The music had barely faded when the shouting began.
“Moretti!” someone roared, the voice sharp with outrage. Glass shattered against marble, and in an instant the air inside the Rossi ballroom turned poisonous.
Damian stood calm in the center, the smirk gone, his eyes narrowed like a wolf surrounded by snapping dogs. His men bristled at the edges of the crowd, hands resting near hidden weapons.
Adriana’s breath caught as her father rose from his chair, his cane striking the floor with a crack that silenced the room.
“You dare come here,” Don Enzo hissed, his voice thunder in the gilded hall, “and lay hands on my daughter? You spit on my house, my bloodline, my name?”
Every muscle in Adriana’s body stiffened. His daughter. His bloodline. As if she were property—an insult to be avenged,
