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