2

GIOVANNI

The basement of the warehouse smelled of damp concrete, rust, and old blood.

The man tied to the wooden chair in the center of the room was weeping, his face a swollen, purple mess of split skin and broken promises. I didn't care about his tears. In my world, tears were just the noise a traitor made when they ran out of lies.

I stepped forward, the heels of my polished leather shoes clicking sharply against the concrete. I didn't say a word. I simply drew the cold, heavy gray barrel of my customized Beretta from beneath my jacket, pressed it directly against his forehead, and pulled the trigger.

Bang.

The body slumped forward, the heavy plastic zip-ties keeping it from crashing to the floor.

A sharp, terrified gasp echoed from the dark corner of the room. I turned slowly, lowering the weapon as my eyes landed on the only other captive left alive—a young woman, trembling violently, her eyes wide with the reflection of her partner's blood.

My jaw clenched. A hot, angry flare of irritation ticked in my throat.

"Cazzo! Non ferisco donne e bambini. Vincenzo ha superato il limite questa volta mandando una cagna!"

(Fuck! I don't hurt women and children. Vincenzo stepped over the line this time sending a bitch!)

I spat the words toward the ceiling, shoving my gun back into its holster. Vincenzo was getting sloppy, and worse, he was getting disrespectful. Sending a woman to do a hitman's job because he knew my code? It was a pathetic, desperate move.

"Vivienne," I barked into the shadows.

Out of the darkness stepped a lean, lethal figure. Vivienne was dressed in tight tactical black, her dark hair pulled back into a severe, utilitarian braid. She was the fiercest fighter in the De Luca syndicate—a woman who had survived the worst streets in Sicily and crawled her way up to become my right hand. Nobody in the city could best her in a hand-to-hand fight. Except me.

"Boss," she said, her voice like grinding stones.

"Get into a fight with her," I commanded, gesturing vaguely to the trembling woman in the corner. "Make it clean."

Vivienne didn't hesitate. She stepped forward, slipping a wicked, serrated hunting knife from her boot sleeve. The captive woman, realizing this was her only shot at survival, let out a desperate, feral shriek and lunged forward, swinging blindly.

Vivienne didn't even blink. With a few sharp, calculated jabs here and there, she easily deflected the woman's panicked strikes, moving with the terrifying grace of a viper. In a flash of silver, Vivienne stepped inside the woman's guard and drove the blade straight into her chest.

The room fell completely silent again. Vivienne pulled the knife free, wiping the blade on her cargo pants without a hint of emotion.

"Clean up this mess," I ordered the guards standing by the door, completely detached from the violence. I turned back to Vivienne, my mind already shifting to the logistics of the empire. "I want the shipment tracking updated by midnight. Nathaniel is expecting the goods from the docks by dawn. Tell the perimeter guards to change formation—double the watches on the northern sector."

"Consider it done, Boss," Vivienne replied, bowing her head slightly.

I pulled a silk handkerchief from my pocket, wiping a stray speck of dark blood from the cuff of my shirt. I checked my watch. 5:45 PM.

A bitter, dark laugh escaped my lips.

"Fuck Vincenzo for making me do this a few hours before my rehearsal dinner," I muttered to the empty room.

I tossed the stained handkerchief onto the floor beside the corpses and turned toward the exit. I had an empire to run, a bloodline to secure, and a fake smile to put on for the Marchetti family. It was time to go get dressed.

ROSALIA

The crystal chandelier above the long, mahogany dining table cut through the dim room like a blade, throwing sharp fractures of light across the faces of the Marchetti inner circle. The dinner was already in full swing by the time I slipped through the double doors, my breath catching in my throat as the low hum of rapid, intense Italian washed over me.

I had taken too long upstairs. My hands had been shaking so violently while trying to zip my dress that I’d ruined my makeup twice, forcing me to start over.

Every head at the table turned toward me. The atmosphere was stifling, thick with the scent of roasted meats, expensive wine, and a dark, undercurrent of raw power. These weren't corporate executives; the men sitting around the perimeter had the hollow, watchful eyes of soldiers, and the heavy shoulders of executioners.

But my eyes didn’t anchor on any of them. They locked, by some twisted, magnetic force, on the man sitting at the head of the table.

The Groom.

He was dressed in a pristine, charcoal-suit that looked sharp enough to cut glass, but there was an unmistakable aura of violence clinging to him—a faint, metallic edge that even his expensive cologne couldn't entirely mask. He wasn't talking. He was swirling a glass of dark amber liquid, his posture rigid and predatory.

I couldn't stop staring. A heavy, suffocating wave of deja vu hit me so hard my knees almost buckled. I know him. I knew the sharp angle of that jaw, the slight curve of his brow. But the boy I remembered didn't have a neck lined with dark, intricate tattoos. The boy I remembered didn't carry this suffocating, terrifying charisma that made the entire room hold its breath.

Before my staring could draw the attention of the rest of the table, a firm hand wrapped around my forearm.

Adrian pulled me gently but quickly down into the empty seat right beside him. He leaned in close, his shoulder pressing against mine as he whispered against my ear, his voice laced with a tense, low warning.

"You might get killed for staring too much, bellissima."

I blinked, forcing myself to look away from the head of the table and focus on Adrian’s dark eyes. "And why would he do that?" I whispered back, my voice trembling slightly.

Adrian gave me a dry, pointed look. "Have you seen your own gaze right now? You have a resting bitch face, sunshine. In this room, looking at a Don like he owes you money is a good way to get a bullet."

I swallowed hard, having to silently admit he was right. My panic must have looked like open hostility.

As the dinner progressed, I tried to focus on my plate, but the conversation around me was impossible to ignore. It was entirely hollow. There was no wedding joy here. They spoke exclusively of territorial boundaries, fighting off opponents, and shifting power dynamics at the docks. Elena sat to Giovanni's right, looking beautiful but entirely distant. The groom barely acknowledged her. He didn't smile, he didn't reach for her hand, and he hadn't mentioned a single word of affection for his to-be bride. It was a business transaction wrapped in white silk.

The weight of the room, the terrifying familiarity of groom's face, and the sheer claustrophobia of it all finally broke my composure.

My hand shook as I reached for a crystal flute of champagne. The stem slipped against my fingers, and the sparkling liquid poured directly down the front of my dress, soaking into the fabric.

"Damn it," I muttered under my breath, the cold alcohol stinging against my skin.

"Rosa, you okay?" Adrian asked, instantly reaching for a napkin.

"I'm fine, just clumsy," I lied quickly, pushing back my chair. "I need to excuse myself to the restroom to clean this up."

"Do you want me to—"

"No, stay. I'll be right back," I insisted, needing to escape the suffocating air of that dining room before I completely lost my mind.

I hurried out of the dining hall and down the quiet, vaulted corridor, finding a small, private guest bathroom. I shut the door, leaning my back against it as I let out a ragged, trembling breath. I grabbed a damp cloth, desperately dabbing at the stain on my dress, but my mind was entirely wired. Who is he? Why does my soul recognize him when my brain can't bridge the gap?

Knock. Knock.

The sudden sound against the heavy wood made me jump.

"Just a minute," I called out, wiping my hands quickly.

The person outside didn't answer. They just stood there.

"Hello? Who is that?" I asked, my voice rising slightly as a cold prickle of apprehension washed over my skin.

Still, absolute silence from the other side of the door.

Frustrated, and needing to get back to the safety of Adrian’s side, I gripped the brass handle and pulled the door open.