The reception was held at the Moretti estate, a fortress of glass and black marble perched on the cliffs of the Heights. It was a stark contrast to the crumbling, historical elegance of the De Luca compound. Here, everything felt new, sharp, and aggressively wealthy.
It was a celebration of a merger, but it felt like a wake.
I stood at the edge of the grand ballroom, a glass of vintage Cristal in my hand that I had no intention of drinking. I needed my wits. The heavy weight of the platinum ring on my finger felt like a branding iron. Across the room, I saw my Uncle Vittorio laughing with a group of Council members, his cane leaning against a table. He looked satisfied. He had successfully planted his Trojan Horse.
"You aren't eating, Mrs. Moretti."
The voice was right at my ear. I didn't jump—I was too well-trained for that—but a shiver of pure electricity raced down my spine. Dante had moved through the crowded room like a ghost.
I turned, my face a mask of polite indifference. "I find that I've lost my appetite, Dante. Perhaps it's the company."
Dante didn't look offended. He looked amused. He had discarded his suit jacket, and his white silk shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the edge of a dark tattoo that disappeared beneath the fabric. He looked less like a groom and more like a predator who had finally cornered his prey.
"The company is exactly what you chose when you walked down that aisle," he said, taking the glass from my hand and setting it on a passing waiter's tray. "And as the hostess, you are expected to dance."
"I don't dance," I snapped.
"In this house, you do what I say." His hand settled on the small of my back. It was a possessive gesture, firm and warm, guiding me toward the center of the floor where the orchestra was transitioning into a slow, haunting waltz.
As we stepped into the light, the room fell silent. Hundreds of eyes—soldiers, politicians, assassins—tracked our every move. This wasn't a dance; it was a display of power.
Dante pulled me flush against him. One hand held mine, his grip effortless but unbreakable, while the other remained anchored to my waist. I could feel the hard planes of his chest through the thin lace of my dress. He smelled of rain and cedarwood, a scent that felt dangerously like safety.
"You're stiff, Bianca," he murmured, his breath ghosting over my temple. "Relax. If you look like you're being held hostage, it makes me look like a poor host. My men might start to think I can't handle one little De Luca girl."
"Maybe you can't," I whispered, my eyes locked onto his. "Maybe you should be more worried about the girl than the men."
He spun me, the world blurring into a kaleidoscope of black and gold, before pulling me back into his space. His face was inches from mine. "I know exactly what you are. Vittorio raised you to be a scalpel. He thinks he can use you to cut the throat of the Moretti empire from the inside. Tell me, does he know you're failing already?"
I felt the blood drain from my face. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't lie. It's beneath you," Dante said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low velvet. "You have a blade on your thigh. You have poison in your ring. And you have five years of lies burning in your gut. But you've made one fatal mistake, Bianca."
"And what's that?"
"You believe Vittorio De Luca loved your father."
The music seemed to screech in my ears. I stumbled, my heel catching on the hem of my dress. Dante caught me instantly, his arm tightening around my waist, keeping me upright so the room wouldn't see my weakness.
"My uncle loved him like a brother," I hissed, my voice trembling with a rage I couldn't suppress. "It was your family that ordered the hit. Your father wanted the docks. My father stood in the way."
Dante's expression didn't change, but his eyes darkened, a storm brewing in the depths of the iris. "The docks were already ours. My father and yours were negotiating a silent partnership. Your father was the only one In your family who wanted peace. And peace is very bad for business when your uncle makes his money on the black market of war."
"You're lying," I said, though a cold seed of doubt began to prickle at the back of my mind. "You're trying to turn me against my own blood."
"I'm trying to keep you alive long enough for us to make it to the bedroom," he said, his hand sliding up my back to the nape of my neck. "Because tonight, when the doors are locked, I'm going to show you something that will shatter your world. And when that happens, you'll have to decide whose side you're really on."
Before I could respond, the music ended. Dante stepped back, giving a shallow, mocking bow. The audience erupted into polite applause, oblivious to the fact that a war had just been declared in the middle of the ballroom.
"Enjoy the party, wife," Dante said, his eyes lingering on mine for a second too long. "I'll see you upstairs."
He walked away, leaving me standing in the center of the floor, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
I needed air. I pushed through the crowd, ignoring the fake smiles and the whispered congratulations, and slipped out onto the wide balcony overlooking the cliffs. The salt air of the Mediterranean hit me, cold and sharp, clearing the fog of perfume and lies.
I leaned against the stone railing, my hands shaking. Vittorio wouldn't lie to me. He's all I have.
"He's right, you know."
I spun around, my hand instinctively reaching for the knife beneath my skirt.
Standing in the shadows of the balcony was a woman. She was younger than me, perhaps nineteen, with the same dark hair and striking features as Dante. She was wearing a simple silk slip dress and holding a cigarette between her fingers.
"Alessia," I said, recognizing Dante's younger sister.
"The Morettis don't lie about blood, Bianca," she said, blowing a plume of smoke into the night air. "My brother is a lot of things—a killer, a tyrant, a cold-hearted bastard—but he doesn't have the imagination for deception. If he says your uncle killed your father, it's because he has the receipts."
"Why are you telling me this?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
Alessia stepped forward, the moonlight catching the hollows of her cheeks. She looked tired. "Because I'm tired of the bodies. And because you're the first person I've seen make Dante look… human. Even if it's just for a second."
She flicked the cigarette over the railing and turned to leave. "Watch your back, Bianca. In Valerra, the person holding the knife isn't always the one who wants you dead. Sometimes, it's the person who gave you the knife in the first place."
She disappeared back into the ballroom, leaving me alone with the sound of the crashing waves.
I reached down and felt the hilt of the stiletto. For the first time in five years, the steel didn't feel like an extension of my arm. It felt like a foreign object.
I looked back through the glass doors. I saw my Uncle Vittorio. He was watching me from across the room, his eyes sharp and calculating. He didn't look like a grieving brother. He looked like a man waiting for a return on his investment.
And then, I saw Dante. He was standing at the top of the grand staircase, looking down at me. He didn't move. He didn't beckon. He simply waited.
He was the lion, and I was in his den. But as I started walking toward those stairs, I realized one thing.
The lion wasn't trying to eat me. He was trying to show me who the real hunters were.