“Then we have a war to host.” —A

The room was too quiet for a man like Damon De Luca. 

Damon couldn't stay away, not anymore. It was pathetic, but ever since she waltzed back into his life, he had felt the hitch to be by her side every second. 

Aria stood near the fireplace, dressed in one big shirt–black, silk, oversized, draped across her thick thighs. For a moment he wanted the shirt to be his, he wanted it to be his shirt covering those curves. Even though the shirt was doing a poor job at hiding them. 

He closed his eyes, trying to control every dirty thought going through his mind right now, he didn't want to come off as a pervert. She held a glass of wine in one hand, unreadable. Dangerous. 

He sat in a leather chair, legs spread, tie undone, staring at her like she was something sacred and volatile.

“You haven't said anything.” She murmured.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Because I'm trying not to say the wrong thing.”

Her gaze flicked to his. “Try me.”

He took a slow breath. “Last night at the gala–you made them bleed, Red. With a smile on your face and your dress still pristine. That's not vengeance. That's art and it was hot as fuck.” He couldn't help but add. 

She tilted her head. “You didn't come for poetry. What do you want say?”

Damon stood and crossed the space between them in three long strides. He took the glass from her hand and set it aside. 

Then, he pulled out a small velvet box from his inner jacket pocket. 

Aria blinked. 

“Three days are over, sweetheart.”

“You're not proposing.” 

“I'm not,” he said. “I'm declaring.”

He opened the box. 

Inside was a black diamond ring, nestled in deep red velvet. 

“No churches. No kneeling,” he said. “This isn't for love. This is protection. Power. Territory. You wear this–no one touches you again. Not Dominic. Not Sienna. Not the council. Not even me….without permission.”

She stared at it. Not blinking. 

“Think of it as a war crown,” he added, voice low. 

“What do I have to do in return?” She asked. 

Damon's eyes darkened. 

“Stand beside me,” he said. “And help me break the world.”

The silence between them crackled. 

She reached out. Picked up the ring. Slid it onto her finger. 

A perfect fit. 

“I guess we have a war to host.” She said, eyes gleaming 

***

Two days later, the La Serpe Nera ballroom was lit like a cathedral dipped in gold. 

Power dripped from the walls. Every Mafia clan, family and foreign syndicate of worth had sent someone. The invitation had been simple. 

———

THE GRIM REAPER WILL SPEAK. 

———

Damon stood at the top of a small platform, dressed in a midnight Black suit, no tie, cuffs rolled up. His hair slicked back, jaw shadowed in stubble. His glasses stuck on his perfect face. And his beautiful hands adorned with jewelry. Aria stood beside him in a dark red gown–form fitting, floor-length, sharp as a dagger. 

With his black and red diamond ring shinning on her finger. 

Whispers followed her wherever she went. 

Behind them stood La Serpe’s elite enforcers, like status carved from smoke and steel. No one dared challenge their presence.

The lights dimmed. 

A spotlight hit the stage. 

Damon stepped forward.

“Good evening.” 

Silence.

Everyone listened when death himself spoke. 

“Tonight.” He began, “is not about business. Not about blood. It's about truth.” 

He looked out at the crowd–faces pale, expectant, hungry. 

“For too long, alliances have been broken, honor sold, and power handed to weak men hiding behind their father's names. That ends tonight.” 

The crowd murmured 

Damon turned to Aria. 

Then back to the room.

“I'd like to introduce you to my next war partner. My Queen. The future of La Serpe Nera.”

He reached out and took Aria’s band. 

“I'd like to officially announce my engagement to Aria Sidorov.”

Gasps. 

The camera clicked. The crowd erupted. 

Aria didn't flinch. She didn't blink. 

She just smiled. 

The perfect, terrifying smile of a woman who had risen from her grave to reclaim the empire that was denied her. 

Across the city, Dominic Russo dropped his glass. It shattered on the floor, red wine spilling across white marble like fresh blood. 

The TV screen on the wall showed a close-up of Aria in that dress, standing next to Damon. 

Her smile. 

Her ring. 

Her name. 

Sienna sat on the arm of the couch, her face frozen in horror.

“Dominic….”

But he wasn't listening. 

He walked toward the TV like it might speak to him directly. 

His phone buzzed. 

One message. 

From Aria. 

—————

Congratulations, you just lost to the grim reaper, and the grim reaper just got a bride. I'm sure you know what happens next…..

—————

He let out a sound–low, hollow, almost a laugh. And then?

He punched the screen straight through the glass. 

The screen shattered. 

And so did he.