Dante
The Romano townhouse hummed with controlled chaos—footsteps on marble, voices clipped, doors opening and shutting with military rhythm. Staff moved like chess pieces, every motion calculated, every detail sharpened to perfection. Engagement parties weren’t celebrations in this family. They were battles dressed in crystal and champagne.
I stood in front of the mirror, the starch of my shirt collar stiff against my throat. My reflection looked back at me—jaw set, eyes hard, the weight of expectation carved into every line of my face. The suit waited on the valet stand, black and precise, as though it too was measuring me before deciding if I was worthy to wear it.
The cufflinks clicked into place. Silver. Etched with the Romano crest. A reminder that nothing I put on was mine alo
