The words send heat spiraling through me, and I have to resist the urge to lean closer.
Instead, I force myself to sit back, to put some distance between us.
“That was a mistake,” I say, trying to sound more convinced than I feel.
“Was it?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with implication.
Because the honest answer is no, it wasn’t a mistake.
It was the first real thing that had happened to me in a night full of devastating revelations.
It was honest and raw and was one hundred percent what I’d needed in that moment.
But admitting that feels dangerous in ways I’m not ready to deal with.
The pilot’s voice crackles over the intercom, announcing our descent into Montreal, and I’m grateful for the distraction.
I need to focus on what’s coming, not on how Alessandro’s presence makes my skin feel too tight.
“Just…don’t get in my way tonight,” I say finally. “I know what I’m doing.”
“I hope you do.”
There’s something in his voice that makes me look at him sharply, but his expression is unreadable.
Whatever he’s thinking, he’s keeping it to himself.
Bastard.
The jet touches down smoothly, and within minutes we’re being escorted to a waiting car.
The October air in Montreal is crisp and cold, carrying the scent of autumn leaves and the promise of winter.
I pull my coat tighter around myself as we slide into the backseat of the black sedan.
Le Saint-Martin appears shortly after—all gleaming glass and elegant stonework, with warm golden light spilling from every window.
It’s the kind of place where rooms are eye-wateringly expensive and where every detail is designed to remind you that you’re in the presence of serious money and serious power.
I’ve been to places like this my entire life, but tonight it feels different.
Tonight, I’m not here as Matteo’s daughter, sheltered and protected.
I’m here as Giuseppe’s daughter, and these men are going to see what that means.
For the first time since leaving New York, I feel nervous.
The feeling hits me like a punch to the gut as we walk through the lobby.
Every surface screams luxury—marble floors so polished they reflect the crystal chandeliers above, fresh flowers that permeate the room, staff members who move with the kind of trained discretion that comes from serving the truly powerful.
I’ve grown up with this kind of wealth, but tonight it feels intimidating rather than familiar.
Tonight, I’m not just another rich girl playing at being important.
I’m walking into a room where my words could start wars, where my behavior will be analyzed and judged by men who’ve spent decades building and maintaining empires.
