My hand freezes halfway to accepting his offered handshake. Blood pounds in my ears so loudly I’m surprised no one else can hear it. This ishim. The real murderer. The man who used my father as a pawn, who planned Marco’s death, who destroyed both our families for his own territorial ambitions.
And he’s standing here, greeting me with a warm smile like we’re at a fucking garden party.
“Dr. Conti,” Salvatore says, his blue eyes assessing me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl. “What a pleasure to finally meet you. Luca’s been keeping you quite hidden away.”
I force my hand forward, letting him take it. His grip is firm, his palm dry and cool, and touching him makes me want to scrub my skin raw.
“Mr. Romano,” I say, even though I want to run screaming in the other direction. “Thank you for inviting us. Your home is beautiful.”
The words come out steadier than I feel, which is a minor miracle considering my heart is trying to break through my ribs. I can feel Luca’s eyes on me, probably noting my stiffness, and I force myself to breathe normally, to smile politely, to play the role expected of me.
“Please, call me Salvatore.” His smile is wooden and fake. “Any friend of Luca’s is a friend of mine. Though I must say, you’re even lovelier than the rumors suggested. Our Luca is a very lucky man.”
“I’m the lucky one,” I manage, the lie tasting like poison on my tongue.
Salvatore laughs, a practiced sound that probably serves him well in business negotiations. “Diplomaticandbeautiful. No wonder Luca’s been so secretive.” He finally releases my hand, turning his attention to Luca. “We should talk later about that shipping arrangement. I have some thoughts on the new routes.”
“Of course,” Luca replies smoothly. “After dinner?”
“Perfect. In the meantime, please, enjoy yourselves. The bar is excellent, the food is better, and the company…” He gestures around the room with false modesty. “Well, we try our best.”
He moves away to greet other guests, and I’m left standing there trying to remember how to breathe normally. My hands areshaking. I clench them into fists, hiding the tremor in the folds of my dress. It’s another designer creation Luca selected, this one royal purple silk that clings to every curve and makes me feel simultaneously beautiful and exposed.
The secret I’ve carried for three years suddenly feels like a bomb in my chest, ticking down toward an explosion I can’t prevent.
This is him. The real murderer. And Luca has no idea.
“You’re trembling,” Luca observes quietly, his hand still at my back. “Are you alright?”
“Fine.” The lie comes out too quickly. “Just nervous. All these people?—”
“Are harmless as long as you’re with me.” His fingers press slightly harder against my spine. “Stay close and play your part. That’s all you need to do.”
I nod mutely, not trusting my voice. Because what am I supposed to say? That man you just shook hands with is the real architect of Marco’s death? That my father was coerced into betrayal by the man you’re negotiating business with? That I’ve been carrying proof of this for three years and haven’t told you because I’m terrified of what happens if I do?
The words die unspoken in my throat, choked by fear and self-preservation.
Luca guides me deeper into the crowd, and I force myself to focus on the immediate performance rather than the larger horror. I meet Viktor Torrino again and his daughter Natasha.
“Dr. Conti,” Natasha says with a cool smile. “How lovely to see you again. You look…well.”
The pause before “well” is deliberate, loaded with meaning I don’t want to decode. “Thank you. You look beautiful as always.”
“You’re too kind.” She takes a delicate sip of champagne. “Tell me, how are the wedding preparations going? I imagine planning such an elaborate event must be quite stressful.”
“It’s been an adjustment,” I admit carefully, aware of Luca’s presence beside me. “But Luca’s been very…involved in the process.”
“I’m sure he has.” Something sharp flickers in her expression. “Luca does like to control every detail, doesn’t he? It’s part of his charm.”
I have nothing to say to that, and thankfully Luca whisks me away to be introduced to someone else. The next hour passes in a similar way. I shake hands with men whose names I recognize from news reports about organized crime, and I smile at women who look at me with expressions ranging from curiosity to jealousy to pity.
And everywhere, I watch Luca command the room with effortless authority. He moves through the crowd like a king among subjects, his presence demanding deference even from men twice his age with decades more experience. People part for him automatically, conversations pause when he approaches, and every interaction reinforces the same message: Luca Marchetti is not someone to be crossed.
But what strikes me most is the women. Beautiful, sophisticated women who move around him with a familiarity that speaks of long acquaintance and possibly more. They touch his arm with casual intimacy, laugh at his comments with genuine warmth, and look at me with barely concealed assessment. They’remeasuring whether I’m worthy of the position they probably once hoped to claim.
A stunning brunette in a slinky gold dress approaches with champagne glasses, pressing one into Luca’s hand with a megawatt smile to show off her blindingly white teeth. “Luca, darling,” she nearly purrs, “it’s been too long. You never call anymore.”
“Isabella.” Luca accepts the champagne but doesn’t return her smile. “How’s your husband?”
