Chapter Three

 THE PRICE OF ALLIANCES

The ballroom gleamed like a jewel box, all gold light and polished marble, but there was an undercurrent of intimidation. I wasn’t really nervous; I had been raised among wolves and knew how to keep my head high while they prowled around me. Still, my heartbeat betrayed me, pulsing with a steady stream of what-ifs.

Matteo stood on my right, hands casually tucked into his pockets, while Antonio lingered on my left with that smug little grin that always made me want to shove him down a staircase.

Matteo nudged me lightly.

“There,” he murmured. “Far side of the room, near the chandeliers.”

I followed his gaze.

Adrian Orlov.

He looked carved out of winter—composed, and entirely unbothered by the world buzzing around him. His posture alone held more authority than half the men in the room.

Antonio let out a low whistle.

“Well,” he said, “the Gentleman Devil cleans up nicely.”

Then Antonio’s expression shifted.

“Oh, fantastic. He’s walking this way.”

My heart kicked once—just once, but I masked it with a raised chin.

“Good luck, sorella,” Antonio teased, already backing away. Matteo gave me a reassuring squeeze on the arm. “You’ll be fine. Try not to stab him in the first five minutes.”

“Depends on his attitude,” I muttered.

Matteo snorted and stepped aside.

Just like that, they left me to face the Russian heir alone as he approached with smooth, measured steps.

“Princess Luciana Moretti,” he greeted, my name wrapped in the richness of his accent, somehow less formal and more intimate than it should have been. “I’ve heard quite a lot about you.”

“I can imagine,” I said. “Rumors travel faster than bullets in our world.”

“Sometimes they hit harder,” he replied.

For a moment, silence stretched between us. The music swelled, glasses clinked, and the world continued its charade.

Then, out of nowhere, one of the servers hurried past, and his tray slipped from his grip. The crystal shattered, and champagne sprayed like liquid gold across Adrian's cuff. The crash was sharp enough to slice through the music.

The room stilled. Heads turned. Eyes pricked with judgment. A few murmurs, then… silence.

No one intervened. No one dared.

The server went pale. I could almost feel the fear pouring off him. In our world, mistakes were dangerous currency.

Adrian, however, did the unthinkable. He crouched—not to berate, not to strike, but to help gather the shards.

"It's okay," he said softly. "Mistakes happen."

My breath hitched. It was such a simple phrase, yet astonishingly uncommon. Mafia men don’t offer reassurances like that. They certainly don’t stoop to help someone they perceive as inferior.

The young man stammered his gratitude and hurried away. Adrian stood tall, brushing off his hands with an air of composed elegance. Then he turned his gaze back to me. 

Conversations around us resumed as if nothing had happened. I was still trying to catch up with the fact that the Gentleman Devil had just knelt to pick up broken glass.

Adrian stood and dusted off his hands, eyes drifting back to mine.

“What?” he asked, soft amusement tugging at his mouth. “Did I disappoint your expectations?”

“You apologized,” I said slowly. “I've never seen a mafia do that, especially not an heir."

His smile was warm, subtle but devastating.

“Would it be better if I shot him instead?”

The unexpected humor slipped past my defenses. A laugh escaped me, light and unwilling. He looked at me like he’d just found something unexpected.

At that moment, I wondered if the rumors were wrong. Maybe there were men who ruled the underworld and still had a conscience.

For a heartbeat, my mask slipped. Then I remembered who I was—a Moretti—and composed myself, spine straightening as if the moment hadn’t rattled me at all.

“Do all Sicilian princesses look this breathtaking when they’re surprised?” he asked. Heat crawled up my neck.

“We ought to focus on the important matter.”

“No reason to feel anxious, Printsessa.” His confident grin held a compelling assurance. “We’ll be spending a significant amount of time together.” 

That certainty was unnerving, especially when he added, “You look quite striking in person.”

His tone softened. “I returned from New York because our engagement has already been arranged.”

I took a sip of my margarita to steady myself. “This alliance benefits both families.”

“It does.” His gaze sharpened. “But there are specific expectations for my future wife.” 

"And what might those entail?" I inquired.

You’ll live with me in Russia, with my family. We’ll make an heir when the time is right. You’ll follow the instructions I give. That’s all.”

My breath hitched at the bluntness.

“I—”

He lifted a hand. “This is the most generous proposal you’ll receive.”

His seriousness locked the moment into something iron-shaped. Something I couldn’t escape.

“Deal,” I finally agreed, though I really had no choice—my father wouldn’t let me off the hook if the alliance fell apart.

He nodded once, looking pleased, and took a step back.  

“Until next time, Printsessa.”  

With a wink, he turned away before I could decide if I liked him or despised him.

Just then, a hand grasped the back of my neck. 

Only one fool would be bold enough to do that.

“You were smiling the whole time, sorella,” Antonio teased, laughter bubbling out of him. “Looks like you found your spark.” 

“Idiota.” I pushed him away and made my way to the bar, trying to ignore the way my heart was still racing.

