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The moment I see him, something inside me cracks. A sob tears free from my throat before I can stop it, raw and desperate.

His eyes find mine instantly. Full of empathy. Of sorrow. And tenderness I didn’t realize I was starving for.

It’s like air after drowning. A single island in a sea of hatred.

I see Dante’s head turn sharply at the sound. See his eyes shift from me to Bruno—and then darken with something lethal… murderous.

The temperature in the room drops like a stone.

But Bruno doesn’t look away from me, and for one breath, one heartbeat, I let myself believe that at least one person still sees me as worth saving.

The judge clears his throat, pulling the room’s attention back to him.

“We are here today to adjudicate accusations of espionage, betrayal, and conspiracy within a criminal organization against another famiglia,” Judge Rizzo announces clearly. His voice is deep and unwavering. “Punishable, traditionally, by death.”

My stomach twists violently.

Salvatore lifts a hand almost lazily. “Naturally, we expect?—”

“Don Salvatore,” Rizzo interrupts coldly, “you are not presiding here. I am. And Mr. Forzi has already made his request known.”

He gestures to Dante without looking.

Dante steps forward, his voice like a gunshot. “Marriage.” The word falls heavy and brutal.

My father shrugs, disinterested. “Whatever you decide. I won’t fight it.”

Not even a second thought. Not even a shred of loyalty to his own daughter.

Just like that… discarded.

I straighten my spine, something hard and broken stitching me together.

The judge turns to me, his face unreadable.

“Miss Mori,” he says quietly. “You have the right to speak before I pronounce judgment. What do you have to say for yourself?”

My throat feels raw. My body trembles, but I lift my chin. They will not see me break down.

“I’ll marry him,” I say. “But I want it written into the marriage contract exactly what Mr. Forzi said.”

The room goes still… deadly still.

I look straight at the judge, ignoring the ripple of disbelief, ignoring the way my father mutters a curse under his breath.

“He said I would be his nanny. His maid. His whore. Nothing more. I want this to be added to my obligation.”

Even Salvatore shifts uncomfortably, and my father looks stunned.

And for the first time since I entered the room, Dante doesn’t look hateful. He looks confused. A crack in his stone-cold mask.

The judge leans back slowly in his chair.

“Miss Mori… I don’t think it’s wise to put that kind of language into a binding legal document.”

“I want to,” I say, more firmly now. “It’s important.”

He studies me for a long moment. Then says quietly to the room, “Leave us.”

There’s a murmur of protest, but one look from Judge Rizzo has them all backing out, one by one, until it’s just him and me.

The door clicks shut behind the others. Silence falls, and slowly, the judge’s mask slips.

His mouth softens. His shoulders lower, the stern, cold enforcer disappearing—revealing only the man beneath.

“I’m sorry, Francesca,” he says quietly, using my real name now. “Truly.”

The sound of it, spoken with sadness instead of accusation, almost undoes me.

I exhale a shaky breath and lower myself into the chair in front of his desk, the fight draining out of me all at once.

“Don’t be,” I whisper. “You’re doing what you have to do.”

He studies me for a long moment. His eyes, so often cold in court, are warm now. Pained.

“You have a good heart,” he says, his voice thick. “You always have. Don't let them strip you of it.”

A lump rises in my throat so fast I can barely swallow it down because once, years ago, when I was just a teenager, lost and angry but not yet broken, I met his daughter.

Sweet, shy, bright-eyed Anika, with her Down syndrome and her unmatched laugh. The girl no one else wanted to sit with at lunch.

I didn’t sit with her because I felt sorry for her. I sat with her because she was kind and funny. And somehow, all these years later, he remembers.

He remembers that girl. Not the spy. Not the pawn. Just… me .

He shakes his head slowly, the weight of it like an invisible chain between us.

“How did they convince you to do this?” he asks.

I wave my hand dismissively, hollow humor scraping my chest. “I’m just trading one prison for another.”

He exhales sharply, a sound full of frustration and helplessness. “I can’t get you out of this,” he admits.

