The Devil’s Bride

They always warned her about monsters — the ones with claws and fangs and glowing red eyes. But no one ever warned her about the kind who wore tailored suits, kissed with the same mouth that gave orders to kill, and smiled while setting the world on fire. His name? Lorenzo De Luca. Mafia king. Sin incarnate. The devil wrapped in Armani and stitched in blood. She didn’t mean to catch his eye. She was just a girl — soft, sweet, ordinary. Maybe that was the mistake. Maybe her innocence was too loud in a world like his. He watched her from the shadows for weeks, then made his move, charming and poised, like a gentleman asking for her hand. And she thought she had a choice. “I want to marry you,” he said, voice like velvet over broken glass. She laughed — nervously. “I… I have to ask my parents.” He smiled. “Of course.” But when she returned with their answer — a firm, terrified no — something shifted in him. His expression didn’t change. But the room felt colder. Quieter. Like the calm before a storm. He didn’t yell. He didn’t argue. He simply said: “I don’t accept no.” That night, thunder cracked outside the house as the door flew open. She barely had time to scream before his men flooded the room. Her wrists were yanked behind her back, bound in silk — not out of kindness, but control. She struggled. She begged. But he didn’t even glance her way as he stepped over her, toward her parents. Her father tried to fight. Her mother cried. But Lorenzo didn’t need fists. He had methods. The screams started slow — quiet whimpers behind closed doors. Then they grew louder. Choking. Horrifying. The sound of bones breaking. The sharp snap of a scream cut short. She thrashed against the chair, sobbing, her voice raw. “Please! Stop! I’ll do it! I’ll marry you, just stop!” He finally turned to her. Calm. Cold. “No, amore mio. They need to say yes.” He crouched in front of her, brushing a tear from her cheek with fingers stained in someone else’s pain. “You’ll be my w