That night, Milan did not greet the spring with kindness. The sky above Villa Lombardi was a bruised purple, as if the clouds were holding their breath, waiting for something horrific to shatter the silence. Inside the grand gala, the atmosphere was a perfect contradiction: sickening luxury masking a tension hidden behind the plastic smiles of the elite.
Elena Lombardi stood on the second-floor balcony, her slender fingers gripping the cold marble railing. She wore a custom-made black silk gown that clung to her curves perfectly, yet she felt as if she were wearing a shroud. Below, the orchestra played Vivaldi's compositions, but to Elena, the screeching violins sounded like suppressed screams.
She was Milan's "Porcelain Princess." That was what the press called her. Beautiful, untouchable, and the most precious asset of Lorenzo Lombardi, the man who sat second on the black throne of the Italian underworld. But tonight, the porcelain felt cracked.
"You're daydreaming again, Elena," a familiar, gravelly voice broke the silence behind her.
Elena turned. Her father, Lorenzo, stood there. He looked dashing in his classic tuxedo, but Elena saw what others couldn't: the subtle tremor in his hand as he held an unlit Havana cigar.
"Father, what's wrong?" Elena whispered, stepping closer. "The security at the front gate has doubled, and I see the Valenti men whispering in the corners. Why did we invite them if we know they want our port territories?"
Lorenzo sighed deeply. "In this world, Elena, the enemies you invite to your dinner table are far safer than the ones lurking in the shadows. But tonight... the air feels different."
Lorenzo grabbed Elena's hand, squeezing it with unusual strength. "Listen carefully. If anything happens, never trust the police. Do not trust your Uncle Pietro—he has stared at my throne with hungry eyes for too long. There is a safe behind your mother's painting in the study. The key is here."
Lorenzo slipped a silver necklace with a small lion-head pendant into Elena's palm. "If the fire starts, you must run. Go to the old industrial district in the North. Find the Moretti estate."
Elena gasped. "Dante Moretti? Father, you're joking! He's the demon who slaughtered our men at the border three years ago. He hates you!"
"He hates me because I am his rival," Lorenzo stared into his daughter's eyes with terrifying intensity. "But Dante has the one thing no one else in this room possesses: Honor. He is a monster, yes, but he is a monster who keeps his word. I saved his father's life once. He owes me, and he will pay that debt with your life."
Before Elena could protest, a thunderous boom shook the entire villa.
BOOM!
It wasn't fireworks. It was a C4 blast that obliterated the main gate. A second later, the massive crystal chandelier hanging in the center of the hall exploded under a hail of bullets, crashing onto the marble floor with the sound of a thousand shattering bells.
Screams erupted. The music stopped instantly, replaced by the rhythmic chug of submachine guns tearing through the air.
"RUN, ELENA! NOW!" Lorenzo shoved her toward the secret door in the upper corridor while drawing a Beretta from beneath his jacket.
Elena ran with a heart that felt like it wanted to jump out of her chest. She glanced over her shoulder as her father turned to face a group of masked men storming the stairs. She wanted to scream, to go back, but her father's instructions echoed like a sacred command in her head.
She burst into her father's study, a room that usually smelled of oak and aged whiskey. With violently trembling hands, she fumbled for the frame of her mother's oil painting. The silver lion key slid into the hidden slot. Click.
The wood paneling shifted, revealing a narrow, dark passage. As Elena stepped inside, another explosion rocked the room. She heard the study door being kicked open.
"Find the girl! Don't let her take the documents!" a raspy voice barked outside.
Elena closed the secret door just as bullets began to splinter the wood of the study door. Inside the darkness of the tunnel, she wept silently. She could hear the gunfire fading, and then... a single, deafening shot. Silence.
Elena Lombardi's world collapsed in that one second.
Elena emerged from the end of a foul-smelling drainage tunnel on the outskirts of the city an hour later. Her expensive black gown was now tattered, her knees scraped, and her bare feet bled from treading on sharp gravel. Rain began to fall, washing the blood and tears from her face, but it couldn't wash away the cold piercing her ribs.
