The applause faded, but the echo of his words didn't.
Seraphina's pulse still beat in her ears as Alessandro released her from the dance floor. The smile she'd kept plastered for the vultures watching slipped the second he let go of her waist.
She spun on her heel and strode away, emerald silk swishing behind her, heels sharp on marble. She didn't stop until she reached one of the terrace doors. The air outside was cooler, cleaner—free of perfume and suffocating expectation.
But not free of him.
"Running already?" His voice slid into the night before she even turned.
Alessandro leaned against the carved doorway, suit jacket unbuttoned, tie loose now, as if the formality of the evening had never applied to him. Moonlight brushed over the planes of his face, sharpening him further. He looked like sin sculpted in marble.
"I wasn't aware stepping out for air was running," she said, chin high.
"Depends on who you're running from." He stepped forward, deliberate, slow. "Your father? This crowd? Or me?"
Her laugh was sharp. "Why would I run from a man I don't even want near me?"
His smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth. "You wanted me near enough to dance."
"I was forced."
"You still didn't let go."
Her eyes narrowed. "You mistake survival for desire."
He stopped in front of her, close enough that the scent of him—dark, expensive, sharp—wrapped around her. "Maybe. Or maybe you're afraid to admit which one it really was."
She tilted her head, voice low. "Afraid? You think a girl raised in this family doesn't know what kind of man you are? Mafia heir. Blood on your hands. Power in your veins. You think that makes you intimidating?"
"I don't think," he murmured, leaning down slightly. "I know."
Her hand itched to slap that smirk right off his face. Instead, she smoothed her palm over the cold stone of the balustrade behind her. "Here's what I know, Alessandro. My father might have announced it, but I'm not yours. Not now, not ever."
The smirk faded. His eyes darkened, something sharper cutting through the amusement. "Careful, princess. Saying never to me is like dangling red in front of a bull."
"I'm not scared of horns."
"You should be scared of obsession."
Their standoff stretched, the storm of his presence pressing in on her. For a heartbeat, the air between them tightened, charged with something she didn't want to name.
Then, a voice broke the moment.
"Well, isn't this cozy."
Victor Romano stepped out from the shadows of the terrace, glass of bourbon in hand, smile too polished to be genuine. Unlike Alessandro, Victor looked like the perfect heir—sleek black tuxedo, silver cufflinks, charm carved into every movement. But his eyes were cold.
"Valenti," Victor drawled, gaze flicking between them. "Already claiming the bride before the wedding's even planned?"
"Claiming?" Seraphina snapped before Alessandro could respond. "You two speak as if I'm some object to pass around."
Victor's smile widened, predatory. "Not pass, princess. Steal."
Alessandro's body shifted, subtle but lethal, placing himself half a step in front of her. His voice dropped to something dark and quiet. "Try, Romano. I dare you."
The tension between them cut sharper than glass. The history, the rivalry, the violence that lingered just under the surface of their suits.
Seraphina's pulse thundered, not from fear but from fury. She shoved Alessandro's shoulder, forcing space between them. "Enough. Both of you."
They looked at her then—two predators acknowledging the prey that refused to cower.
"I won't be a prize in your pissing contest," she said, voice steady. "You want a war? Leave me out of it."
Victor chuckled, taking a lazy sip. "You think you can stand in the middle without getting blood on your dress? Cute."
Alessandro didn't smile. His gaze stayed locked on her, unreadable, consuming. "You can try to walk away, Seraphina. But you'll always end up back here."
"Watch me," she hissed, brushing past him, the silk of her gown catching against his suit sleeve as she pushed into the ballroom again.
Neither man stopped her. But she felt both of their stares on her back like twin daggers.
And deep down, though
she'd never admit it, she already knew—this was just the first clash.