The dining room was a morgue.
Lucien's hand was heavy on my waist, steering me into a room filled with people who looked like they were waiting for a reason to draw blood. There were four men—his brothers—and four women who looked like they'd spent the whole day getting their hair and nails done just to sit here and hate each other.
Lucien didn't stop until we reached the head of the table. "Father," he said, his voice cold. "Meet my fiancée. Charlène Laurent."
The man at the head of the table looked like he was one breath away from the grave. He didn't say a word, just gave a slow nod. He looked at me for a second too long, then looked away. Lucien pulled out my chair for me. I sat down.
How gentlemanly, I thought. I looked at Lucien. He sat next to me and immediately became distant. It was like he wasn't even in the room with them.
He didn't introduce me to the others. I wondered why.
We started eating in a silence so thick it was uncomfortable. The only sound was the silverware hitting the plates. Lucien didn't look at his brothers, and he definitely didn't talk to them. He just ate, looking straight ahead, completely detached.
I looked around the table. The brothers were all handsome, but none of them looked like Lucien. They looked like they shared a last name and nothing else. Their wives were just as bad. They weren't eating; they were just watching me.
"Your eyes look familiar," a woman said. She was the most beautiful one of all the wives. She had bright blue eyes and bone-straight blonde hair. Isabetta. She was staring at me like she wanted to find a crack in my face. "Have I seen you somewhere before?"
"I don't think so," I said.
The man next to her laughed. That was Alessio, the oldest son, and Isabetta was his wife. He leaned back, his eyes moving slowly down my body, stopping at my waist where the dress was tightest. He didn't care that his wife was right there.
"Lucien always did have a habit of taking things that weren't his," Alessio said. He looked at his father, then back at me. "She's a fine woman. A little too high-class for a bastard, isn't she? I might have to make an offer myself."
Lucien didn't stop eating, but I saw his knuckles go white as he gripped his knife. "Watch your mouth, Alessio. Pay attention to your own wife."
"My wife?" Alessio slammed his hand on the table. "You think you can tell me what to do? Just because Father is selling out my birthright to give you everything? Watch yourself, Lucien. I'll take it all back."
Everything went to hell after that.
Sienna, the second brother's wife, leaned over and "mistakenly" tipped her glass of juice right into Isabetta's lap.
"You bitch!" Isabetta screamed, jumping up.
In seconds, the table was a disaster. The brothers were standing up, shouting at Lucien and each other about money and who owned what. The wives were screaming, throwing insults and pushing plates. It was a complete mess. A room full of billionaires acting like animals.
The Father started coughing—He tried to tell them to stop, but they ignored him. They were too busy screaming to notice he was struggling for air.
Lucien and I just sat there. He looked like he was watching a boring TV show. He didn't even blink when a glass shattered near the end of the table. I just stared at them, amused.
The Father's coughing got worse. He was turning red, clutching his chest. Lucien finally stood up. He didn't scream, but his voice cut through the noise.
"That's enough."
The room went dead silent. Nobody moved. Alessio glared at him, his face twisted, then he shoved his chair back and walked out. Isabetta followed him, and the rest of them cleared out one by one until the room was empty.
Lucien signaled for the nurses to take his father to bed. He didn't look at me as he sat back down.
"Welcome to the family, Charlène," he said. "Don't bother learning their names. They won't be around long enough for it to matter."
The door closed behind the nurses.
Lucien picked up his wine glass, swirled the dark liquid, and took a slow, deliberate sip.
"You have a lovely family," I said, my voice dripping with irony. "Very stable."
Lucien didn't smile. "They are wolves, Charlène. And wolves only know how to snap at the hand that doesn't feed them."
I leaned forward, my curiosity finally winning over my caution. "They called you a bastard. Alessio mentioned a birthright. What did he mean?"
Lucien finally looked at me, his hazel eyes dark and unreadable. "I am the youngest son. In our world, the throne belongs to the firstborn. It's a tradition as old as the blood we spill. Alessio thinks the chair is his because he was born first. He thinks age equals iron."
"And your father?" I asked. "Why you?"
"My father is a man of logic, not just tradition," Lucien replied. "He knows my brothers are weak. They have the greed, but not the stomach. They would burn this empire to the ground in a week. He wants it to survive. So, he chose me."
I sat back, stunned. The youngest taking over the largest Mafia syndicate in Europe? No wonder they wanted him dead. "That's why you need me. You can't take the throne without a wife."
"The law of the De Rossi is absolute," he murmured. "A bachelor cannot be Don. A man cannot rule a family if he does not have one of his own. I need a wife to secure the crown before my father's heart stops beating. And I need her now."
"Find a socialite, Lucien. Find someone who actually wants to be here."
"I don't want a socialite," he said, his gaze dropping to my lips. "I want you."
He reached into the inner pocket of his blazer. He pulled out an envelope and slid it across the table.
I hesitated, then picked it up. My fingers trembled as I broke the seal and unfolded the paper inside. My eyes raced across the text—Terms. Conditions. Duration.
I gasped, the paper slipping from my numb fingers and fluttering to the floor. I stared at him, my vision blurring with sudden, sharp horror.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" I snapped, glaring at him. "You think I'll just sign my life away?"
He leaned in, his shadow falling over me, pinning me to the chair. He looked unhinged—completely calm, yet terrifyingly intense.
"Sign the contract," he whispered, his voice a dark caress. "Give me one year. Be the De Rossi Queen. In return, I will tear Leo out of Viktor's hands. I will pay for every machine, every serum, and every doctor. I will protect him and Morozov can never find him."
He dipped his hand into his pocket one last time, pulling out my blackened-gold key. He held it just out of reach.
"One year of your life, Charlène," he said, his smile sharp. "Or your brother dies before the sun rises. Which door are you going to choose?"