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“The DeLuca loyalists,” I cut him off. “They’ve rallied to her. To them, she’s not my wife. She’s Emilio DeLuca’s daughter.”

Understanding dawns in Nicolo’s eyes. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “This is?—”

“War,” I finish for him, tucking the note into my jacket pocket. “She’s not just defying me. She’s not just declaring war. She’s started it with the upper hand. She won this round.”

I turn to face the burning warehouse, the destruction that bears my wife’s signature.

“And your father?” Nicolo asks cautiously. “Salvatore will want to know about this.”

The question hangs in the air between us. My father, who hunts the DeLuca heirs without knowing one sleeps in his son’s bed. My father, who will kill Aria on sight if he discovers her true identity.

“My father doesn’t need to know yet,” I say, the decision crystallizing in my mind. “This is between Aria and me. For now.”

Nicolo nods, relief evident in his expression. He, like most of my inner circle, has always feared Salvatore’s volatile nature more than my calculated rage.

As he moves away to relay my orders, I remain fixed in place, watching my warehouse burn. The heat dries the sweat on my forehead, sears my lungs with each breath. I welcome the pain. Let it fuel what comes next.

I pull out the note again, running my thumb over her handwriting:This is only the beginning.

A promise. A challenge.

“You’ve made your move, Aria,” I murmur to the flames. “Now watch mine.”

She thinks she knows what war with a Bianchi means, but she’s about to learn that I fight very differently than my father.

I will take back what’s mine. Every weapon. Every territory. And most importantly, the woman who dared to challenge me.

Let her play at being a DeLuca queen. I’ll remind her what it means to be a Bianchi wife.

29

ARIA

Istand on the indoor balcony overlooking the grand ballroom with a glass of champagne in my hand.

Chiara refused to come tonight, but I won’t let that falter my plans.

I’m here to see, and more importantly, be seen.

There’s a sea of criminal aristocracy below where I stand: men and women who trade in blood and secrets.

They don’t know yet whether to scorn me, bow to me, or fear me.

Good.

Let them wonder.

My gown’s emerald silk is light against my skin, and the high slit reveals just enough leg to make the old guard uncomfortable.

I am Aria DeLuca, risen from the ashes of my slaughtered family, and tonight, I claim my birthright in the open for the first time.

Ettore stands beside me, his unruly waves tamed for the occasion, his loyal presence a shield against the glances thrown our way. In two weeks, he’s become my closest advisor, teaching me the intricate dance of power that my father once mastered.

On my other side, his wife, Mirabella, surveys the view alongside me. She’s the epitome of elegance, dressed like the belle of the ball, with her hair swept to one side, diamonds glittering down her neck, and a body crafted by the gods themselves. She hasn’t said much to me tonight, but I feel her approval—or at least, her curiosity. A woman watching another woman step into her inheritance.

“They’re whispering about the warehouse,” he murmurs, nodding toward a cluster of men whose hushed conversation doesn’t quite reach us. “Salvatore Bianchi’s people are scrambling. Word is he’s furious but doesn’t know how to act next.”

I allow myself a small smile, satisfaction blooming warm in my chest. “Fine. Let him stumble.”