A Dance of Defiance

The ballroom was silent, save for the gentle clink of glasses and the muted shuffle of shoes on marble. Elana stood beneath the chandelier, wrapped in a deep crimson dress that hugged her curves like it was made for temptation itself. Her father’s warning echoed in her head: Don’t anger the Don.

Too late for that.

She had demanded to attend the gathering. She wouldn’t be hidden away like a secret or a weakness. If she was now Mrs. Moretti—against her will, yes—but she would not be invisible.

The heads of three mafia families were in attendance tonight. Powerful men. Dangerous ones. The kind who measured loyalty in blood and trust in body counts.

Elana walked in like she feared none of them.

And every eye in the room followed her.

Luca stood at the far end, speaking with Matteo Ricci—his most loyal consigliere. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze locked on her the moment she entered. His fingers froze around the glass of scotch in his hand.

She felt it like a fire across her skin.

She didn’t smile.

Didn’t flinch.

If he wanted a show of obedience, he came to the wrong woman.

“Mrs. Moretti ,” a voice murmured beside her.

She turned to find an older man with a cruel smirk and too much cologne. “You’re as stunning as the rumors say.”

“Pity I can’t say the same,” she replied smoothly, brushing past him.

A flash of laughter followed her. But when she glanced back toward Luca, his eyes had darkened. His jaw was clenched, the muscle ticking with restrained anger.

She knew she was pushing him.

But it wasn’t just for pride anymore.

It was survival.

⸻

Later, on the balcony, the air cool against her bare shoulders, Elana stood alone with her thoughts. The city sparkled in the distance, unaware of the war brewing in the shadows of power.

She heard his footsteps before she saw him.

“You enjoyed yourself tonight,” Luca said from behind her.

She didn’t turn. “Did you expect me to cower in a corner?”

“No. But I didn’t expect you to insult Ricci’s uncle either.”

“I didn’t insult him. I spoke.”

He came closer, so close she could feel the heat of him behind her. His voice dropped lower.

“You need to understand something, Elana. You’re not just my wife in name. You’re part of this world now. Every move you make has consequences.”

She turned then, chin tilted defiantly. “You married me to humiliate my father. Don’t act like this is about partnership.”

A flicker of emotion—brief, gone too quickly to name—flashed in his eyes.

“Maybe,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll let you be reckless.”

“Then don’t underestimate me.”

Silence fell between them, thick and electric. The night wrapped around them like velvet.

And then… he moved closer.

Her breath caught.

His hand reached up, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “You walk into my world wearing fire,” he murmured. “And you expect not to get burned?”

She swallowed hard, but didn’t back down. “Maybe I’m the one holding the match.”

Something shifted in him then. A dark hunger flared behind his composed facade. For a moment, the mask slipped, and she saw the man beneath the Don—the one who didn’t just take control but craved it.

And that terrified her.

Because part of her—just a sliver—craved him right back.

⸻

She left the balcony before he could kiss her. Before she could let herself fall into that heat. She needed control. Distance. Strength.

Back in her room, she paced like a storm bottled behind her ribs.

This was more than marriage. More than vengeance. This was a game of power and dominance, and she was already in too deep.

But she would not break.

Not for him.

Not for anyone.

She was Elana Romano.

And if she had to dance with the devil, she’d do it in heels—and with a knife behind her back.