Return

“In this family, a smile is a weapon and a kiss might mean war.”

“Smile,” I whisper to myself as I raise the champagne glass.

It’s instinct by now. A script I’ve memorized better than my own reflection.

Smile too wide, and they’ll think you’re hiding something.

Smile too little, and they’ll call you ungrateful.

Just the right tilt of the lips — polished, precise, pretend.

The ballroom swells with laughter and clinking glasses. Opulence drips from every crystal, every golden edge, every blood-earned inch of marble. It’s breathtaking — in the way a coffin might be beautiful if it’s lined with velvet.

I stand at the center of it all like a mannequin dressed in scarlet sin.

The red gown fits like a second skin — tailored to perfection, impossible to breathe in.

It’s a warning more than a fashion choice. White felt too dishonest. Red felt… right.

Because this family is built on blood.

And tonight, I am the bride.

Dante Navarro, my fiancé, delivers his third toast of the evening like a man practicing for presidency. His smile is charming. Calculated. His words are lined with sugar and laced with poison.

He talks of power. Of uniting two great families. Of love — though his eyes only flicker toward me when he’s supposed to.

His hand slides around my waist, fingers pressing a little too tightly. A reminder: I am his now. Not just in name, but in ownership.

And I let it happen.

Because rebellion in this family doesn’t come with warnings — it comes with funerals.

“To my bride,” he says, lifting his glass, “The future Mrs. Navarro — radiant, sharp, and finally mine.”

The room erupts in applause.

Cameras flash.

Laughter swells.

I raise my glass, lips curved in perfect submission.

But the moment I glance up —

My entire world shifts.

I see him.

Across the ballroom. Half-hidden. Half-shadow.

But unmistakable.

Silas.

The ghost in my nightmares.

The man who vanished three years ago the same night my mother died.

My heart lurches. My breath stops.

He’s not dead.

He’s standing there, still as stone, dressed in black, like he never left. Like he wasn’t swallowed whole by the secrets this family keeps in its darkest closets.

I almost drop my champagne.

I cover it with a laugh. Tilt my head like someone told a joke. Smile, smile, smile.

But inside, I’m screaming.

His gaze is locked on mine — sharp, unreadable. Like he’s studying me. Judging.

My knees weaken.

I turn to Dante. His smile hasn’t wavered. He hasn’t noticed.

Good.

I murmur an excuse and break away, each step calculated to look casual. My heels echo across the marble like gunshots. My heart echoes louder.

I spot Luna near the bar. Sipping her drink. Flirting like nothing could go wrong.

“Who hired new security without telling me?” I hiss, grabbing her arm.

She blinks, confused. “What are you—?”

“Don’t lie to me,” I snap. “He’s here.”

“Who?”

I lean in closer, my voice almost breaking. “Silas.”

The name is a razor in my mouth.

Her face drains of color. “That’s impossible.”

“Then explain why I just saw a dead man watching me toast my own engagement.”

I don’t get a reply.

Because right then—

BOOM.

A low, rolling explosion shakes the floor.

The chandeliers tremble. Crystals rain down like glass tears.

Screams erupt. Panic explodes. The room fractures into chaos.

Smoke rushes in from the back entrance — thick, fast, suffocating.

Four masked men charge through the cloud. Armed. Tactical. Clean.

They’re not here to scare.

They’re here to kill.

One of them raises a gun — aims at me.

I don’t move. Can’t.

It’s like every bone in my body is paralyzed by the inevitability of it all.

This is what happens to De Luca daughters. We look pretty in pictures.

We die prettier.

But before the bullet lands—

He grabs me.

Hard hands. Familiar scent. Iron grip.

Silas.

He yanks me behind a marble column with force so sudden it knocks the breath out of my chest.

My shoulder slams against the stone — hard. Pain blooms sharp and white-hot, radiating down my side.

I flinch, instinctively grabbing at the wound, but the pain barely registers beneath the flood of adrenaline.

Because it’s him.

Silas.

I know that silence — the kind that fills a room just before it’s turned into a battlefield.

I know that calm — the kind that only exists in the eye of a storm.

His body shields mine for the briefest second.

His scent — cold air, gunmetal, smoke — cuts through the panic like a forgotten memory.

His voice drops, low and deliberate, slicing through the noise like a blade:

“Stay down.”

Then he’s gone.

Not stumbling. Not running.

Moving.

He steps out from behind the column like a shadow slipping through a crack in the world — gun in one hand, knife in the other.

And everything slows.

What happens next doesn’t feel real. It feels choreographed — like some brutal dance only he knows the steps to.

The first attacker sees movement. Tries to pivot.

Too slow.

The gun never makes it up.

Silas is already there.

One smooth step — and the man’s throat opens like torn paper. No sound. Just red.

Before the body hits the ground, Silas is already turning.

The second assailant fires — the flash of his muzzle blinding in the smoke.

Too late.

Silas doesn’t even flinch.

He closes the distance in three strides.

Knife to the gut.

A brutal twist.

The man gurgles — drops.

The other two hesitate.

One stumbles backward, missteps.

His heel catches the edge of a toppled chair.

Silas fires once — clean through the skull.

The last one bolts.

He makes it three feet before a blade whistles through the smoke and buries itself between his shoulder blades.

He collapses.

Twitches.

Stops.

It’s over.

The silence that follows isn’t peaceful — it’s suffocating.

The kind that fills a room after someone screams.

Silas stands among the wreckage like he never left.

Blood on his sleeves. Ash clinging to his collar.

Smoke curling around his silhouette like it belongs to him.

Then — he turns.

And his eyes meet mine.

Flat. Steady. Terrifyingly calm.

He looks at me like I’m a question he already answered years ago and didn’t like the result.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, voice even, unreadable.

And before I can speak, before I can even breathe —

He disappears into the smoke.

Gone.

No trace. No explanation.

Like the ghost he always was.

I slide to the floor, back pressed to the cold column, chest heaving.

My hand trembles as I press it to my upper arm.

Blood seeps between my fingers — not deep, just a graze.

But it’s enough.

Enough to remind me that I’m still here.

Enough to make everything crack open — my composure, my control, the lies I’ve told myself for years.

I look around at the bodies, the broken glasses, the scattered pearls from someone’s torn necklace.

And all I can think is:

He’s alive.

He saved me.

And he never looked back.

I can barely hear over the ringing in my ears, but I think someone is shouting my name.

Dante?

My father?

I don’t answer. I don’t care.

I stand. Shake off the fear like a second skin.

Make my way back to the ballroom.

The orchestra has stopped. The crowd is stunned.

Chandeliers still sway. Glass crunches underfoot.

And there he is.

Don Vittorio.

My father walks toward me like he’s arriving late to brunch. Not a single hair out of place. Not a wrinkle on his suit.

He holds out a glass of red wine, as if it’s just another toast.

His voice is silk-wrapped poison.

“Smile, darling. You’re still the bride.”