GIULIANA
The invitation arrives one day after the disastrous dress fitting. The thick cream cardstock with embossed lettering is fancier than anything I’ve seen in my life. I stare at it over breakfast, my coffee going cold as I read the elegant script:Salvatore and Josefina Romano request the pleasure of your company for an evening celebration in honor of Chicago’s finest families.
“We’re going,” Luca says from across the table, not looking up from his tablet. “It’s not optional.”
I set down the invitation with trembling fingers. “I assumed as much.”
“Salvatore’s gatherings are important for maintaining alliances.” He finally glances up, his dark eyes assessing me critically. “Viktor Torrino will be there. The Benedettos. Everyone who matters in our world.” He sets down his tablet. “Which means you’ll be on display as my devoted fiancée.”
On display. Like I’m a particularly impressive item he wants to show off. The thought makes my stomach turn, but I force myself to nod. “What time should I be ready?”
“Seven. Linnea will help you dress.” He returns his attention back to the tablet.
I resume picking at my breakfast.
“And Giuliana?”
I look up to see him glaring at me. “Don’t embarrass me. These people aren’t like the boutique staff or wedding planners. They’re wolves, and they’ll eat you alive if they sense weakness.”
Fuck him. “I’ll play my part,” I say, not really wanting to argue anymore. I’mnotweak, but he’ll never believe me.
Luca nods. “See that you do.”
I’m standing in the Romano estate’s entrance hall, my hand tucked into the crook of Luca’s arm, trying not to let my terror show on my face.
The Romano estate makes Luca’s fortress look downright modest by comparison. It took everything in me to not gape when we pulled up to the place. Sprawling across what must be fifty acres of Chicago’s most exclusive suburb, the main house is all about excess. White columns that belong on a Greek temple. Fountains that could supply a small village. Manicured gardens that probably require a staff of twenty to maintain.
I hate it on sight.
The entrance hall is designed to intimidate. Black and white marble floors stretch toward a double staircase that curves up to the second floor. There’s enough security cameras to make a bank vault jealous. Staff members in formal attire moveefficiently through the space, carrying champagne and hors d’oeuvres that look too artistic to eat.
“Remember,” Luca murmurs against my ear, his breath warm on my skin, “you’re madly in love with me. Devoted. Grateful for the honor of becoming my wife. Can you manage that?”
I paste on a smile that feels like it might crack my face. “Of course.”
His fingers tighten warningly on my arm. “I’m serious, Giuliana. These people will be watching for any sign of discord, any hint that our marriage is anything other than what I’ve presented it to be. One wrong word, one inappropriate reaction, and you put both of us in danger.”
The casual mention of danger makes my pulse spike, but I keep my expression neutral. “I understand.”
“Good.” He presses a kiss to my temple—for show, always for show, even though it makes my heart skip a beat. “Then let’s go remind Chicago’s criminal elite exactly who they’re dealing with.”
The entrance hall swallows us into its marble embrace, and I’m immediately overwhelmed by the crowd. Dangerous people dressed in designer clothes, their conversations peppered with carefully coded language about territory and shipments and things I desperately wish I didn’t understand.
And everywhere, there are eyes. Watching and assessing every detail of my appearance and behavior for later analysis.
“Luca!” A booming voice cuts through the ambient noise, and my blood turns to ice before I even see the speaker.
Because I know that voice. I’ve heard it in my nightmares for three years.
A man approaches with the confident stride of someone who owns everything he surveys—silver hair perfectly styled, blue eyes sharp and assessing, an expensive suit tailored to disguise the softness that comes with age and excess. He looks like a respectable businessman, maybe a banker or a CEO.
“Giuliana,” Luca says, his fingers tightening slightly against my back, “this is our host, Salvatore Romano. Salvatore, my fiancée, Dr. Giuliana Conti.”
If Luca wasn’t touching me, I would have fallen over.
That voice. The voice that’s haunted my nightmares for three years. The voice I heard through my father’s phone that horrible night when he came home covered in blood and terror, reporting Marco’s death to the man who’d orchestrated it all.
“The wrong one died. I told you Marchetti would be there, but your intelligence was shit?—”
