Blood Roses & Broken Vows

The Gilded Cage

The golden light of late afternoon spilled through the floor to the ceiling windows of the Moretti penthouse, casting long shadows across the white marble floors. Alessia Moretti stood barefoot near the glass, one hand pressed lightly to its cold surface, watching the world she wasn't allowed to touch. Far below, New York pulsed with life, honking taxis, sharp laughter from sidewalk cafés, the subtle hum of a city too proud to ever sleep. She had never walked its streets alone. At twenty-four, the concrete jungle still belonged to strangers, and she remained a ghost in her own city.

Behind her, the echo of leather soles on marble signaled her father's approach. It was never just footsteps. With Don Luciano Moretti, everything arrived with a purpose.

"You look like your mother when you stand like that," he said.

Alessia didn't turn around. "Is that meant to be a compliment?"

A beat of silence stretched thin between them. Then, his voice sharpened. "Tonight, you'll wear the emeralds. The ones from your grandmother's wedding."

Her fingers curled against the glass. "Why?"

"You're to meet someone important."

She turned now, slowly, her silk dress whispering around her ankles. Her father stood by the grand piano, his face a map of power and age, sharp cheekbones, greying temples, and cold, calculating eyes that had once ordered the deaths of men like others ordered coffee.

"Who?" she asked.

But he was already walking away, leaving his answer in the air like the scent of gunpowder.

An hour later, Alessia sat on the edge of her bed as Rosa Moretti fastened the heavy emerald necklace around her throat. It felt like a shackle disguised as heirloom.

Her mother's hands were elegant, steady practiced in restraint. "Don't ask questions tonight," Rosa murmured, avoiding Alessia's gaze in the mirror. "Smile, Listen, and Speak when spoken to."

"Am I a daughter or an ornament?"

"You're a Moretti."

It was both answer and cage.

The dress was dark green silk, cut modestly at the front but clinging at the waist, demure in design but unmistakably valuable. Her hair had been styled into loose waves, her makeup light but intentional. A porcelain doll dressed for display.

Alessia descended the marble staircase like a bride to her execution.

In the formal sitting room, two of her father's capos stood flanking the door, tension in their shoulders and guns under their jackets. At their nod, the double doors opened, and he stepped inside.

Dante Romano.

Alessia had heard his name whispered like a curse and spoken like a warning. The Romano heir, The Brooklyn-born prince of blood and silence, And now, standing before her in a tailored black suit, his presence filled the room like storm clouds rolling over calm water.

He didn't smile.

Dark hair, neatly slicked back, Sharp jaw, eyes the color of polished steel. There was no warmth in them, only calculation. His gaze flicked over her, assessing, and measuring. When his eyes met hers, she held them, refusing to blink.

"I'm Dante," he said, voice low and clipped.

"I know who you are."

Her father stepped between them like a wall, "You two will get to know each other better soon."

Alessia's spine straightened, "Why don't you just say it?"

Luciano tilted his head. "Say what?"

"The deal, The price, The trade, Whatever you're calling it."

A flash of irritation crossed his face, but he composed himself quickly. "Marriage, Alessia. To unite our bloodlines, To end a war that should've ended years ago."

"I didn't start the war."

"No," Dante said suddenly, "But you'll help end it."

She turned to him, eyes narrowing. "And what are you sacrificing in this grand gesture of peace?"

Dante's mouth curled slightly, though it wasn't a smile, "Control."

Their eyes locked again, hers defiant, and his unreadable. The room held its breath.

Luciano clapped his hands, "Let's have a drink, shall we?"

But the damage had already been done.

Later that night, Alessia stood on the balcony outside her bedroom, a glass of untouched wine in her hand. Below, the city shimmered like a thousand burning lies, Her chest ached with something she couldn't name, fear, perhaps Or fury, Maybe both.

Dante Romano would be her husband.

The man who had stared at her not with lust or kindness, but with the focus of someone inspecting a chess piece before moving it into sacrifice. She was no stranger to being used, every child in their world was currency, But this was different, This was final.

The door behind her opened, She didn't need to turn to know who it was.

"You shouldn't be here," she said quietly.

"You're already mine," Dante replied, "Why should I knock?"

Alessia set the glass down, "Is that how you think this works? You claim me like a gun on a table?"

He stepped beside her, not touching her, yet the heat of his body seemed to push into her skin. "I think," he said, "you know the game we're playing. And I think you're more dangerous than anyone's given you credit for."

She faced him, "Careful, Mr Romano, You're starting to sound like a man who wants a wife with teeth."

He studied her face, truly looked,and for the first time that night, something flickered in his eyes, not warmth, not desire, but Curiosity.

"Just don't bite the wrong hand."

He left without another word.

And Alessia, still staring into the night, whispered to herself, "I'll decide which hand that is."

The following morning, the Moretti compound was busier than usual, Men in suits moved like shadows through the halls. Her father's voice echoed through the house, shouting orders in clipped Italian. Alessia, dressed in jeans and a white blouse, moved toward the study unnoticed.

She didn't intend to eavesdrop, But the moment she heard Dante's name, she froze.

"He's not like Luca," said one voice, Rinaldo, her father's consigliere. "This one's sharper, and Colder."

Luciano grunted, "Good, I don't need another bleeding heart."

"And Alessia?"

"She'll learn, She always does."

A pause, Then, quieter, "You really think he doesn't suspect what happened to Luca?"

Alessia's breath caught.

Luciano's voice hardened, "He suspects, But suspicion without proof is nothing."

Footsteps approached, She ducked behind a pillar, heart hammering.

Luca Romano, Dante's older brother. The one who died when she was seventeen, Officially an accident Rumors but now a betrayal, and blood War.

Alessia knew then that Dante wasn't marrying her for peace.

He was here for war.

And she was standing in the middle of a battlefield dressed like a bride.