Chapter 2

Ava 

 

The ballroom glows with a warm golden light, crystal chandeliers casting dazzling reflections on the sleek marble floor. Mafia families mingle with forced politeness, their smiles as empty as the greetings they exchange. Guards lurk in the shadows, always alert—a constant reminder of the tension that hangs in the air like a heavy perfume. 

 

I step into the gala with my family, the fabric of my black gown trailing behind me. The dress hugs my figure just right, and I can feel the weight of countless eyes on me. I’ve gotten used to it—being scrutinized, evaluated, judged. My dad always said that’s just part of our legacy. Still, I hold my head high and keep my face neutral, hiding the unease bubbling just below the surface. 

 

“Don’t you dare embarrass me. You know what will happen. I wish your sister was here. She knew how to play the game and win people over.” It stings, but I’ve learned to take my father’s harsh words in stride. 

 

As I scan the room, I nod politely at a few familiar faces. The crowd is a mix of friends, foes, and those I wouldn’t trust with a simple drink, let alone a conversation. There’s always an underlying power struggle at these events, hidden beneath the glitz of fancy gowns and tailored suits. 

 

At the bar, I spot two men. One leans back casually, a playful grin on his face as he chats with the other. The second man, taller and more intimidating, holds a drink and wears a bored expression. His sharp suit highlights his broad shoulders, and even from a distance, I can feel the authority he carries. His dark blue eyes scan the ballroom, cold and calculating, as if he’s taking stock of everyone present. 

 

Riccardo De Lucca. 

 

The one man I have always loved but my love was doomed from the minute my sister laid her eyes on him.  He could have been my brother-in-law by now, but then my older sister was murdered. He’s the youngest Don in Italy’s history, famous for his cold efficiency and tough demeanor. His reputation is so strong it feels like a weight in the air. Next to him, his younger brother Bento is leaning against the bar, animatedly talking, but Riccardo doesn’t even look his way. 

 

I turn my attention back to my dad, who’s chatting with Luigi De Lucca. I recognize him right away. Even with his back to me, his rigid stance and commanding presence are clear. My dad catches my eye and motions for us to come over, while Luigi does the same for his sons. 

 

I weave through the crowd effortlessly, flashing polite smiles and nodding as I go. A woman from the De Silva family stops to comment, her lips curling into a tight smile. “That gown is quite daring, don’t you think?” 

 

I return her smile sweetly, tilting my head slightly. "I’d rather not blend into the background." My words are sweet, but the underlying tone isn’t lost on her. Her expression tightens, and she steps aside with a huff. 

 

When I finally reach my dad, he’s already shaking hands with Riccardo. "Ah, Riccardo, I’m not sure if you remember my other daughter, Ava." 

 

The way my father said my name broke my heart, but I pushed through with a confident smile and reached out my hand. "Great to see you again, Riccardo," I say, keeping my tone friendly. 

 

He barely looks at me, giving my hand a quick shake before letting go, his grip feeling distant. "I'm sure it is," he replies, turning back to his drink without saying anything else. This wasn’t the same man I fell in love with years ago. Something in him had died. The spark he once held in his eyes was gone. 

 

That slight feels like a punch, but I keep my cool. "The gala is stunning, right?" I ask, watching him closely, trying to figure out the guy behind that frosty exterior. He wasn't always like this. He used to make small talk with me. 

 

He shrugs and takes a sip of his drink. 

 

I force a tight smile, muttering to myself, "Real chatty, huh?" 

 

“Look Ava, let’s make it clear. I don’t want to talk to a knock off like you.!” He spat out decisively . 

 

My eyes went wide, “A knock off?” His words hurt me so much that everything around me suddenly felt unreal. 

 

Riccardo still had that glare in his eyes, “Yes, do you really think you can take Maddy’s place? You are pathetic. You will never be her so do us all a favor and stop acting like her because it looks pathetic on you.” 

Just as I'm about to step away, Riccardo's brother Bento comes over, his vibe completely different from Riccardo's. He greets me with a warm smile, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "So, what do you think of my brother after all this time?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. 

 

I can't help but chuckle a bit, even though I'm still hurt by what Riccardo had just said. "If I had to guess, I'd say he's got a serious case of arrogance or maybe he's still pining for Maddy." 

 

Bento laughs, sounding light and carefree. "Yeah, he wasn't always like that, but that's just Riccardo De Lucca for you now. Always so serious and calculating." He shakes his head playfully. "Too bad he doesn't have my charm." 

 

I raise an eyebrow, a smirk creeping onto my face. "That's one way to see it." 

 

Bento shrugs casually. "I like to think I'm a bit more easygoing. That's probably why I get to enjoy these events while Riccardo sulks in the corner." He leans in a bit, lowering his voice like we're sharing a secret. "No need to stress about him. He's all about business, always has been." 

 

Bento catches sight of someone across the room and gives me a cheeky salute. "Duty calls. But don’t worry, I’ll be around if you need some fun company."  

 

As he strolls away, I can’t help but chuckle a bit. Bento’s got that charm, but my thoughts keep drifting back to Riccardo. He hasn’t budged or even glanced my way since. His cold shoulder sticks with me like a bad aftertaste. 

 

I take another look at him; his serious demeanor draws attention even though he’s completely ignoring me. Right then, I decide: Riccardo De Lucca and I are never going to see eye to eye. 

 

The rest of the night carries on in the usual chaotic fashion these galas are known for. Waiters glide through the crowd with trays of champagne, while a string quartet plays softly, blending with the low chatter around us. 

 

I chat when I have to, exchanging polite words with both friends and enemies. Every conversation feels like a strategic game, with each word carefully picked to avoid stepping on anyone’s toes. I definitely don’t want my dad breathing down my neck or giving me a hard time when I get home. 

 

At one point, I find myself stuck in a conversation with the wife of a wealthy arms dealer, who goes on for ten minutes about her fabulous new villa in Italy. I nod along, pretending to be interested, while my mind wanders back to Riccardo. 

 

He’s still at the bar, a solid figure lingering at the edge of my sight. I can sense him even when I’m not looking, a constant reminder of how he brushed me off earlier. Later, Bento pops up again, giving me a wink and cracking a joke about the ridiculous outfits of the De Silva family. His humor is a nice break, and for a moment, I actually smile. 

 

The night drags on, a whirlwind of chats and calculated looks. 

 

By the time my family is ready to head out, I’m wiped out, both physically and mentally. As I make my way to the exit, I sneak one last look at Riccardo. He’s still at the bar, his drink untouched, staring off into space. 

 

He doesn’t glance my way.  

 

And honestly, it doesn’t bother me. Or at least, that’s what I keep convincing myself.