Page 21 of Twisted Devotion

This isn’t the time to mourn. There are scores to settle. Blood to spill.

I make my way downstairs to the large drawing room where the ceremony is set to take place. The scent of flowers greets me as I enter, catching me off guard. It’s the first feminine touch this house has ever known, and the realization stirs something unfamiliar within me. I’ll have to get used to it.

The chairs are arranged in neat rows, and every detail is painstakingly prepared to lend an air of decorum to the occasion. At the front, a makeshift altar stands adorned with white lilies—simple yet striking.

The priest arrives a few moments after me, an older man with weary eyes and a face that speaks of years of burdens he’s learned not to voice. He offers a brief, polite nod before moving to his place at the altar. His gaze barely lingers on me.

I scan the room, taking in the faces. No one dares meet my eyes for too long. A scattering of extended Paolo family members, a few business partners, and—fittingly—a couple of the town’s most notorious whores. Their presence isn’t an accident; their job is to ensure word of this ‘alliance’ spreads to every ear that matters.

One of the women, tall and confident, sashays to a seat beside one of my business partners. She leans in, flashing a practiced smile, and he doesn’t waste a second. His hand slides to her bare thigh, fingers grazing her skin as she giggles softly.

I suppose more than just news will be spread today.

The room falls silent.

Aria has arrived.

She moves with deliberate grace, her back straight, chin high as if daring anyone to pity her. Her dress is simple—stark white with no lace, glitter, or frivolous adornments. The fabric clings enough to hint at her figure but remains modest, understated. Her dark hair is swept back, a few loose strands curling around her face like they’ve escaped on purpose. She doesn’t look like a bride. She looks like an offering.

And yet, she’s stunning.

The wordangelflashes through my mind before I can stop it. It tightens something in my chest, a part of me I’ve kept locked away for years. I despise the way her presence seems to soften the sharp edges I’ve worked so hard to maintain.

Marco trails behind her, dressed in a garish green suit that’s almost painful to look at. He takes his seat in the front row, a self-satisfied smirk tugging at his lips.

Stronzo.

Aria halts in front of me, her eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that feels like a dare. There’s a fire in her gaze—a defiance with no business being there, not in her position. My pulse quickens, an unwelcome response I immediately despise.

“You look…” The words slip out before I can stop them.Beautiful. The thought is sharp and intrusive, but it tastes bitter on my tongue. This is a game, nothing more—a calculated move in Marco’s plan to weaken me. She must’ve spent hours perfecting this look, knowing it would be a distraction.

I smirk instead, letting the venom seep in. “You look like you’ll play the ornament role perfectly.”

Her expression falters, just for an instant. Her lips tighten, and something flashes in her eyes—hurt, maybe. But it’s gone as quickly as it came. She lifts her chin higher, the fire in her gaze burning hotter, daring me to go further.

That fire. It should annoy me. It doesn’t.

“And you look good too, Nicolas. Black is really your color.”

The comment catches me off guard. Before I can decipher what she means by it, the priest clears his throat, dragging our attention to him.

The ceremony begins. His words drone on, meaningless and distant, but I don’t care. My focus stays on her—the tight grip on her bouquet, the faint rise and fall of her chest with every steady breath. When it’s time, I say the words I’m expected to say. So does she.

The priest declares us husband and wife.

For the sake of appearances, I don’t hesitate. I step closer and press a brief, perfunctory kiss on her lips. They’re warm—softer than I expected—but there’s no response, no flinch. Even so, I can feel the tension coiled tightly in her shoulders.

Muted applause ripples through the room as I step back.

My eyes dart to Marco, and the smug satisfaction on his face nearly undoes me. He’s basking in the glow of this arrangement, already calculating the power shift the union represents. He hasn’t spared his sister a glance. No, his focus is on the room, on the stares and whispers that confirm his elevated status.In-laws with a Paolo.

And Aria? She hasn’t looked away from him. Her gaze clings to him like a lifeline because he’s the only person here she recognizes. Strangers surround her—people who, days ago, were her family’s enemies. The one person she does know, her own brother, doesn’t care about her.

“Come with me,” I say, my voice cutting through the low hum of conversation as I turn and stride toward the door.

It takes a few seconds before I hear her footsteps behind me. Someone mutters congratulations, but after one look from me, no one else in the room dares to speak up.

I lead her through the halls, our steps echoing against the marble floors. When we reach the base of the staircase, I stop.

---