She doesn't know everything. She thinks it's all for show, a grand charade for her audience. But the jewelry box in my pocket isn't just for show. It holds an exquisite diamond, real and cold, heavy in its setting. A diamond I spent hours choosing especially for her.
The photographer trailing us, discreetly positioned, is real. Every click of his camera, every captured angle, is a part of thisintricate, dangerous game. The timing, the lighting, all of it's been orchestrated with military precision. With a chilling, brutal purpose.
Because the Scorpione Nero's watching.
And I want them to see everything. I want them to see a man utterly obsessed. I want them to believe that she's an asset too precious to touch. A weakness they can't exploit without catastrophic public fallout.
She's breathtakingly radiant tonight. A white sundress, simple and soft, cinched at the waist, moving with her every breath. Her hair's up, a few strands falling loose around her face, framing her eyes, which sparkle with an unsettling mix of defiance and anticipation.
She looks like a woman in love. A woman about to say yes. And maybe she is.
God help me, maybe I am too. It's a terrifying realization.
We step out onto the Ponte Vecchio, the ancient bridge that spans the Arno. It's cleared, as if by magic. No tourists, no vendors. Only a few carefully placed extras, paid to gasp, to click photos, to bear witness. My men, positioned discreetly, ensure no unauthorized presence.
The bridge is all ours.
For this moment.
For this illusion.
She turns to me, lit by the sunset, that sly smile already on her lips. She's ready to play her part.
"I thought we weren't doing matching outfits," she teases, her tone light, playful, glancing down at my perfectly crisp white shirt. It's the kind of banter she's good at, the kind that feels natural to her, even when the stakes are life and death.
"It's not matching," I say, my words low, a rough murmur. I offer a faint, almost imperceptible smirk. "It's camouflage, Nikki. We blend into the scene. We become part of the romance.Part of the spectacle. No one looks too closely when the picture's perfect."
Her eyes soften then, a flicker of understanding, a hint of something deeper than her usual sass. "Are you nervous?" she asks.
She sees more than she should.
Always.
"Never," I reply automatically.
It's the truth I live by. I calculate. I execute. I never question. But even as I say it, the lie feels thin, fragile. My pulse is a war drum, hammering against my ribs, echoing in my ears. My palms are suddenly slick. This is a level of exposure, of vulnerability, I've never allowed myself. And it puts her right into their crosshairs.
I’ve orchestrated assassinations with less precision. But this isn’t about precision anymore. It’s about keeping her alive. And I don’t know if I’m doing this for her safety, or because I can’t imagine a future without her in it.
When we’re halfway across the bridge, I slowly drop to one knee. The stone feels cool and solid beneath my knee. Gasps ripple from the edges of the square, from the few carefully placed onlookers. The cameras rise, then click rapidly. I feel the weight of a thousand eyes, the flash of a thousand lights on us.
I reach into my inner jacket pocket and pull out the velvet box. It feels heavy in its significance. I open it, the small hinge creaking softly in the sudden, tense silence.
Inside is a diamond so clean, so flawless, it looks fake. Like the rest of this performance. Like the grand, elaborate lie we're selling to the world.
But when I look up at her, when our eyes meet, when I see the mixture of surprise, awe, and a glimmer of raw emotion in her wide, beautiful eyes…nothing feels fake to me.
Not for a moment.
It's all brutally, undeniably real. The desperate need to keep her safe. The terrifying, impossible desire to make this lie a truth.
She laughs, light and breathless. The sound scrapes something raw in my chest. And that’s when it hits me, this isn't pretend for me anymore.
She covers her mouth with one hand, her eyes wide, glistening. And I speak the line we rehearsed. The one she practiced rolling her eyes at, the one she swore sounded like a bad rom-com cliché.
"Nikki Ricci, will you marry me?" I say, the words smooth, practiced, yet infused with an unexpected weight.
She stares at me, her eyes searching mine, seeking out the truth beneath the performance. Then, she nods. A slow, deliberate movement, a surrender and a victory all at once. Her lips curve into a brilliant smile, meant for the cameras, but one that feels, for a fleeting moment, utterly genuine and meant only for me.
