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The damage we inflicted was calculated. My first act as the resurrected heir to the DeLuca throne. Strategically, the weapons we acquired will serve us well in the war to come. But the true victory was in the message itself, delivered directly to Marco’s hands.

This is only the beginning.

I wonder if he sleeps at night, knowing I’m out here, moving pieces on a board he thought he controlled. I wonder if he feels me coming for him, closing the distance between predator and prey.

“The Russo family has arrived,” Ettore notes, touching my elbow lightly. “Elio is old-guard, respected. Your father trusted him. His support would send a powerful message.”

I nod, preparing to descend the grand staircase. This gala—ostensibly a charity event for the children’s hospital, but in reality a neutral meeting ground for the city’s criminal elite—is my formal debut.

The whispers about the DeLuca twins have grown too loud to ignore. Tonight, I transform whispers into shouts.

As I place my foot on the first step, the crowd below shifts like a startled school of fish, parting for a late arrival.

My heart stutters to a stop, then kickstarts at double speed.

Marco.

He stands in the entrance, immaculate in a black tuxedo that hugs his broad shoulders like a second skin. His hair, usually falling across his forehead in those casual waves that my fingers once loved to tangle in, is slicked back, emphasizing the sharp angles of his face. But it’s his eyes that capture me—green as poison, scanning the room until they lock on mine.

“Aria?” Ettore’s voice seems distant, underwater. “Are you all right?”

I can’t answer. Can’t breathe. I can’t look away from the man who betrayed me—who buried the truth about my family’s slaughter while pulling me into his arms, into his bed, like he hadn’t already destroyed me.

My knuckles whiten around the banister, the cool metal grounding me.

He shouldn’t be here.

This event is hosted by the Castellano family—neutral territory, yes, but not Bianchi allies.

Yet no one moves to stop him as he strides through the crowd with the confidence of a man who owns every room he enters.

He’s coming straight for me.

“Ettore,” I say, steady. “Can you give us a moment? He won’t try anything here.”

I see the protest forming on his lips, but I silence it with a look. He hesitates, then steps back with a curt nod, melting into the shadows but keeping me in sight.

Marco climbs the stairs toward me. Conversations hush as heads turn to watch this unexpected confrontation.

I lift my chin, refusing to retreat even as every instinct screams at me to run.

“Aria,” his voice is so low that only I can hear. “You look beautiful.”

“What are you doing here?” I demand, proud of how cold I sound when inside, I’m burning from how he looks at me.

His lips curve into that half-smile that once made my heart flutter. Now it makes my blood boil. “I was invited. The Castellanos and I have business arrangements that transcend family loyalties.”

“How convenient for you.”

“Dance with me.” It’s not a request.

I laugh, the sound brittle as ice cracking. “You must be joking.”

His hand finds the small of my back, the heat of his palm searing through the thin silk of my gown. “Everyone is watching, Aria,” he murmurs, his breath stirring the small curls at my temple. “They’re waiting to see if the DeLuca princess runs from the Bianchi wolf. Is that the message you want to send on your grand debut?”

I hate him. I hate that he’s right. But nothing infuriates me more than the way my body still yearns for him, despite everything.

I loathe the power he still has over me. The way my body forgets everything my mind remembers.