From this vantage, I could see Dmitri across the hall, deep in conversation with a cluster of elders—men whose families had ruled these shores for generations.
His posture was relaxed, casual, almost disarming—but I knew better. Every tilt of his head, every faint smile, was measured, calculated, a weapon wrapped in charm.
And then I saw him.
Antonio. My ex.
The name burned in my chest like acid.
The man who had kidnapped me six years ago—the night I lost my child. The night I woke to find myself in his house in Rome, chains heavy around my body, my freedom already gone.
The same man who now planned to root himself permanently in Lake Como after marrying Elena—my former secretary, the timid girl who once took orders with a quiet smile and flawless discretion.
Seeing him here, champagne flute in hand, laughing at some whispered joke, made bile rise in my throat.
The seat beside me had remained empty for most of the evening, a silent invitation for the Ferraro heir.
When Ricci finally slid into it, as fluid and commanding as a predator entering his territory, my pulse thudded against my ribs.
Every instinct screamed to retreat—but retreat wasn’t an option. Not tonight. Not when Dmitri’s future, the fragile hold we had over these families, depended on me.
I needed an opening.
Deliberately, I let my hand brush the edge of my water glass. It wobbled, tipped, and clinked against the crystal plate beneath. A soft, intentional sound.
Before I could even reach for it, Ricci’s long fingers closed around the stem, lifting it upright with a precision that spoke of both power and grace.
His eyes met mine, sharp, calculating, a spark of recognition—and amusement—flickering there.
He placed the glass back in front of me with deliberate care, his dark eyes lingering far longer than politeness required. Not admiration—assessment.
“Dmitri Volkov’s wife,” he said at last, a statement carved in stone rather than a question.
I offered a faint, practiced smile, the kind I’d perfected in rooms like this—rooms where women were currency and men mistook silence for weakness. ““Yes. You must be the Ferraros’ first son.”
“Second son,” he corrected smoothly, leaning back in his chair as though settling into a familiar throne. “The first died last year.”
“Oh.” I let genuine surprise soften my expression, just enough to be believable. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
His lips curved, but his eyes stayed cold. “I killed him.”
The words landed clean and sharp, like a blade slipped between ribs. My heart stuttered, instinct screaming, but my face remained serene—years of survival compressing panic into stillness.
“You’re very direct,” I said mildly.
“Life is short,” he replied. “Especially in families like mine.”
He lifted two fingers—not snapping, not speaking. A waiter appeared instantly, as if summoned by thought alone. Without a word, he poured two glasses of amber liquid, the scent unmistakable—aged Macallan, expensive enough to signal both power and indifference to cost. Ricci slid one toward me.
“For courage,” he said lightly. “Or clarity. Sometimes they’re the same thing.”
I lifted the glass and drank. The burn spread slow and steady, grounding me. Now or never.
“I’ve heard rumors,” I said, keeping my tone conversational, eyes drifting toward the dance floor as though this were idle chatter between acquaintances. “They say war is coming to Lake Como.”
Ricci glanced down at his Patek Philippe Complications—rose gold, hand-finished, obscene in its perfection—before answering. “Rumors tend to mature into truths around here.”
“And when it does,” I continued evenly, “whose side will the Ferraros stand on? My husband’s... or the Orlovs’?”