I nod, already knowing. “You shouldn’t,” I say softly. “You have to stay impartial.”

His mouth presses into a grim line.

“But I’m begging you,” he says, leaning forward, desperation bleeding into his voice. “Don’t add those words into the marriage contract. If you do, Francesca… I won’t be able to protect you.”

I offer him a small, broken smile. “You never could, Mister Rizzo,” I whisper.

“I’m a woman in a repugnant world. You can’t stop marital rape.

You can’t stop a husband’s hand if he decides to break his wife’s ribs.

” My voice cracks, but I force the words out anyway.

“I know because I’ve seen it happen. Over and over. ”

He looks away then, his shoulders sagging under the kind of defeat that doesn’t come from age but from bearing witness to too much cruelty for too long.

For a moment, the room is silent except for the sound of my breathing—shallow, fractured, and brave in all the wrong ways.

Finally, he turns back to me. His mouth tightens.

“What would it do, exactly, if I added that?” he asks quietly.

“If we spell it out,” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady, “that I’m not to fulfill any wifely duties…

he can’t demand a child from me, right? I could take contraception without breaking my oath.

I wouldn’t have to attend his tedious parties.

I wouldn’t have to entertain. I could stay in the shadows.

” I smile, but there’s no joy in it. “Just the domestic help. Nothing more.”

He twists his mouth, considering. “I suppose… but you understand what that means, don’t you?” he says carefully. “You’ll have none of the privileges of a wife. No financial guarantees. No social standing. No protections. Nothing.”

I shrug. “That was never the plan anyway.”

He lets out a long, heavy sigh. “I still think it’s a terrible idea,” he mutters.

I nod because I know it, too, but the alternative is far worse.

“I would rather be his nanny, his maid, and his whore,” I say, my voice low but clear, “than have him force a child on me if he ever feels like it. I won’t bring a life into this world just to sentence it to the same cage I live in.”

He flinches at the word whore , visibly pained, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he nods, defeat lining every inch of him.

And just like that, the last shred of illusion is gone. This is survival. Bare, brutal survival.

“I’ll assign you a guard,” he says finally.

“And before you argue”—he lifts a hand—“it’s within my rights. I’ve done it before. When there’s a blood debt between famiglia and a forced marriage, sometimes it’s necessary. It’s precedent. ”

I stare at him, too hollow to even muster anger. “Who would even want to protect me?” I whisper. “I’m nothing. Less than nothing.”

He meets my eyes squarely. “Bruno Bianchi.”

I laugh. A cracked, broken sound that escapes before I can stop it. “This is ridiculous. He’s my father’s main guard. His right hand. My father would never let him go. And Bruno…” My voice fractures. “Bruno would never… He wouldn’t throw his life away like that.”

Judge Rizzo’s mouth tightens. His next words are quiet. “He asked me.”

The world tilts sideways for a moment. Bruno asked.

Not because of duty. Not because of orders. Because of me .

For the first time all day, something close to warmth presses against the icy grief strangling my heart.

“My father would never agree.”

It’s Rizzo’s turn to smile—cold and ruthless. “Too bad he doesn’t have a say.” His gaze softens just slightly. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Absolutely not. “Yes,” I lie.

He presses a button on his desk, and the heavy door opens. All the men file back in, their faces pulled tight with irritation and impatience.

“What took you so long?” my father mutters under his breath.

But Judge Rizzo is already back in character, the iron-fisted judge the famiglia fear.

“What did you say, Mr. Mori? It's not too late to punish the Vescari family for clearly organizing this betrayal. ”

Don Salvatore shoots my father a look sharp enough to cut steel, and my father, coward that he is, drops his gaze immediately.

“Very well,” Rizzo says. “I spoke with the accused and agreed to add the additional wording to the marriage contract.”

“Is it truly necessary?” It's Dante’s voice that cuts through the room—cold, measured. And somehow, it still startles me.

“Why? Did you not say those words to her?” Rizzo asks, his voice even.

