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Omero chuckles behind his teeth. “This is going to be cinema.”

Alfio leans in with a smirk. “Think they’ll make out before dessert?”

Enzo finally speaks, voice flat. “Grow up. Let’s go.”

He leads the way down the corridor. Riccardo flips him off playfully but follows.

Upstairs waits my illusion. My dressed-up lie. The innocent girl I need to fool a room full of wolves.

I climb the stairs with quick steps, each one sinking heavier than the last. The hallway bends, opens to the suite.

The door’s cracked open.

Inside, the old maid is bent low, adjusting something near Lunetta’s chin.

Lipstick. Crimson. A little smudge. The maid’s hands are gentle, practiced.

I clear my throat.

The maid jolts upright like a schoolgirl caught sneaking candy. She bows slightly and steps back. Lunetta rises slowly from the chair and—

The dress is black. Elegant. Full sleeves that hug her arms, a soft draped neckline that pulls just enough attention without being obscene. Fabric cinched at the waist, then dips over her hips like water. Her shape—God, her shape. Hourglass lines that hadn’t been visible under all the oversized clothing. The slit up the side reveals toned legs balanced in black heels that make her calves flex just right.

Her hair’s swept up, a few curls falling free, brushing the edges of her face. And her lips—painted, parted slightly as she exhales.

But it’s her eyes that undo me.

She meets my gaze, not shyly, not boldly—just there. She smiles, small and uncertain.

And I feel it in my fucking chest.

Like something tightens.

Like I've just walked into a trap.

One she didn’t even set.

One I might never crawl out of.

Chapter Sixteen – Lunetta

The moment we step out of the car, I feel like I’ve stepped into another world entirely. Just when I needed to cling to my rosary, the maid said I couldn’t wear it with my dress.

Vieri’s arm is linked with mine, his fingers pressed just enough against my wrist to remind me I’m not free. That this is a performance. That I belong to him—for now.

We walk toward the sprawling lawn, where elegant tables fan out beneath glowing chandeliers strung from wrought-iron hooks.

Behind us, his brothers follow. I hear the faint scuff of shoes over grass, the occasional low murmur between them.

My heartbeat drums beneath my ribs.

We approach the grand entrance, and my gaze shifts upward. The mansion looming before us is just as big as Vieri’s. Columns, balconies, flowers climbing up trellises. People in gowns and tuxedos sip champagne, their laughter floating.

At the door, the old man from the mansion—the one who smiled too much—steps forward.

He and Vieri exchange an overly polite greeting, same with his brothers.

“Uncle Bellandi,” Vieri says, his voice as easy as a knife sliding through butter. “Sorry I didn’t do this earlier. Meet my girlfriend—Lunetta.”