The Rossi villa brimmed with wolves dressed as gentlemen.
Adriana sat at her father’s side during the evening council, her spine rigid, her hands folded in her lap as men with cold eyes and heavy rings filled the chamber. The air was thick with cigar smoke, the low growl of voices discussing shipments, territories, and blood debts.
But all she heard was her father’s declaration from days before: You will marry Luca Bianchi.
Every word that passed around the table was another nail in her coffin.
Enzo’s cane struck the marble floor once, commanding silence. “The Bianchi alliance will be finalized within the week. My daughter’s hand will seal the pact.”
Murmurs of approval rippled through the men.
Adriana’s throat closed. She felt the weight of eyes on her—some appraising, some pitying,
