still simmers."
"Well," said a man across the table—brutal face, thick neck, hands like shovels. "Let's hope she's prettier than she is dangerous."
"I am both," Aria said without blinking.
A few chuckled. A few stared harder.
Luciano didn't laugh. He simply poured her a glass of wine.
"In this room," he said, "loyalty is everything. No bloodline. No past. Only the present—and what you're willing to sacrifice to hold your place."
Aria sipped slowly, then placed the glass down.
"I've already sacrificed. What else do you require?"
⸻
Later, when the meeting ended, Luciano led her to a private room—a lounge overlooking the docks.
"You handled them well," he said, lighting a cigar.
"They're not your friends."
"They're not anyone's friends. That's why they're useful."
She turned to him. "Why bring me here?"
"Because you're mine now. And they needed to see that."
Aria stepped closer. "Are you showing me off, or warning them?"
Luciano's eyes met hers. "Both."
⸻
That night, she walked the halls of the estate again, finally starting to understand what kind of kingdom she had entered.
This wasn't a family.
It was an empire.
A machine.
And she'd been inserted as a cog—or maybe a test.
Everyone was watching. Every word mattered.
Luciano didn't just want a wife.
He wanted a weapon dressed as one.
⸻
Back in the bedroom, Aria found her vanity tray disturbed. The cryptic card from last night was gone.
In its place, a second note had been slipped beneath her jewelry case.
In the same handwriting:
"They think you're the new queen.
But queens are easy to poison."
Her pulse kicked.
Someone inside this house wanted her dead—or wanted her afraid.
Either way, they'd just made the first move.
And Aria D'Angelo never backed down.