The chandeliers glittered like frozen stars, dripping diamonds over the ballroom. Gold-trimmed walls, white roses everywhere, champagne flutes clinking, and a thousand eyes watching. A celebration of power disguised as a wedding.
Seraphina Morelli had grown up around wealth, but tonight's display reeked of something more than old money elegance—it was excess, indulgence, and politics wrapped in silk and sin.
Her father stood at the center of it all, basking in the glow of his creation. The bride and groom barely mattered; this wasn't their night. This was a merger. A carefully arranged alliance between two dynasties that thrived on whispered deals and blood under manicured nails.
Seraphina sipped champagne, even though it made her stomach twist. She hated these events—women flashing diamonds like trophies, men circling each other with polite smiles hiding sharpened teeth.
"Smile, darling," her mother murmured at her side, fingers digging into her wrist. "People are watching."
"I'd rather they didn't," Seraphina muttered.
"Then give them something better than that frown." Her mother glided away, leaving behind her perfume and expectations.
Seraphina exhaled, adjusting the strap of her gown. It was custom-made, emerald silk that clung to her like sin, chosen not for her but for her family's statement: look at our daughter, look at our wealth, look at what we own.
She hated it.
And then she saw him.
Across the ballroom, standing apart from the crowd as though the chaos bent around him. Black suit, sharp lines, shoulders cut from stone. He wasn't laughing, wasn't smiling, wasn't pretending like the rest of them. His presence was too heavy for pretense.
Alessandro Valenti.
She didn't need an introduction; everyone knew him. Son of a mafia empire that made even old money families tread carefully. Power clung to him like another layer of clothing. Dangerous, magnetic, lethal.
Their eyes met, and something in her chest stuttered. Not attraction—no, not that. Something colder. Recognition. As though he already knew too much about her.
He didn't look away.
Neither did she.
"Don't," her cousin Isabella hissed at her side, following her line of sight. "That's Alessandro Valenti. He's… not for us."
"Why?" Seraphina asked softly, though her pulse already knew the answer.
"Because he's fire," Isabella said. "And we're not supposed to burn."
Seraphina smirked faintly, setting her glass down. "Maybe I want to."
Before Isabella could respond, her father's voice boomed over the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for gathering tonight in celebration of this union. But I have another announcement."
The ballroom quieted. Every whisper silenced.
Seraphina's stomach dropped. Her father never improvised.
"It's time the Morelli name joined with a legacy equally strong," he said, his gaze sweeping the room before settling directly on her. "My daughter, Seraphina, is to be engaged to Alessandro Valenti."
The words struck like gunfire.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Whispers surged, hissing like serpents. Old money and mafia. Oil and fire.
Seraphina's blood turned to ice.
No.
No.
Her gaze snapped to Alessandro. He hadn't moved, hadn't flinched. Only one brow lifted slightly, as if amused by the chaos his name had just detonated.
Seraphina's heels clicked sharply against marble as she strode across the ballroom. Straight to her father. Straight into war.
"What the hell was that?" she hissed under her breath, smile plastered on her face for the watching crowd.
"An announcement," he said smoothly.
"An ambush," she corrected. "You had no right—"
"I have every right," her father cut her off, grip tightening on her arm. "This is bigger than you, Seraphina. You'll play your part."
"Over my dead body," she snapped.
Her father's eyes hardened. "Don't tempt me."
A shadow fell over them. She didn't need to turn to know who it was.
"Problem?" Alessandro's voice was silk over steel, smooth but carrying the weight of command.
Seraphina turned, glaring up at him. He was taller up close, broader, colder. His dark eyes bored into her with a mix of curiosity and something darker.
"Yes," she said, her tone clipped. "The problem is you."
A faint smirk touched his lips. "You wound me."
She leaned closer, her whisper venomous. "You'll wish I'd kill you before this engagement happens."
His gaze dropped briefly to her lips before meeting her eyes again. He didn't look threatened. If anything, he looked entertained.
"Careful, princess," he murmured. "Threats sound like foreplay when they come from your mouth."
Her breath hitched—not from desire but from fury. He was insufferable. Arrogant. Dangerous.
And she was trapped.
Her father's grip tightened again. "Dance with him."
"What?"
"Now."
Before she could protest, Alessandro offered his hand. She considered refusing, but too many eyes watched, waiting for a scandal. Her reputation was already a leash—she couldn't tighten it herself.
So she placed her hand in his.
Electricity shot through her veins the moment their skin touched.
He led her to the dance floor, the orchestra striking up a waltz as though the universe conspired against her. His hand rested on her waist, firm, possessive. Too close. Too much.
"You don't look happy," he murmured as they moved.
"Because I'm not."
"Don't worry," he said, leaning down just enough that only she could hear. "Happiness was never part of the deal."
Her nails dug into his shoulder through the fabric of his suit. "Neither was my consent."
His smirk returned. "Consent is overrated."
Her jaw clenched. "You're a bastard."
"Maybe. But I'll be your bastard soon."
She wanted to slap him. She wanted to scream. Instead, she danced, each step precise, controlled, graceful. Because if the world expected her to play a part, she'd play it perfectly—even if it killed her.
As the dance ended, applause rose around them. To the crowd, they looked flawless—an elegant couple, destined for power.
But as Alessandro leaned close, his lips brushing her ear, his words burned colder
than the storm gathering in her chest.
"This is the beginning, Seraphina," he whispered. "And I always finish what I start."