Vows Written In Blood

The Wedding of the Year

Venice was drowning in gold.

Golden lights reflected against the dark canals, luxury yachts floated near the private docks, and every major news channel in Italy had only one topic tonight—The Wedding of Alessandro Moretti.

Evelyn Carter stared at the massive headline displayed across her laptop screen while makeup artists rushed around the luxury hotel suite behind her.

“Seriously,” her coworker Olivia muttered while fixing an earring, “why does a mafia billionaire look like a literal runway model?”

Evelyn barely glanced up.

“He’s not a mafia billionaire.”

Olivia gave her a look.

“Right. And I’m the Queen of England.”

Evelyn sighed softly, closing the article.

Rumors followed Alessandro Moretti everywhere.

Some called him Italy’s most powerful businessman.

Others called him something far darker.

But officially?

Nothing had ever been proven.

And honestly, Evelyn didn’t care enough to investigate.

She wasn’t in Italy for crime stories.

She was here because Veloura Magazine—one of the biggest luxury lifestyle magazines in America—had somehow secured exclusive media access to the wedding.

Which meant:

photographs,

interviews,

celebrity coverage,

and pretending wealthy people were fascinating.

Normal work.

At least, that’s what she thought.

“Evelyn.”

She looked up toward her editor, Marcus, who stood near the suite doorway adjusting his tie impatiently.

“Tonight matters,” he reminded her seriously. “This wedding is international news. I need professionalism.”

“You say that like I usually commit crimes at work.”

“You insult billionaires at work.”

“That too.”

Marcus ignored her immediately.

“The Moretti family is extremely private. No unnecessary questions. No wandering into restricted areas. No provoking security.”

Olivia snorted.

“He’s talking directly to you.”

Evelyn rolled her eyes.

“I’m a journalist, not a criminal.”

Marcus pointed toward her camera bag.

“Just get elegant photos, maybe a statement from the bride, and try not to accidentally offend Italy’s most powerful family.”

“Very comforting speech.”

“Thank you.”

Thirty minutes later, Evelyn stepped out of the black luxury car in front of the Moretti estate.

And immediately understood why the internet was obsessed with this wedding.

The mansion looked unreal.

Massive white marble stairs curved toward enormous iron doors while fountains glittered beneath moonlight. Thousands of candles illuminated the property alongside white roses imported from France.

Everything screamed old money.

Old power.

Security surrounded the estate heavily.

Men in black suits stood near every entrance wearing discreet earpieces while luxury cars continued arriving endlessly.

Politicians.

Actors.

Models.

European royalty.

The guest list looked less like a wedding and more like a gathering of the world’s elite.

“Jesus,” Olivia whispered beside her. “This place looks like it belongs to a king.”

Maybe it did.

A woman from the Moretti PR team greeted them immediately with a polished smile.

“Welcome to the Moretti estate. Mr. Moretti appreciates your attendance tonight.”

Evelyn noticed the careful wording.

Not warm.

Professional.

Controlled.

Everything here felt controlled.

As they entered the ballroom, Evelyn instinctively slowed slightly.

The room was breathtaking.

Crystal chandeliers reflected across polished marble floors while a live orchestra played softly near the grand staircase. Waiters moved gracefully through crowds carrying champagne and expensive wine.

But beneath all the beauty—

something felt strangely cold.

No one laughed loudly.

No one relaxed fully.

It almost felt like everyone here was performing.

Evelyn quietly lifted her camera, capturing the atmosphere naturally.

Click.

“Focus on the bride,” Marcus whispered near her. “Magazine readers love romance.”

Romance.

Right.

Evelyn scanned the ballroom until she finally spotted the future Mrs. Moretti near a group of socialites.

Beautiful blonde hair.

Diamond necklace.

Perfect smile.

But her expression changed the moment photographers turned away.

Cold irritation replaced the performance instantly.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

Evelyn lifted her camera again discreetly.

That was when the entire ballroom suddenly quieted.

Not completely.

Just enough for people to notice someone important had entered.

Evelyn lowered the camera slowly.

And saw him.

Alessandro Moretti.

For one strange second, Evelyn understood internet obsession perfectly.

The man looked less human and more like something carefully designed to intimidate people.

Tall.

Broad shoulders.

Black tailored suit.

Sharp jawline.

Power followed him effortlessly.

But it was his face that unsettled her most.

Completely expressionless.

No arrogance.

No fake charm.

Nothing.

He moved through the ballroom calmly while guests greeted him carefully, almost respectfully afraid.

And Alessandro acknowledged them with brief nods before continuing forward.

Like someone used to obedience.

Evelyn studied him quietly through her camera lens.

The rumors suddenly felt believable.

Not because he looked violent.

Because he looked emotionally unreachable.

A man impossible to truly know.

Then unexpectedly—

a small child ran into his legs.

The entire atmosphere shifted.

Alessandro immediately looked down.

A little boy with messy dark curls hugged his leg tightly while holding a stuffed lion.

Maybe three years old.

“Papa.”

The child’s sleepy voice somehow echoed louder than the orchestra.

And for the very first time—

Alessandro Moretti’s expression changed.

Not dramatically.

Just slightly softer around the eyes.

But Evelyn noticed.

Because photographers noticed everything.

Alessandro crouched briefly, adjusting the tiny bowtie around the boy’s neck with surprising patience.

“You should be upstairs, Leo.”

The child ignored the instruction completely.

Typical toddler behavior.

Evelyn almost smiled slightly while taking another photo instinctively.

Click.

This time—

Alessandro looked up immediately.

Directly at her.

Her breath caught unexpectedly.

Gray eyes.

Cold enough to freeze entire conversations.

For one uncomfortable moment, Alessandro simply watched her through the crowd while Evelyn held her camera awkwardly between them.

No smile.

No acknowledgment.

Just observation.

Then—

someone touched his arm.

The fiancée.

Her polished smile returned instantly for nearby guests, but Evelyn noticed the annoyance flash across the woman’s face when little Leo wrapped both arms around Alessandro again.

And strangely—

Alessandro moved the child slightly behind him.

Protective.

Automatic.

Evelyn’s fingers paused against her camera.

Interesting.

Not sweet.

Not emotional.

Just…

interesting.

Then Marcus suddenly appeared beside her.

“Did you get good shots?”