Rome had never felt so cold.
The Palazzo Ferretti was lit like a cathedral of sin, the chandeliers dripping crystal and silence as Alessia stood at the heart of the hall, surrounded by ghosts in silk. She wore black tonight — not for mourning, but for war. Her gown clung to her body like it had been stitched onto her skin, her heels echoing with purpose on the marble floors. The wine in her glass was untouched, crimson and trembling as if it knew what was coming.
Across the room, Lorenzo stood in a cluster of his men. Cold. Watching. Calculating. His gaze slid to her like a blade, and the crowd between them split like the Red Sea. Their eyes met, and the breath between them cracked.
The last time they stood face to face, there had been blood. Her blood. His silence.
Tonight, there woul
