Prologue

Prologue – The Exhange

The rain poured down in thin, silver threads, soaking the cobblestone streets of Florence. Thunder rolled far in the distance, and the headlights of a black Rolls-Royce sliced through the mist like blades.

Inside the car sat Zaria Rossi, hands folded tightly in her lap. Her nails dug faint crescents into her palms as she tried not to tremble. The sound of rain was steady, cruelly calm — too calm for what her heart was feeling.

She looked at her reflection in the window. Her face looked pale and unfamiliar, framed by dark hair pulled into a neat bun. The dress her stepfather made her wear — soft beige silk, simple yet modest — clung to her like something borrowed.

Across from her sat her stepfather, Marco Rossi, his expression restless and nervous. He kept fidgeting with his tie, whispering curses under his breath.

Zaria’s voice finally broke the silence.

> “Why are we going to him, Father?”

Marco didn’t look at her. “You’ll know soon enough.”

> “You said he’s dangerous.”

He flinched. “That’s exactly why we don’t keep him waiting.”

Her chest tightened. Dangerous. The word echoed in her mind like a warning. She’d heard stories — whispers, really — about Ryan Moretti. The Italian Mafia King. Cold, unpredictable, merciless. The kind of man people feared to even mention by name.

When the car stopped, Zaria’s pulse spiked. Through the glass, she saw an iron gate opening slowly — the symbol of the Moretti crest carved into it, a roaring lion with a crown.

The mansion beyond it was vast and dark, perched on the edge of the cliffs overlooking the stormy sea. The lightning illuminated its towering arches, black marble pillars, and tall windows that looked like watchful eyes.

Zaria stepped out, the cold rain instantly soaking her hair and shoulders. She clutched her shawl tighter as they were led inside by a silent guard.

The moment she entered, she felt it — his presence.

The grand hall was lit by golden chandeliers. At the far end, behind a massive mahogany desk, sat Ryan Moretti.

He didn’t need to stand to command the room. He simply existed — and everyone else bent around his gravity.

He wore a black shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to his forearms, showing the veins and power beneath. His eyes — cold, steel-grey — lifted when Zaria entered. For a moment, she thought she saw curiosity in them… before it vanished.

> “Mr. Moretti,” Marco began, voice trembling. “You said you wanted to see me.”

Ryan leaned back in his chair, swirling the glass of scotch in his hand lazily.

> “You’re late, Rossi.”

Marco swallowed. “Traffic—”

> “Don’t insult me.” Ryan’s tone was quiet but sharp enough to make Zaria flinch. “You’ve been late paying me for three months. I don’t tolerate delays.”

He stood up, and even though he wasn’t much taller than most men, something about him felt larger — heavier, dangerous.

Ryan set the glass down and walked closer, his gaze flicking to Zaria. “This is your daughter?”

Marco nodded quickly. “Yes, Zaria. She’s… she’s a good girl.”

> “She’ll need to be.”

Zaria looked up, startled by the sound of his voice directed at her.

It was deep — low, rough, and oddly mesmerizing.

> “How old are you?” he asked.

“Twenty-four,” she replied softly.

He studied her for a moment. Then, to Marco:

> “You owe me five million euros.”

Marco’s hands shook. “Please, Ryan, I just need a little—”

> “You’ve run out of little.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.

Ryan turned his gaze back to Zaria. She felt like prey under the stare of a predator — curious, assessing, but not cruel. Not yet.

> “You have one thing left to offer,” Ryan said. “And I don’t take anything I don’t own.”

Zaria frowned, confusion flickering in her eyes.

> “What do you mean?”

He smiled faintly — not kind, not mocking, just cold.

> “You’ll marry me.”

Her heart stopped.

> “What?”

He stepped closer, so close she could smell his cologne — something dark and expensive, like smoke and whiskey.

> “Your father’s debt will be cleared the moment you take my name.”

Marco exhaled in visible relief, but Zaria took a step back, shaking her head.

> “You can’t— you can’t just decide that.”

Ryan tilted his head slightly. “I can. And I did.”

> “Why me?” she asked, voice trembling.

> “Because you were offered.”

Her father reached out to touch her shoulder, whispering, “Zaria, please—this is for the best. You’ll be safe with him.”

Safe? She looked at Ryan again — his expression unreadable, his eyes dark as the storm outside — and felt anything but safe.

Ryan’s tone softened just a fraction, his voice a low growl.

> “Don’t worry, cara mia. I don’t break what I own.”

She didn’t know if that was a promise or a warning.

He turned away, signaling to his men. “Prepare the papers. The wedding will be tomorrow morning. She’ll stay here tonight.”

Zaria’s pulse raced.

> “No! I can’t— I need time—”

Ryan turned back, his eyes narrowing.

> “Time?” He walked up to her again, close enough that her breath hitched. “Your father had time. He wasted it.”

She looked at her stepfather in shock — but Marco avoided her gaze, his guilt written across his face.

Ryan’s tone dropped to a whisper near her ear.

> “I don’t like repeating myself, Zaria. You’ll find I’m a man of my word — and my word is law.”

He straightened, and just like that, the conversation was over.

The guards led Marco out, and Zaria stood frozen in the middle of the grand hall, her chest rising and falling in panicked breaths.

Ryan paused at the door and turned back once more, his gaze meeting hers.

> “Get some rest. Tomorrow, you become a Moretti.”

And then he was gone.

Zaria’s knees nearly gave out. She sank onto the cold marble floor, the reality of her fate crashing over her like the storm outside.

She was no longer Zaria Rossi.

She was a debt.

A possession.

A bride sold to the devil.

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