The Romano estate was silent, too silent for a house that usually pulsed with the rhythm of power and danger. The chandeliers glimmered like frozen stars above the marble floors, and the scent of cigar smoke lingered in the air—a reminder that men had been here, making decisions that would change lives.
Alessia Romano stood at the top of the grand staircase, her fingers gripping the railing as she listened to the muffled voices coming from her father's study. Her heart pounded in her chest, a steady drumbeat of dread. She had grown up surrounded by secrets, but tonight, something felt different. The air was heavy, suffocating, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.
Her father's voice, deep and commanding, carried through the door. "It's settled then. The marriage will take place in two weeks."
The words struck her like a bullet. Marriage? Her breath caught, and she pressed a trembling hand to her lips.
She didn't need to hear the rest. She already knew what it meant.
The Romano family had been at war with the Morettis for decades. Blood had been spilled, alliances shattered, and trust destroyed. The idea of peace between them was laughable. And yet, here her father was, arranging a marriage with the enemy.
Her mother's portrait hung on the wall beside her—a woman of grace and quiet strength. Alessia stared at it, searching for comfort, but found none. Her mother had died when she was young, leaving her to navigate the brutal world of the mafia alone.
The door to the study opened, and her father stepped out, his expression unreadable. His dark suit was immaculate, his silver hair slicked back, his presence commanding as always.
"Alessia," he said, his tone calm but final. "Come inside."
She obeyed, though every step felt like walking toward her own execution.
Inside, two men stood waiting. One was her father's consigliere, and the other—tall, broad-shouldered, with eyes as cold as winter steel—was Damian Moretti.
The name alone sent a chill down her spine. She had heard stories about him. Ruthless. Calculating. A man who ruled his empire with an iron fist and a heart of stone.
Their eyes met, and for a moment, the world seemed to still. His gaze was sharp, assessing, as if he could see straight through her.
"This is my daughter, Alessia," her father said. "She will be your wife."
Her pulse roared in her ears. "No," she whispered, shaking her head. "You can't be serious."
Her father's expression hardened. "This is not a request. It's a necessity. The families need peace, and this is the only way."
Damian's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Don't worry, princess. I don't bite—unless provoked."
The mocking tone made her blood boil. "I'd rather die than marry you."
"Careful," he murmured, stepping closer. "In our world, words like that can be arranged."
Her father slammed his hand on the desk. "Enough! This union will happen. You will do your duty, Alessia."
Tears burned behind her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She lifted her chin, meeting Damian's gaze with defiance. "You may have my hand, Mr. Moretti, but you will never have my heart."
He leaned in, his breath brushing her ear. "We'll see about that."
The words sent a shiver down her spine—not of fear, but of something far more dangerous.
As she turned to leave, her father's voice echoed behind her.
"The wedding will be in two weeks. Prepare yourself."
Outside the study, Alessia pressed her back against the wall, her chest heaving. The world she knew was collapsing, and in its place rose a future she didn't want—a future bound by blood, betrayal, and a man whose touch could destroy her.
But as she stared out the window at the dark horizon, one thought burned in her mind.
If this was her fate, she would face it on her own terms.
And Damian Moretti would learn that the mafia princess was no one's pawn.