Page 7

Daniele’s laugh returns, harsher now. “You think marrying me off is going to fix this? Do you even hear yourself?”

“You think I don’t hate this too?” My voice rises, and for a moment, I see him flinch. “I’m not doing this because I want to. I’m doing this because it’s the only way to ensure the Davacalli name doesn’t go up in flames—and to avoid a bloodbath. Do you have any idea what would happen if Marcello found out?”

He glares at me, defiant as ever. “And what about Maria? We’d be stripping away the freedom of a girl who doesn’t deserve this.”

“She doesn’t have a choice either,” I admit, my throat tightening at the memory of her standing in the hallway, her face pale, her eyes wide with grief—and something else. Something that made my chest tighten in a way I couldn’t explain.

“She’s innocent in all of this,” Daniele mutters.

“I know.” My voice softens, betraying the storm inside me. “But this marriage will be good for her. Our name carries weight, and she’ll be far safer as a Davacalli than a Faravelli. The vultures have already begun to circle them.”

Daniele shakes his head. “You’re a coward.”

I let the insult hang in the air, unchallenged. I know he’s speaking from a place of emotion, acting on his anger. Normally I’d never let that shit slide—but today, I’ll allow it.

“Maybe,” I say, “but this decision is final, and you can’t change my mind. If you want to sit on the throne after me, then you’ll marry this girl. End of story.” My tone leaves no room for argument.

He balls his hands at his sides, the vein in his temple protruding, anger rolling off him in waves. He doesn’t sayanother word. He just rises from his seat, gives me one last look, and storms out of the study.

I watch him go, and I know one thing for certain—I’ll carry the weight of this guilt for the rest of my life.

And yet, despite everything, one thought lingers in the back of my mind. A thought I dare not entertain.

Maria Faravelli.

Her beauty. Her fire. The way her presence commands attention without even trying. The brush of her arm against mine shouldn’t have burned. But it did. And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

Damn it.

I stay in the study long after Daniele slams the door behind him. The silence is deafening—but somehow, the stillness is welcome. My glass is empty, but I don’t pour another drink. The alcohol isn’t doing its job. It’s not enough to drown the memories I wish I could forget.

Maria Faravelli.

I’ve known her since she was a child. Her father and I used to sit on the Faravelli patio in New York while the kids played in the garden. Back then, she was just a little girl with scraped knees and a shy smile.

But the woman I saw at the funeral wasn’t the same.

She stood tall despite her grief, a fire in her hazel eyes that didn’t match the black veil she wore. Even as she mourned her brother, she commanded attention. The room shifted when she walked in, and for the first time in years, I felt something crack in the armor I’ve spent decades building.

It’s wrong. Disgusting, even, to think of her this way. She’s young enough to be my daughter—and soon enough, she’ll be Daniele’s wife. But none of that changes the way my pulse quickens when I picture her standing there, her lips trembling as she spoke to me at the funeral.

This has to stop.

I push myself out of the chair and head out of the study toward the damn pool. I need to cool off. I step onto the back porch, kick off my shoes, and dive in—fully clothed—as the moon hangs high above me.

I submerge myself in the water, desperate to drown the thoughts of the woman who has somehow stopped me dead in my tracks. The only other person who ever managed that was Beatrice. And now—now the first woman to stir something in me in decades just so happens to be the one I’ve arranged to marry my son.

This is fucking great.

3

MARIA

Ilook at myself in the mirror in my walk-in closet. I am the vision of the perfect bride-to-be. A white midi dress that hints at my femininity without showing too much. The strapless bodice cups my cleavage perfectly, giving my breasts the ideal roundness. My neck is adorned with one of my mother’s sapphire necklaces. It’s a small teardrop-shaped pendant that hangs on my chest—a gift she received from my brother.

Antonio. Oh, how I wish he could be here. Had he still been alive, none of this would be happening.

I touched up my makeup and kept my face a little natural to avoid looking too caked and overdone. I smack my lips together, mixing in the light lipstick I had applied.