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~ Aria ~

My father announced me that night, exactly as he'd promised.

The resistance came exactly as he'd warned. Polite toasts. Careful smiles. Uncle Enzo raising his glass to me with eyes that never warmed. By dessert, I understood that half the men at that table were already calculating how long I'd last.

Two days later, I told my father yes.

Because I'd spent the whole dinner watching those men underestimate me, and I wanted, very badly, to prove them wrong.

Whatever Luca had decided in those three hours, he'd kept it to himself. He'd been flawless ever since: at my side, three steps behind, never once touching me.

We'll see how long that lasts.

…

The conference room of Santoro Hotels' Paris headquarters was all glass and steel, thirty floors above the city. I sat at the head of the table in a black sheath dress that was perfectly professional — and absolutely not.

The hem hit just above my knee. The neckline was a shade too low. And when I leaned forward to review the quarterly reports, I knew exactly what angle Luca had from his position by the door.

I could feel his eyes on me like a physical touch.

"As you can see, Monsieur Beaumont," I said to the hotel manager across from me, "occupancy rates have dropped three percent over the last quarter. That's unacceptable."

Beaumont shifted in his seat. He was fifty, experienced, and clearly didn't appreciate being lectured by a twenty-two-year-old woman, mafia princess or not.

"With respect, Mademoiselle Santoro, you're reading the wrong number." He folded his hands on the table. "Tourism to Paris is up, yes. But that growth is budget travelers and short-term rentals. Our guests are luxury guests, and luxury occupancy is soft across the entire city. We are not losing to anyone. The market is simply smaller this year."

It was a good answer. A few of the men around the table nodded.

"That would be true," I said, "if the market were smaller."

I slid a single page across the table.

"These are the three five-star hotels within a kilometer of ours. Same guests. Same season. Their occupancy held steady. One of them is up two percent." I let that sit. "So the luxury market didn't shrink, Monsieur Beaumont. Our share of it did."

Beaumont's jaw tightened. He picked up the page.

"Our average nightly rate went up eleven percent this year," I went on. "Theirs went up four. And when I pulled the booking data, our corporate stays fell off almost the same month the new rates took effect. We didn't lose tourists. We lost the business travelers who used to fill our rooms Monday to Thursday, and we lost them to the hotel across the street."

He set the page down slowly. "The rate increase was approved by head office."

"By my father. Based on your projections."

Silence.

To his credit, Beaumont didn't bluster. He looked at the numbers again, then at me, and something in his expression shifted from irritation to wary respect.

"What would you propose?"

"I want a full analysis of our pricing strategy, our corporate accounts, and our guest experience metrics by end of week. Including which clients we've lost, and why." I held his gaze. "You know this hotel better than anyone at this table. I'd rather fix this with you than without you."

"That's quite aggressive…"

"This is my hotel now." I smiled, sharp and cold, my father's smile. "I suggest you get used to aggressive."

Beaumont inclined his head. "Friday, then."

"Excellent." I stood, and watched several pairs of eyes drop as I smoothed my dress. "Gentlemen, I'll expect those reports Friday. Don't disappoint me."

I walked out, heels clicking on marble, aware of Luca falling into step behind me. Silent.

Perfect.

In the elevator, I caught his reflection in the polished doors. His hands were clasped behind his back in a white-knuckle grip.

"Something wrong?" I asked innocently.

"No."

"You seem tense."

"I'm fine."

The elevator doors opened on the executive floor. My temporary office, formerly my father's Paris pied-à-terre, was at the end of the hall. I walked slowly, adding an extra sway to my hips.

Behind me, Luca's breathing changed, just slightly.

Inside the office, I went to the bar cart and poured myself sparkling water. "That went well, don't you think?"

"You were antagonizing him."

"I was proving him wrong." I turned, leaning back against the cart. "In front of his staff. With his own numbers. There's a difference."

"You were also…" He stopped, jaw working.

"Also what?"

"Nothing."

"No, please. Finish that thought." I took a sip of water. "I was also... what? Dressed inappropriately? Flirting? Using charm to manipulate men?"

His eyes flashed. "I didn't say that."

"You were thinking it."

"What I was thinking," he said, voice carefully controlled, "is that you're playing a dangerous game."

"I'm doing my job."

"Wearing that dress."

"This dress?" I looked down at myself. "This is Chanel. Very professional."

"It's…" He stopped again, clearly fighting for composure.

"It's what?" I moved closer. "Say it, Luca."

"It's distracting."

"To whom?"

The air between us crackled. His eyes were smoke-dark, locked on mine, and I could see the exact moment his control started to fracture.

Then his phone buzzed. He broke eye contact to check it, and the spell broke.

"Dinner tonight, eight o'clock." His voice was flat again, professional. "He has something to discuss."

"Again?" I rolled my eyes. Killjoy!

…

Dinner at the estate was a formal affair. I dressed carefully… a deep burgundy dress, elegant and demure enough to satisfy the family's expectations. My hair was swept up, diamond studs in my ears. Armor, disguised as evening wear.

Luca was waiting in the hall when I emerged, devastating in a dark suit. His eyes swept over me, something hot and possessive flickering in their depths before he locked it down.

"You look acceptable," he said.

"How flattering."

We walked to the dining room in silence. The table could seat twenty, but tonight it was just me, my father at the head, Uncle Enzo to his right, and three underbosses I vaguely recognized from four years ago.

And Luca, standing sentinel behind my father's chair.

The meal was excellent… osso buco, risotto, wine from the family's vineyards. The conversation was careful, feeling me out, assessing whether Vittorio's daughter could really handle the legitimate empire.

I held my own, discussing market trends and expansion strategies, proving I'd learned something at Harvard besides how to resent my father.

Then, over dessert, my father dropped the bomb.

"I've arranged some introductions for you, Aria."

I set down my fork. "Introductions?"

"Men from good families. Legitimate businessmen." He dabbed his mouth with his napkin. "It's time you considered marriage."

The room went very quiet.

"Marriage." I kept my voice level. "You're arranging my marriage."

"I'm arranging dates. What comes of them is your choice." His tone suggested it wasn't really a choice at all. "You're twenty-two. Unmarried. If you're to lead the family businesses, you need a partner. Someone who understands our world."

"I don't need…"

"The first is tomorrow night. Alessio Marchesi, he runs a shipping company in Genoa. Good family, clean business. You'll like him."

My hands clenched in my lap. I wanted to scream, to throw my wine in his face, to walk out.

Instead, I smiled. "Of course, Father. I'd be delighted."

I didn't look at Luca because I didn't need to. I could feel the tension radiating from him like heat.

"Excellent." My father seemed pleased. "Enzo will provide security…"

"Luca will provide security," I interrupted. "He's my bodyguard. He goes where I go."

My father's eyes narrowed slightly, but he nodded. "As you wish."

I finally let myself glance at Luca. His face was carved from stone, but his hands were fisted at his sides.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

…

The moment my suite door closed behind us, Luca rounded on me.

"What the hell was that?"

"What was what?" I kicked off my heels, sighing with relief.

"Agreeing to those dates."

"Why not? I'm single. He's right that I should meet people." I unzipped my dress, let it pool at my feet, standing in just my black lace attire. "Unless you have some objection?"