The next evening, the family gathered again, this time for a smaller dinner among allies. The air was lighter, laughter echoing off the marble walls, but under the surface, the tension was coiled and sharp.
Marco was there, of course. He always found a way in.
He sat across from me, lounging like a king in someone else's castle. His glass never empty, his smirk never fading. The dons hung on his words, charmed by his wit, forgetting—or ignoring—the venom beneath.
But I didn't miss it.
I never did.
Then he turned his gaze to Elena.
"You must be the bride-to-be," Marco said smoothly, raising his glass to her. "Truly stunning. No wonder they're keeping you locked away with him."
The table chuckled.
Elena's jaw tightened, though she smiled politely. "And you must be the man who doesn't know when to keep his tongue still."
The table froze.
I bit back a smirk. Sharp girl.
Marco only leaned closer, resting his chin on his hand. "Fiery. I like that." His eyes flicked to me, taunting. "Tell me, cousin—do you truly believe you can tame her? Or will she burn you alive before the vows are spoken?"
The room shifted, everyone waiting for my reaction. Marco wanted me to explode, to look weak, to lose control in front of them.
Instead, I smiled coldly.
"I don't tame fire," I said, my voice cutting through the tension. "I burn with it. And men who get too close…" My gaze locked on his. "…turn to ash."
Silence.
Then Marco laughed, clapping his hands once. "Ah, there's the ghost with a backbone. Perhaps this will be fun after all."
But his eyes never left Elena.
And I knew, in that moment, this war wouldn't just be fought in boardrooms and blood.
It would be fought in the fragile space between us.