She walked like a ghost through the dark streets of the industrial district. Every shadow looked like an assassin sent by Valenti. Her mind was a void, focused only on one name: Dante Moretti.
She reached a towering black iron gate, surrounded by barbed wire and mechanical surveillance cameras. This wasn't a home; it was a fortress.
"Stop right there!" A blinding flashlight hit her face. Two men in black leather jackets with rifles approached. "Who are you? Vagrants aren't allowed in Moretti territory."
Elena lifted her head, her chin trembling but her eyes burning with the remnants of the Lombardi fire. "My name is Elena Lombardi. Tell your master... his father's blood debt must be paid tonight."
The guards exchanged glances. One of them laughed harshly. "Lombardi? Lorenzo's little lost princess? You look more like a whore tossed out of a nightclub."
"Look at this necklace," Elena displayed the silver lion pendant with a filthy hand.
The guard went silent. He immediately pressed a button on his shoulder radio. After a few moments of quick, stern instructions, the massive gate groaned open. Elena was guided inside, past a wide courtyard patrolled by low-growling Dobermans.
Inside the main building, which felt like a piece of modern gothic architecture, Elena was led to a vast office. The room was dominated by dark tones and the scent of expensive, masculine tobacco. In the center of the room sat a man behind a desk of black granite.
Dante Moretti.
He wasn't wearing a crisp suit like her father. He wore only a black shirt with the top three buttons undone, revealing the hard lines of his chest and a thorny rose tattoo that climbed his neck to his jawline. His hair was pitch black, slightly disheveled, and his eyes... his eyes were the coldest shade of gray Elena had ever seen. Like polar ice that had never been touched by the sun.
Dante was cleaning a small dagger with a white silk cloth when Elena entered. He didn't look up.
"Lorenzo Lombardi is dead," Dante's voice was low, like the growl of a tiger in the dead of night. "The news traveled faster than fire in Milan."
Elena felt a tightness in her chest hearing that reality spoken so coldly. "Then you already know why I'm here."
Dante finally looked up. His gaze was like a scanner, stripping Elena's composure bare. He set the knife down and stood. His towering height cast a long shadow that swallowed her. He walked slowly around the desk, every step radiating a dominant, predatory aura.
"Your father wanted me to protect you," Dante stopped directly in front of Elena. He was so close she could smell his sandalwood cologne and the faint scent of gunpowder. "But you know, Elena? I'd rather watch the Lombardi empire burn to the ground. Why should I bother putting out the fire for you?"
"Because I have something you want," Elena challenged that cold stare, though her legs felt ready to give way. "My father kept the original files on Operation 'Black Swan.' The files that prove you weren't the one who bombed the square three years ago. The files that could clear your name from the Interpol watch list."
Dante's jaw tightened. For the first time, a flicker of emotion crossed his eyes—pure, unadulterated rage. He gripped Elena's jaw with his left hand, not hard enough to break it, but strong enough to let her know she had no choice.
"You dare threaten me with information, Piccola?" Dante whispered. His voice was dangerous yet strangely seductive. "You are in my house, without protection, without a weapon. I could torture you until you tell me where those files are."
"Try it," Elena defied him, tears welling but not falling. "If I die, the vault code dies with me. And you will forever be a terrorist in the eyes of the world."
Dante stared at Elena's trembling lips for several seconds that felt like an eternity. Then, he released his grip and chuckled—a dry, humorless sound.
"You really are Lorenzo's daughter. You have a foolish kind of bravery." Dante turned, walking toward the window overlooking the dark city of Milan. "Fine. You will stay here. But don't misunderstand, Elena. You are not a guest. You are a valuable prisoner."
Dante called a male servant who looked like an ex-soldier. "Take her to the room in the North wing. The one without a balcony. Lock the door. If she tries to escape, break her legs."
Before Elena was led out, she heard Dante's voice one more time.
"One more thing, Elena. In this house, I am your God. Don't ever touch anything without my permission, or you will learn that Valenti is far kinder than what I can do to you."
As Elena was guided out, she could feel Dante's gaze piercing her back. She knew that starting tonight, her life would never be the same. And the man who was now her protector might be the one she should fear the most.