The Rossi ballroom glittered with chandeliers, but beneath the polished marble floors and golden lights, tension lay coiled like a viper waiting to strike. Every mafia heir, every patriarch, every vulture dressed in silk had gathered to witness what they called a celebration of unity.
But Adriana knew it was a funeral.
She stood near the edge of the grand hall, her wrists adorned not with chains tonight, but with diamonds chosen by Isabella. A cruel mockery of freedom. She wore a gown of crimson silk, the color of spilled blood, her reflection sharp and unfamiliar in the gilded mirrors that lined the walls.
Every time her eyes flicked across the room, they found him. Damian Moretti. Tall. Commanding. Dressed in black, his presence made the air itself thrum with tension. But his face was