---

Sometimes, even now, I hear Antonio’s mocking voice echoing through my head.

“I saw you smiling the entire time during the talk.”

He said it like it meant nothing. It meant everything.

It was the first crack in my armor.

The first time someone made me feel seen.

The first string tied me to a man who would never survive the world we lived in.

Three months earlier, Adrian Orlov stood under the glow of winter lights, looking at me with a smile that made me feel like I wasn’t just a political pawn. He listened. He noticed. He cared.

Maybe that tenderness was why he died.

Now all that’s left of him is the ghost of his laugh and the ache in my ribs—a physical reminder of the explosion that tore us both apart. The scar sits just under my left side, a thin white line that burns whenever I breathe too deep, like my body refuses to forget what my mind is trying to survive.

The scent of burning tires still clings to my nightmares.

Adrian Orlov is dead, and the world has never felt colder.

A sudden knock cuts through the quiet of my room.

 “Come in,” I whisper.

Antonio steps through the door, closing it gently behind him. The moment I see him, my breath hitches. My brother, typically so expressive, appears emotionless tonight, as if he’s been chiseled from stone.

The playful banter is absent. The familiar cheeky smile is nowhere to be found. In his place stands a Moretti heir—my brother, my flesh and blood—carrying a heavy sorrow he struggles to mask.

“Luci.” His voice wavers briefly before he regains his composure. “They discovered something.”

I grip the sheets tightly. “What is it?” 

He inches closer, cautiously, as though any sudden movement might fracture me.

“It wasn’t an accident,” he murmurs. “The brakes were tampered with.”

Everything around me fades.

For a fleeting moment—an eternity, really—time stands still.

“What?” I barely manage to whisper.

Antonio gives a single, terse nod. It’s sharp, almost painful, like the weight of the truth is too much to bear. 

“The Valerios. Rumor has it they wanted to dismantle the alliance before it could grow stronger.”

A bitter, hollow laugh escapes me. “But how could they even know?”

Father kept everything a secret until the ceremony. No one outside the family was supposed to know.”

Antonio’s expression darkens.

“There are eyes everywhere, sorella. Even in the shadows we think we own.”

Those words slice deeper than the news itself.

I push up to my feet so fast the chair scrapes loudly.

My pulse is a frenzy. My chest tightens like a fist is forming inside it.

“You’re saying they killed him?” My voice shakes. “They planned this? They murdered him as a warning?”

Antonio says nothing.

His silence is confirmation.

I approach him slowly, my breath unsteady.  

“Why now? Why not after the wedding? Why not on Russian soil? Why…” My voice falters. “Why take him like that?”

“They didn’t want to wait,” Antonio says softly. “They wanted a message.”

A message.

Delivered through the man I could have loved.

My throat feels like it’s on fire. “And what? Are we just supposed to sit here? Pretend everything’s fine? Sweep this under the guise of an alliance and wait for answers?”

Antonio’s jaw tightens.  

He’s holding himself together with sheer will.

“Father says we hold off,” he replies. “Not until we know exactly who gave the order.” Antonio closes his eyes.

I feel the rage bubbling under my ribs, searing, expanding, clawing for release.

“They killed him,” I whisper. “They killed my fiancé. 

Antonio’s voice trembles. “Don’t think for a second that I don't crave revenge for what they did to you, Luci.”

Tears threaten to spill, but I refuse to let them fall.

“Then why aren’t we doing something?”

He steps forward, gently gripping my arms, grounding me.

“We will,” he says. “Just… not yet. Father wants to strike once. Clean. Final.”

I rip away from him, pacing, breath uneven.

“Once? They deserve ten times that.”

Antonio doesn’t argue. Because he agrees. Because we are Morettis. Because we don’t forget.

He moves toward the door, hesitant.

“Luci… I’m sorry.” His voice softens. “I didn’t want you to hear it alone.”

When the door clicks shut behind him, the rage spills over like a dam breaking.

They killed Adrian Orlov.

And now they think they can survive me.

He takes a step closer, wrapping his hands around my arms in a calming gesture, anchoring me in place.

“We will,” he assures me. “Just… not yet. Father wants our move to be precise. One strike. Final.”

I pull back, unable to contain my restlessness, my breaths coming in sharp gasps.  

“One strike? They deserve at least ten times that.”

Antonio remains silent, because he agrees. We both know—after all, we are Morettis, and we don't forget.

He approaches the door, his uncertainty palpable.  

“Luci… I’m really sorry.” His tone softens, sincerity flooding his voice. “I didn’t want you to face this alone.”

As the door clicks shut behind him, my frustration erupts like a dam bursting.

They’ve taken Adrian Orlov from us.  

And now they believe they can evade the storm I’m capable of unleashing.

I pivot toward the window. The morning brig

htens outside, yet it feels as though the world has dimmed. The Sicilian dawn stretches across the sky—its pink hues brushing against the grey stone, but all I can focus on is the smoke rising from the twisted remnants of metal.