The invitation arrived in a black envelope, heavy as though it carried more than a piece of paper.
Isabella Moretti held it in her hands, her fingers tracing the gold-embossed crest she had only ever seen in whispered rumors "A serpent coiled around a dagger, crowned by laurel leave, The seal of the Vitelli family".
Her father hadn't even opened it. He had left it on the kitchen table, face pale, hands trembling when he muttered, "It's for you."
Isabella didn't need him to explain. Everyone in Florence knew the Vitelli name. Old money. New blood. An empire that stretched from fashion houses to shipping lines and beneath the silk, darker currents of power that flowed in bullets and blood.
The words inside were short, cold, and absolute:
"You are cordially invited to the Vitelli Gala, this Saturday evening, at the Palazzo della Luna".
There was no RSVP. No refusal.
She should have torn it apart. Should have burned it and walked away. But her father's debts weren't the kind that could be paid in installments. When the mafia sent an invitation, it wasn't a choice. It was a summons.
-------The Day------
The Palazzo della Luna glittered under the night sky like a palace carved from starlight. Chandeliers spilled golden light across marble floors; champagne flowed like water. Men in tailored suits spoke in hushed tones, their eyes sharp with calculation. Women in gowns glittered like jewels on display, laughter ringing false.
Isabella felt like an intruder in her simple black dress. She had sewn it herself, the last project she finished before closing her tiny boutique. The shop she had dreamed would make her name. The shop that had gone under when her father's gambling dragged their family into ruin.
She moved through the crowd, clutching her clutch so tightly her knuckles ached. Eyes followed her, not because she belonged, but because she didn't.
And then she felt it. A gaze so heavy it stole her breath.
At the far end of the ballroom, standing like a shadow carved into the night, was Alessandro Vitelli.
Tall, Severe, His suit cut from midnight, his tie a perfect silk knot. He wasn't drinking, He wasn't speaking, He was watching. Watching her.
Isabella's heart stumbled. Everyone said Alessandro was beautiful in the way a knife was beautiful—sharp, gleaming, and meant to draw blood. But no one warned her about the silence that followed him, how the air itself seemed to bow under his presence.
When she finally looked away, he was already crossing the floor. Every step precise, Predatory. The crowd parted for him without a word.
"You came." His voice was low, smooth, threaded with command. Not a question. A statement.
"I—" She swallowed. "The invitation didn't sound optional."
A flicker at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile, but close. "Clever." His eyes dropped to the dress she wore. "And you made this yourself?"
Her breath caught. "How did you—"
"I know more than I should," Alessandro murmured, his gaze locking with hers. "Including why you're here."
Her throat tightened. "Then you know I didn't come for the champagne."
"Of course not." He leaned closer, the faint scent of leather and smoke brushing against her. "You came because your father owes me. And in my world, debts are never left unpaid."
The music swelled around them, Isabella's pulse thundered in her ears.
"What do you want from me?" she asked, her voice barely steady.
His hand brushed hers—not a touch, just the ghost of one, enough to send a jolt through her veins.
"Everything," Alessandro said softly. "But for tonight… just a dance."
And before she could refuse, he led her into the center of the floor.
---
The world blurred into shadows. His hand rested against her back, firm and claiming. Isabella tried to focus on the steps, but every move drew her closer into the gravity of him. His voice brushed against her ear, low and deliberate.
"You're trembling."
"I'm not " she whispered, though her body betrayed her.
"Good." His eyes caught hers like a snare. "Fear is useful, but desire…" His lips hovered just shy of hers, close enough to burn. "Desire is stronger."
The violins soared. For a heartbeat, Isabella forgot where she was, forgot the debt, the danger, the weight of his empire. All she knew was the man holding her, the fire curling through her veins, and the forbidden promise in his gaze.
When the music ended, Alessandro didn't release her. His hand lingered, his mouth close enough to steal a kiss.
But he didn't. Not yet.
Instead, he murmured, "Your father's debt is mine now. And so are you."