He laughed, low and genuinely amused. “Ah. Straight to the point. I like that.” He swirled his drink, watching the liquid catch the light. “We don’t like war, signora. We prefer neutrality.”
He turned fully toward me then, his gaze sharp, stripping, intelligent. “Let the Volkovs, Orlovs, and Morozovs tear each other apart. When they’re exhausted—bleeding, weakened—the Ferraros will step in. We’ll sweep the board clean and rule Lake Como alone.”
He lifted his glass in a mock toast. “War benefits us.”
I tilted my head slightly, letting a small, knowing smirk touch my lips. “Bold of you to assume your family won’t be caught in the crossfire.”
His eyes narrowed just enough to be noticeable. “Is Dmitri Volkov planning to test our neutrality?” he asked. “Because that would be... entertaining.” A soft laugh followed. “The Volkovs against three families? He and his men wouldn’t last three days.”
“I never said he’d attack you,” I replied smoothly. “I’m offering you the winning side.”
His brow arched. “And you’re certain your husband is it?”
I leaned in just enough to lower my voice, the silk of my gown whispering against the chair. “Dmitri Volkov doesn’t fight wars he can’t win. He breaks enemies before the first shot is fired. The Orlovs are already desperate—they resorted to kidnapping a child to force his hand. That’s not strength. That’s rot.”
Ricci studied me closely now, recalculating. “And you think aligning with him protects us?”
“No,” I said softly. “I think aligning against him guarantees your downfall.”
Silence stretched between us, taut as wire.
“You speak with a lot of confidence for a woman who married into power,” Ricci said at last.
I met his gaze without blinking. “I didn’t marry into power,” I replied. “I survived it.”
He studied me for a long moment, swirling the whiskey in his glass as though divining answers from the amber liquid. The silence stretched, deliberate. Uncomfortable.
“Listen,” he began at last. “Involvement doesn’t benefit us.”
Ricci continued calmly. “Why should Ferraro blood be spilled for a fight that isn’t ours? And what is this, really?”
He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering, sharpening. “Don’t tell me Dmitri Volkov sent his pretty new wife to do what he and Giovanni failed to accomplish. Someone advised him very poorly if they believed charm and silk would succeed where leverage and steel did not.”
I held his gaze, refusing to blink, even as irritation and self-reproach tangled in my chest. He was right—and he knew it.
Before I could counter, he glanced at his watch again, dismissive now. “Visitors from Colombia have just arrived. I should greet them.”
Just like that, he rose—fluid, unhurried—and walked away without another glance, leaving behind an empty chair and the unmistakable weight of failure.
I exhaled slowly, the breath trembling despite my efforts.
I had misplayed this. I’d led with warnings when I should’ve led with inevitability. I hadn’t offered him territory, or concessions, or a vision of Ferraro dominance after the smokecleared. I had spoken like a woman trying to prevent a war, not a strategist selling victory.
Rookie mistake.
A prickle crept up my spine.
I looked up.
Across the ballroom, Dmitri’s eyes were locked on me. An elder stood beside him—round, florid, gesturing enthusiastically with a thick cigar—but Dmitri wasn’t listening. He didn’t need to. He was reading my face, the minute shifts I couldn’t fully mask. I gave the faintest shake of my head.
His jaw tightened. Just a fraction. Enough to promise consequences—though whether for himself or the Ferraros, I couldn’t tell.
I turned away.
And froze.
Someone had taken Ricci’s vacated seat.
