Chapter one

 THE WRONG BROTHER 

There are definitely worse situations than being the daughter of a mafia don. For example, being the daughter of a mafia don who thinks diplomacy is a high art.

 Three months earlier…

I find myself in front of my mirror, examining the woman reflecting back at me. The gown? Absolutely stunning—of course. Crafted from Sicilian silk, as black as midnight, it fits so snugly it feels more like a protective shell than an outfit. My hair catches the light with gold pins glimmering like potential weapons. Father insists that appearances wield power. 

Mother used to whisper that appearances are weapons.

Tonight, both sentiments hold weight.

It's yet another meeting—another lineup of men discussing peace while harboring bloodshed in the dark. My role? To sit, smile, and memorize names that won’t matter to me. The ideal Sicilian princess—demure, courteous, untouchable.

“Luciana?”

I pivot to see Antonio leaning casually in the doorway, looking like a storm in a suit that's far too formal for his carefree demeanor. His tie is askew, while his grin is unabashed.

“You look like a funeral in human form,” he quips.

"That's the idea, fratellino. Maybe if I look lifeless enough, they'll leave me alone.” He lets out a snort. (Younger brother)

“You can’t possibly be lifeless, young lady,” Matteo interjects, leaning into the narrow space by the door, where Antonio’s body doesn’t quite reach.

Antonio is my younger brother, my only ally in the Moretti family. He’s still coming to grips with the complexities of the Mafia world. Until he turned 18, Father kept him out of our family’s affairs, but now he's undergoing training with the Family Aide, Vikoz.

Matteo, my best friend, is the son of Don Moretti’s consigliere—the family’s trusted legal and strategic advisor long before I was born. Matteo and I were born around the same time, so we've been friends since we were little. 

“You're lucky. I’d switch places with you in an instant.” Antonio said.

I raise an eyebrow. 

“You? Enduring endless hours of tactics and the smell of cigars?” 

“No, I mean being showcased as Father’s prized possession. At least you get noticed.”

I chuckle softly, a hollow sound. Antonio doesn’t quite understand. In our world, being seen isn't a compliment—it's a danger. The moment you stand out, someone starts plotting how to bring you down.

I pull on my gloves, each movement deliberate and smooth. My reflection stares back, just as it should: polished, expensive, and impossible to read.

“Where’s Father?” I ask. 

“He’s already in the car. The Russians aren’t fond of waiting,” Antonio remarks.

“The Russians don’t like anyone," I mutter under my breath. 

He flashes a grin. “Maybe the heir isn’t as terrible as they say. Some folks call him the prayer of half of Moscow.” 

“Some also say the devil has charm." I said, rolling my eyes at him.

He laughs, stepping away from the doorway. 

“Just be cautious, Luci. They say Andrian Orlov doesn’t just play the game—he wins it.” Matteo finally butts in.

Andrian Orlov is the heir and future leader of the Orlov family. I've spotted him from afar at some of the several galas I’ve attended as the Sicilian princess. He boasts a solid build and a striking appearance, but I’m certainly not one to judge solely based on looks.

“None of my business, folks.” I grab my coat, its weight familiar across my shoulders, and step into the cold corridor.

The walls of our estate hum with old power and older ghosts. Outside, the evening sky looks bruised, clouds sagging with the promise of snow.

The car ride is quiet. Father sits beside me, expression unreadable, eyes fixed ahead. Power makes people still, I’ve learned. Still like predators before they strike.

 “You remember what I told you?” he says without looking my way.

 “Smile. Speak only when necessary. Don’t challenge the host.” I answered.

“Good girl.”

I bite back the sigh. Twenty-four years old, fluent in four languages, trained to negotiate and kill if needed—yet somehow still a “good girl.” I rest my gloved hands on my lap, pretending not to feel the tremor underneath.

When we reach the Orlov estate, it feels less like a home and more like a fortress carved out of winter. Marble walls gleam under torchlight, tall and cold. Every window watches, like it knows our secrets before we even enter.

 “Welcome to Russia,” Father murmurs.

“Feels more like the underworld,” I whisper back.

He doesn’t argue.