“I did,” Dante answers without hesitation.

“Do you intend to treat her as such?”

I can't help it. I glance at Dante, desperate, searching for something, anything that might save me. For one heartbeat, I swear I see uncertainty flicker across his face. But when he meets my eyes again, the hate is back, carved deep and unforgiving.

“Undoubtedly,” he says.

The finality in his tone punches the air from my lungs.

“Very well,” Rizzo says crisply. “The wording will be added.” He glances down at the heavy contract spread across the desk. “And I will also assign a Vescari guard to Miss Mori for her protection. Any objections?”

The room falls silent, the tension thick enough to choke on.

Rizzo nods. “Very well. Bruno Bianchi, you will be moving to the Forzi estate with?—”

“Absolutely not!” The words explode from Dante before anyone else can react. His voice, deep and furious, shatters the uneasy stillness.

Rizzo’s brows lift in quiet amusement. “I thought you had no objections.”

“Not him,” Dante spits, venom coating every syllable.

I frown. What the hell is his problem with Bruno?

My father steps forward quickly, eager to salvage his pride. “Yes, I agree. Bruno is essential to my security. I can't spare him.”

“Can’t,” Rizzo muses aloud, voice dripping with mockery. “ Or won’t ?”

The silence that follows is damning.

“He will agree if that’s what you decide, Judge,” Don Salvatore says smoothly, shooting my father a look that could peel flesh from bone.

“Of course,” my father agrees quickly.

“Very well. Bruno Bianchi,” Rizzo confirms.

“I said no.” Dante’s voice cuts through the room again, sharper this time, darker. A warning in every syllable.

Rizzo doesn’t even look up from the document he’s writing on. “And I’ve decided to ignore you because, Signor Forzi , this is not your decision.”

The dismissal is so casual it leaves the room vibrating with silent rage.

“Bruno Bianchi will move into the Forzi estate immediately after the wedding,” Rizzo continues, flipping to a fresh page without missing a beat. “The wedding itself will be in one week’s time. More than enough.” He glances at the calendar, tapping the date once with the end of his pen.

“Of course,” he adds dryly, “no church. I would not wish to blaspheme the Lord Father with such a sham of a union.”

The insult is deliberate and meant to humiliate Dante. To remind all of us where the real power still lies when it matters.

The tension in the room coils tighter, so thick it’s almost unbearable. I can feel Dante’s fury radiating off him like a heatwave, but he says nothing. He just stands there, a silent, seething storm.

And me? I sit perfectly still. Silent. A broken doll waiting to be dressed up and paraded down the aisle.

Rizzo finally sets his pen down with a soft click. The finality of the sound rings louder than a gunshot in the tense room.

He lifts the papers and extends them toward me. “Sign.”

My fingers tremble, but I force them steady as I take the contract. The pen feels heavier than it should, a weapon and a chain all in one.

I don’t look at anyone. Not my father, not Don Salvatore, not even Dante.

Especially not Dante.

I lower my gaze to the paper and sign. One stroke. Then another. Each loop of my signature carves another piece of my freedom away.

When it’s done, I slide it back toward Rizzo.

He gives a short nod, no triumph in it, no cruelty. Just the cold necessity of a man doing what must be done to survive in a world that chews up the weak and spits them out.

"It’s done," he says quietly, and I hear the faintest echo of regret under the iron in his voice.

I rise when Rizzo gestures, and one of the guards immediately flanks me.

The room remains heavy with silence, broken only when Rizzo speaks again, voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

“Prepare for your wedding, Signorina Mori .” I turn my head slightly, catching Dante’s profile, stone carved from rage and betrayal, and I realize there is no forgiveness coming. No redemption.

Only survival.

I walk out of the judge’s office with my head high, my body shaking on the inside, and my heart dying one beat at a time.

Because from now on, there will be no more Francesca Mori.

Only the nanny.

The maid.

The whore.

Dante Forzi’s possession. And if I want to survive him… I have to become everything he thinks I already am.