Chapter 4

You Are Not Trash

Livia Rossi stood near a gilded column, her black dress sleek, its thigh-high slit a quiet defiance against the room’s ostentation. The champagne flute in her hand was cold, her pulse a steady thrum beneath her composed exterior. Every glance her way—some curious, some cruel—felt like a blade, but she met them with a lifted chin, her jaw set, refusing to flinch.

Alessandro Moretti stood beside her, a silent storm in a crisp dark suit, tailored to his broad shoulders. His introverted presence commanded without effort, his obsidian eyes scanning the crowd, missing nothing. He spoke little, each word deliberate, resonant, cutting through the jazz band’s sultry hum like a low blade.

“Stay close,” he murmured, his voice barely audible, confident yet restrained, his breath grazing her ear.

Livia’s fingers tightened around her flute, her jaw clenching. “I’m not your pet,” she said, voice low, sharp, meant for him alone. Her feet stayed rooted, though, her body betraying her defiance. She wasn’t ready to bolt—not yet.

Across the ballroom, Dante Vitale slouched against the bar, his tie loose, his laugh too loud for the refined crowd. On his arm, Sofia Conti glittered in a red sequined dress, its plunging neckline screaming for attention, a stark contrast to Livia’s understated elegance. Sofia’s dark hair spilled over one shoulder, her lips curved in a practiced smirk, her eyes flicking from Livia to Alessandro with predatory intent. Livia’s stomach twisted, a hot spark of jealousy flaring despite her resolve. Dante’s new arm candy, already hunting a bigger prize—her prize. The thought burned, sharper than she’d admit.

“Smile,” Alessandro said, his voice a quiet command, his gaze still sweeping the room. “They’re watching.”

“Let them,” Livia shot back, her lips curving just enough to play the part. She wasn’t here to break, not under Dante’s gaze or Sofia’s taunts.

Dante sauntered over, Sofia swaying beside him, her heels clicking like a countdown. The crowd parted, sensing blood. Dante’s grin was all teeth, his whiskey glass sweating in his hand, his arrogance a familiar sting. Sofia clung to his arm, her smirk sharp enough to cut.

“Well, look at you, Liv,” Dante drawled, loud enough to draw eyes. “My leftovers, dressed up for the kingpin. Tell me, Moretti, does she still cry when you yell?”

Sofia’s laugh was a high, sharp trill, her hand grazing Dante’s chest. “Oh, darling, she’s trying so hard to fit in. It’s almost pathetic.”

Livia’s grip on her flute tightened, the glass threatening to crack. Her pulse roared, but her voice was ice, slicing through their mockery. “Keep talking, Dante. It’s all you’re good for now.”

Sofia’s eyes narrowed to slits, but she turned to Alessandro, her smile turning syrupy, her hand brushing his sleeve with deliberate intent. “Alessandro,” she purred, voice low, suggestive, “a man like you deserves a real partner. Someone who can match your power.”

Alessandro’s gaze flicked to Sofia, cool, unyielding, a wall of polite indifference. He stepped closer to Livia, his hand resting lightly on her waist, a claim without possession. “My loyalty lies elsewhere,” he said, voice quiet but final, each word a blade closing Sofia’s game. Her cheeks flushed, her smile cracking as whispers rippled through the crowd, her ambition exposed and dismissed.

Dante’s grin faltered, his eyes darting to the room’s edges, where men in dark suits lingered near the exits—Russo’s men, their stares locked on Livia like hounds on a scent. She felt their weight, a noose tightening. Alessandro’s posture shifted, a subtle angle shielding her from their gaze, his silence louder than any threat.

“You’re playing with fire, Moretti,” Dante muttered, sipping his whiskey to mask his unease. “She’s not worth the trouble. Never was.”

Alessandro’s eyes met Livia’s, steady, not soft, his trust in her unspoken but clear. “She’s gold,” he said, voice low, meant for her alone. “You were too blind to see it.”

Livia’s breath caught, the words hitting harder than expected. The jealousy burning in her chest—over Sofia’s clingy display, her bold move on Alessandro—faded under his quiet conviction. Her heart kicked, a dangerous mix of defiance and desire, something she wanted to shove down but couldn’t. Not anymore.

The band slid into a slower tune, sultry and heavy, and Alessandro offered his hand, palm up, no words needed. Livia hesitated, pride warring with the pull of his gaze, steady and unyielding. She set her flute on a passing tray, her fingers brushing his, sparking heat up her arm. They moved to the dance floor, the crowd blurring, his touch light but firm, guiding without demanding submission.

Sofia’s glare followed, her hand tightening on Dante’s arm, her red dress a fading beacon in Livia’s periphery. Livia kept her eyes on Alessandro, refusing to give Sofia the satisfaction. His breath grazed her temple as they swayed, his silence a presence she felt in her bones. “Russo’s men,” he murmured, barely audible. “They’re targeting you to get to me.”

Livia’s spine stiffened, but her steps stayed smooth, her body pressed just close enough to feel his heartbeat, steady under his suit. “I’m not your weapon,” she said, voice low, fierce. “Or theirs.”

“I know,” he said, his tone calm, trusting, not possessive. “That’s why you’re still here.”

Her eyes flicked to his, searching for a lie, finding only quiet conviction. The music wrapped around them, her jealousy over Sofia shrinking, outshone by the man who saw her as more than a prize. She leaned closer, her shoulder brushing his chest, her defiance softening just enough to feel dangerous.

A shadow moved through the crowd—a wiry man, late thirties, in a gray jacket too cheap for this room. Marco, the informant, his nervous eyes catching Livia’s for a split second. He slipped a folded note onto a waiter’s tray, his movements quick, practiced, before vanishing into the throng. The tray passed, and Livia plucked the note, tucking it into her clutch, her pulse spiking but her face a mask of calm. Alessandro’s gaze didn’t waver, but she felt his awareness, sharp as ever.

The dance ended, and Alessandro stepped back, his hand lingering on hers a moment longer. “You’re not what they think,” he said, voice soft but final, a statement of fact.

Livia met his gaze, chin high, defiance and desire tangled. “I’m not what you think either,” she said, her voice steady, a challenge and a promise.

She turned toward the balcony, the note burning in her clutch like a lit fuse. Russo’s secrets, Marco’s intel, were her ticket to freedom, a spark in her game. Behind her, Dante’s laugh cracked, Sofia’s glare sharpened, but Alessandro’s quiet trust followed, a weight she wasn’t ready to name. She stepped into the cool night air, Milan’s lights sprawling below, her heart racing with the thrill of her next move.