Forced marriage

The yellowish light from the crystal chandeliers reflected off the wine glasses and silver cutlery arranged with surgical precision on the long mahogany table. The luxurious restaurant, reserved exclusively for that evening, smelled of expensive cigars, imported perfume, and the suffocating weight of wedding rings exchanged in the shadows.

On one side of the table, the patriarchs conversed in hushed tones, sealing an agreement involving territories, millions in merchandise, and a truce in a silent war that had lasted for years. On the other side, oblivious to the restrained laughter and feigned cordiality, sat Damian Ricco.

With his impeccably dark tailored suit and erect posture, he adjusted the buttons on his cuffs with icy calm. Damian's dark, unreadable gaze swept across the room, laden with that dangerous aura of someone who doesn't need to raise his voice to assert authority. He hated every second of this charade. To Damian, this marriage was nothing more than a convenient business transaction, a calculated blood alliance. He didn't want a wife, much less distractions.