His Trophy His War

The Wife on the Table Livia sat stiffly behind Dante, her hands folded in her lap, her face a blank mask. The poker den reeked of cigars and whiskey, the air thick with men’s laughter and clinking chips. She kept her eyes down, avoiding the leers from the players around the table. Dante’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and slurred. “Check out my wife, boys,” he said, tossing a chip into the pot. “Best decoration I ever bought. Quiet, too. Perfect.” The men chuckled, their eyes flicking to Livia. She bit the inside of her cheek, swallowing the urge to snap back. Three years of marriage had taught her silence was safer. Dante loved humiliating her in front of his cronies, and tonight was no different. “Got a sister, sweetheart?” one player asked, grinning. “Nah, one’s enough,” Dante said, leaning back. “She don’t talk much, but she’s easy on the eyes. Right, Liv?” She didn’t answer. Her fingers tightened in her lap. “Raise,” a new voice said, low and steady. Livia glanc

Caged Bird, Sharp BeakThe dining room’s long table could seat twenty, but it was just her, the clink of her fork echoing off marble walls. Livia pushed the eggs around her plate, ignoring the maid’s glance. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s pastries, and her stomach growled, but she’d be damned if she gave Alessandro the satisfaction.The maid hovered. “Mr. Moretti says you need to eat, Ma’am.”“Tell Mr. Moretti I’m not his pet,” Livia snapped, shoving the plate away.The maid scurried off. Livia leaned back, glaring at the chandelier above. Three days in this estate—three days of locked doors, delivered clothes, and Alessandro’s cryptic texts. Be ready for the gala. Your accounts are active. Don’t test my patience. She’d deleted them all, but his voice stuck in her head, low and unyielding.She stood, pacing to the window. The garden stretched below, all manicured hedges and stone paths. A cage with better views. Her phone buzzed on the table. Another text from Dante. You good, Liv

The First BurnThe dining room in Alessandro Moretti’s penthouse gleamed under a low chandelier, its light catching the polished mahogany table and the crystal wine glasses. The city of Milan sprawled beyond floor-to-ceiling windows, a glittering maze of lights against the night. Livia Rossi sat across from Alessandro, her posture rigid, the silk of her emerald dress catching the glow. Her auburn hair was swept up, exposing the tense line of her neck, her green eyes sharp but guarded. The air held the faint scent of rosemary from the untouched plates of roasted lamb between them, the silence thick, broken only by the soft clink of Alessandro’s fork.He leaned back in his chair, his dark suit open at the collar, the faint scar on his jaw catching the light. His obsidian eyes studied her, not predatory but steady, introverted yet commanding, his words always chosen with care. “You haven’t eaten,” he said, voice low, resonant, cutting through the quiet like a blade.Livia’s fingers tight

The Watch and the WeightLivia’s breath caught as she lingered in the penthouse’s shadowed hallway, the faint tick of a clock echoing from Alessandro’s study. The air was thick with the scent of leather and cedarwood, his presence lingering even in his absence. Her fingers brushed the safehouse key he’d given her last night, its weight a reminder of his trust—and her gamble. Sergio’s note about Russo’s dock ambush burned in her memory, but it was the mole he’d mentioned that kept her awake, her mind spinning. Who in Alessandro’s inner circle would betray him? And why did her chest tighten at the thought?She edged closer to the study door, left ajar, her bare feet silent on the cool marble. Inside, Alessandro sat at his desk, his broad shoulders hunched, a glass of amber whiskey untouched beside him. His fingers traced the edge of a silver watch, its face scratched but gleaming under the desk lamp. His obsidian eyes, usually so guarded, flickered with something raw—guilt, maybe, or gr

Ashes and Envy The neon pulse of the club throbbed through Livia’s veins, the bassline a heartbeat against the crush of bodies and the tang of sweat and perfume. Milan’s elite packed the velvet-rope venue, their laughter sharp, their diamonds sharper. Livia stood at the bar, her black dress hugging her curves, her auburn hair catching the strobe lights. The safehouse key in her clutch felt heavier than the whiskey glass in her hand, Alessandro’s trust from the docks a tether she wasn’t ready to break. But tonight, her eyes weren’t on him—they were on Sofia Conti, slinking toward Alessandro like a panther in a gold gown, her sultry smile a blade aimed at Livia’s heart. Livia’s grip tightened on her glass, the ice clinking as her jealousy flared. Sofia leaned into Alessandro at a corner booth, her hand brushing his arm, laughing low and deliberately. He sat solidly, his pitch-back eyes scanning the room, his black suit a stark contrast to the club’s chaos. Livia knew that look—his in