The chandelier above her head dripped crystals like teardrops—frozen, suspended, unable to fall.
Sophia didn't look up.
She had learned years ago that opulence was a trap. You could line the walls in silk, polish every inch of marble until it gleamed like ice, and still feel like you were suffocating in a coffin too beautiful to bury. The Moretti estate had always felt that way. Grand. Silent. Unliving.
She moved slowly through the corridor, heels whispering against stone. The portraits watched her pass. Men with silver eyes and unsmiling mouths. Her grandfather, his father, all carved into oil and arrogance. The Moretti legacy.
Her inheritance.
Or her sentence.
She paused outside the study. Adjusted her posture. Not her dress. Her father didn't care what she wore, only that she wore the face he'd crafted. Composed. Elegant. Contained. Every emotion filed away like dangerous evidence.
The door was already open. That was the message.
Miguel Moretti sat behind the desk that had belonged to his father, and his father before that. A cigar smoldered in cut crystal beside him, the smoke curling around his head like a halo made of ash. He didn't look up.
"Sophia."
She stepped inside.
"I wasn't aware I was expected today," she said softly.
"You're always expected."
The room smelled like cedar, smoke, and old secrets. No windows. No softness. Everything was leather, iron, and shadow. Even the light felt like an intrusion, filtering through a high vent, slicing across the floor in narrow golden bars.
She didn't sit. She knew better.
He finally looked at her.
Not with affection.
It had never been affection.
He looked at her like a man assessing weight and worth.
"You've been quiet," he said.
She tilted her head. "Is that a criticism?"
"An observation."
He tapped the ash off his cigar, pushed a slim black folder toward her.
"Sit."
She didn't move.
"I need you to listen carefully."
That got her attention. Miguel didn't ask for attention. He seized it.
"You're going to marry Dante Rizzoli."
The words landed like a blade.
No preamble. No pretense.
Sophia didn't flinch. Didn't speak. She let silence stretch between them until it strained.
"That's bold," she said finally. "Considering."
"It's necessary."
"And the rumors?" she asked. "The disappearances? The dead fiancée?"
"Rumors are part of power."
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "So is fear."
Miguel exhaled smoke through his nose. "Dante isn't the enemy. Not yet. But if we don't give him reason to stay loyal—if we don't anchor him—he becomes one."
Sophia's gaze flicked to the folder.
"Because of Rachael?"
The name slipped into the air like a ghost.
Miguel said nothing.
She took a step closer. "Or is this about the war coming?"
Still, silence.
She exhaled. "I'm not her."
"No," he said. "But you're what we have left."
The room held its breath.
"If you don't do this," Miguel continued, "Dante will burn everything. You. Me. Alessia. Our name."
"So give him something else."
"There is nothing else."
He stood now, voice quiet but final. "You are the only thing left worth trading."
It didn't hurt.
It just confirmed everything she'd always suspected.
That she wasn't a daughter.
She was a dowry with good posture.
She sat, slow and deliberate. Crossed her legs.
"Then I want full control of the estate accounts in my name."
Miguel's eyes sharpened. "You think this is a negotiation?"
"I know it is."
He studied her like something that had grown teeth while he wasn't looking.
Dusk painted the sky in blood and fire. Sophia didn't look up. She kept her eyes on the gravel drive where Alessia waited, leaned against the car with arms folded.
"You look like someone just handed you your death certificate," Alessia said.
"They did."
Sophia opened the door. Slid in. The engine hummed to life.
"So?"
"I'm to be wed," Sophia said. "To a monster."
Alessia frowned. "That narrows it down."
"Dante Rizzoli."
Silence.
Alessia didn't curse. She just exhaled.
"Your father—"
"Is protecting what's his."
"And you?"
Sophia looked out the window. The vineyards blurred past.
"I'm what's his."
She didn't turn on the lights when she got home. Didn't need to. The villa was muscle memory. Shadows were familiar.
She peeled off her dress like a surgeon might peel back skin. Sat in the bath without candles. The water was too hot. It burned.
She stayed.
Somewhere, a girl named Rachael had once worn a ring from Dante Rizzoli.
And now, that girl was dead.
Sophia had never met her.
But she would inherit her silence.
She let herself sink, eyes open, breath held.
If she was going to be a pawn, she'd be the last one they ever moved.
And maybe—just maybe—she'd turn the board over before they ever saw it coming.