The air outside bites through my coat as I step from the car. 

My father strode through the magnificent doors, heading towards the meeting room, accompanied by his loyal aide, Vikoz.

I trailed behind, the sound of my heels gently tapping against the marble floor. The Sicilian within me bristled at the oppressive silence of this place, which consumed warmth and left only hollow echoes. I had grown up by the sea, where the air was infused with salt and a spirit of defiance; here, it reeked of power that had never basked in sunlight.

Father turned and spoke in a low voice, “Keep your eyes open, figlia mia. These men speak with smiles, but their teeth are sharp.” (my daughter)

I nodded, still taking in my surroundings. Once they passed through the heavy oak doors, I lingered in the foyer, inexplicably drawn to the cold corridor that beckoned me deeper into the mansion.

The corridor culminated in a stunning glass atrium, beyond which lay a snow-covered courtyard, where half-buried statues resembled the phantoms of fallen warriors. I craved fresh air—anything that wasn't tainted by the noxious fumes of political turmoil.

And that was when I heard it.  

A deep, amused voice resonated from somewhere behind me.  

“Curious little dove, aren’t you?”  

I whipped around.  

A man loomed partially in the shadows, the ember of a cigarette glowing tantalizingly between his fingers. He was tall and broad-shouldered, possessing a kind of dark handsomeness that seemed to embody sin rather than sunlight. He exuded a casual stance that radiated an almost arrogant confidence. As I scrutinized him, I realized he was not the family heir I recognized.

So, who might he be?  

“You really shouldn't be here,” he remarked, casually flicking ash into a marble tray.  

“And you shouldn’t either, if you value manners,” I shot back.  

He let out a low chuckle as he stepped closer, the smoke trailing behind him like an ethereal specter.

"Typically, guests don’t roam the house. But I suppose most guests aren’t quite as… captivating."  

"Compliments don’t really suit you, signore. Give it another shot." (Sir).

"Compliments? No, just keen observation." He smirked.

The ensuing silence crackled with tension. His gaze was intense and scrutinizing, as if he were weighing whether to antagonize or commend me.  

"You must be one of the Sicilians," he remarked lazily. "You stride as if the floor belongs to you."  

"Of course. Only Sicilians bring storms in their wake, and Russians misinterpret frost as resilience." 

That response elicited a grin from him—predatory and full of delight. He moved closer, allowing me to notice the thin scar along his jaw, delicate yet pronounced.  

"Watch it, princess. You might find Russian bites more formidable than those from Sicily."  

"Then I’ll bite back."  

For a heartbeat, we both stood still. The atmosphere tightened, thick with an unnamed tension—part danger, part charm. Suddenly, a door slammed somewhere down the hall, shattering the spell we had woven.

He straightened up, flicking the last spark of his cigarette away.  

"Return to your father before someone views you as a problem that needs fixing."  

I lifted my chin defiantly.  

“If there's a problem here, it’s definitely you.”  

His low, dark laugh echoed in response.  

“You have no idea who I am.”  

“No,” I retorted, brushing past him. “And honestly, I don’t think it matters...” My shoulder grazed him as I walked away—my warmth contrasting sharply with the coldness of his presence.  

He watched me depart, a dangerous glimmer flickering behind his calm exterior.  

“Oh, it will matter, princess. It always does."  

—-

As I stepped into the grand hall, I took a moment to survey the spacious room. At the far end of the long table sat Lorenzo Orlov, the imposing Russian patriarch, the boss of the Russian Mafia—a mountain of a man with silver hair and icy blue eyes locked onto me. I offered a slight bow, signaling my respect. 

And beside him, as if fate were playing a cruel joke, sat Roman Orlov.  

Now impeccably groomed, his suit tailored to perfection, the cigarette was gone—but the trademark smirk still lingered, like a secret meant solely for us.

“Luciana, my daughter, allow me to introduce you to Don Lorenzol Orlov and his younger son, Roman. They are our hosts. I was informed that his elder son, Andrian, is not here at the

moment.”

“We’ve crossed paths before,” Roman remarked, his tone steady, courteous, and tinged with a hint of wicked amusement.  

I met his gaze.