Inside, Dad leads me down a wide hallway lined with oil paintings in gilded frames, his men flanking us like an honor guard. We pass through a set of towering double doors.
The ballroom is vast and magnificent, a vision of old-world opulence. Golden light pours from an enormous crystalchandelier, illuminating pale marble floors that gleam like polished ice. The walls are covered in intricate molding, cherubs and flowers and vines all painted in gold leaf that catch the light. Tall arched windows line one wall, the glass sparkling.
It’s beautiful.
Breathtaking.
And completely empty.
No guests. No waiters. No one but Dad’s men, who are positioning themselves around the edges of the room with practiced efficiency. There isn’t even somewhere for us to sit down and eat, or a table at the side of the room with champagne and glasses. I wonder if the catering manager isn’t expecting us yet.
“Are we early?” I ask, but Dad doesn’t answer.
“Stand there. Don’t move.” Dad points to a spot beneath the chandelier before striding away to speak in a low voice to one of his men.
I move to the place he indicated, my footsteps echoing in the silence. I feel exposed standing here alone in the center of this golden room. The enormous chandelier hangs above me, and the back of my neck prickles as I imagine it crashing down on my head.
I count my breaths, trying to calm my racing heart. In and out. I can do this. It’s just a meeting. Just an engagement party. The rest of my life has already been decided, and all I need to do is smile and let it happen.
Several figures appear in the doorway.
The Vicis enter.
The oldest man must be Don Elio Vici. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, his dark suit immaculate, a raven tattooed on the back of his hand. His eyes sweep over me with predatory awareness.
Beside him walks a woman who must be his wife. She’s beautiful in a severe way, her pale hair pulled back, her black dress elegant. She moves with grace, but there’s steel in her spine.
Behind them come three younger people. A girl, younger than me, maybe seventeen or eighteen. She has her mother’s beauty and her father’s watchful eyes. Then two men with the same blond hair and sharp features as their parents. One is broader, more muscular and confident. The other is leaner and warier.
None of them are smiling.
My stomach drops as I study the two sons. Which one is Vincenzo? The mugshot didn’t show enough detail. They’re both tall and dangerous in a way that makes my pulse skip.
I glance desperately at my father, but he’s hanging back with his men. How can he be so rude after drilling into me how important this moment is?
The Vici family reaches the center of the ballroom, and Don Elio Vici gazes coldly at me.
I fix a smile to my face, determined not to look like a frightened child. Who should I greet first? The father? The mother? One of the sons?
Before I can decide, Mrs. Vici steps forward, her expression softening slightly. “You must be Adora. You’re even lovelier than your picture.”
“Thank you,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mrs. Vici.”
“Call me Lucia. We’re going to be family soon.”
Behind her, the daughter smiles at me tentatively. Up close, I can see she’s nervous too, fidgeting with the bracelet on her wrist.
One of the sons—the broader one—steps forward and extends his hand. “I’m Marco. It’s good to finally meet you.”
Not Vincenzo, then.
I shake his hand, and then the other son offers his. “Dante,” he says with a slight nod.
Confusion flutters through me, and Dante must see it in my face because he explains, “I’m Don Elio’s nephew. I work closely with the family.”
Then where is Vincenzo? Did he refuse to come? Is he running late? Does he not want this marriage?
Before I can ask, the double doors slam shut, the sound echoing through the golden room like gunshots.
