4

Alessia

A light tap on my shoulder startled me awake.

I blinked, disoriented, my cheek damp from where it had pressed against my palm. Mother stood over me, lips pursed in that familiar, disappointed line.

“How can you fall asleep in a moment like this?” She hissed, tugging me upright. My dress bunched awkwardly beneath me. She ran her palms over the silk, brushing the wrinkles away. One hand came up to fix a stray strand behind my ear.

“It’s time.”

Right. I’d forgotten what I was waiting for. Forgotten everything, really, once I’d escaped back to my room. I’d curled into myself like a coward, trying not to replay the sound of low grunts and feminine moans. But the memory came anyway. Over and over again.

Mother gave me one last look, then turned and left without another word. I followed, wobbling slightly in the nude stilettos she’d insisted I wear. When we reached the west wing, she stopped, and turned, her features softening slightly. “You’ll go in alone. Your father will make the necessary introductions, and then…” She hesitated for the first time all evening. “Then everything changes.”

She’d said those words to me before. Dozens of times in the last week. But tonight, they didn’t feel like a reminder. They felt like a warning.

“Mother,” I said quietly. almost hoping she'd decide to follow me.

But she took a step back. “Now go. This is your moment, Alessia. Walk in with your head high.”

For a split second, I wanted to grab her hand and beg her to come with me. Just stand beside me. Be a shield. But I nodded instead. By the time I reached the heavy oak doors of the drawing room, my throat was dry. I'd only ever been inside twice in my life, both times as a child, both times quickly ushered out. That room belonged to men who did dark, terrible things in the name of honor.

A man stepped forward from where he'd been standing sentry near the door.

"Signorina Alessia," he said with a soft smile. "You look bellissima."

"Grazie," I managed, though my voice barely carried. Tomasso had been with us for as long as I could remember. He was a mountain of a man, with silver streaking his temples and tired eyes that held stories I didn't dare to ask about.

He gave a quiet nod and pulled the door open. I straightened my spine and stepped into the room. I quickly scanned the faces of the gathered men. From Chicago, there was my father. Beside him, Giuseppe Mancini, his consigliere, swirled a glass of whiskey, whispering something to his son, Leone, who was watching me with a smirk that made my skin crawl.

From New York, there were only two men. One was an older man, Rafael Moretti. I didn't need an introduction to recognise him and beside him stood a younger man, who seemed more interested in the collection of daggers displayed on the walls, rather than what was going on in the room.

The door opened and my eyes sought out the man who just entered. I held my breath as he walked closer.

“My apologies,” he said casually, sliding a phone into his pocket. “The call was very important.”

I forgot how to breathe. It was him, the man from the cellar. His cold gray eyes moved from my face down the line of my throat, and back up again, pausing ever so slightly on my hair. If he recognised me, he didn't let it show.

Father finally moved toward me, and led me toward the gathered men. He cleared his throat. “This is my daughter, Alessia.”

Every gaze in the room landed on me. I forced a polite smile, pretending I couldn’t feel Leone’s eyes raking over me like I was merchandise he planned to manhandle before purchase. I stared at a spot just above his head, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of flinching.

Rafael Moretti offered a faint smile. “A beautiful girl,” he said. “Your reputation didn’t do her justice.”

“Aren’t you impressed, Nico?” Giuseppe chimed in. “You’ll have the most beautiful bride in the entire Syndicate.”

Nico didn’t answer right away. His face was set in a hard line, and he didn’t look at me with anything more than mild disinterest, as though I were no more than a passing thought. I swallowed, feeling the sting of that indifference. At least with Leone, I could see his intentions, no matter how repulsive. But with Nico, there was nothing. I wasn’t sure if that was worse.

“Stunning,” he said flatly. “Really.”

The sarcasm was so subtle, only I caught it.

I bit the inside of my cheek.

“She’s obedient too,” Giuseppe added, lifting his glass. “And untouched. Still a rare thing these days.”

Heat crawled up my neck. I kept my chin lifted, breathing through the slow burn of humiliation.

“Untouched, huh?” Leone drawled, voice thick with suggestion. “I give it a week before Nico’s got her on her knees, moaning like a bitch in heat. Virgins always act shy until you—.”

No one had seen Nico move, but suddenly, he was behind Leone, knife drawn, the silver tip pressed to the underside of Leone’s throat, right over the pulse.

The room went deathly silent.

“You speak about her like that again, and I’ll gut you right here. Slowly. And no one—” his cold eyes flicked to Giuseppe, to my father, to Rafael, “—no one will stop me. Capisci?”

Leone froze, all the blood draining from his face.

Giuseppe rose from his chair. “It was just a joke—”

“No,” Rafael said. “It wasn’t.”

Giuseppe sat back down.

Nico slowly pulled the blade back, but not before letting it drag, enough to leave the thinnest red line. “I’m not marrying her so she can be gawked at like some puttana on display.”

My father, to his credit, didn’t protest. He simply cleared his throat. “We’re all family now. Perhaps we choose our words more carefully.”

Nico sheathed the knife as if he hadn't just threatened murder in a room full of made men, and returned to his seat like nothing happened.