I snort. He’s not wrong.
Milo groans. “We already know who the heirs are. Why the parade?”
“Tradition,” I say. “Grandfather said it’s older than the school.”
“We own the room,” Milo says. “Everyone’s been watching you since we got here.”
I shake my head. “No. They’re watching us. They might see my face, but they fear the three of us together. Start remembering that.”
My tone lands harder than I mean, but they need to hear it.
“Yeah, we know,” Milo says, glancing at the other side of the garden.
“You’ll still have to stand up there alone,” Marco says.
“I will,” I reply, lighting a cigarette. “And I’ll look every family in the eye while I do. Show them I’m here to stay.”
The smoke burns in my lungs, grounding me.
They both start bickering about something, Milo calling Marco a coward for never making a move on Rosa.
I lean back and close my eyes, letting their noise fade.
But she’s there anyway, walking the halls, pressed against the wall, whispering my name.
Then the warning cuts through it:She’s the enemy. Don’t start a war. They killed your grandmother.
Every instinct I have says she’s a sin. And I can’t forget it.
The ballroom dripsgold and blood.
My brothers flank me. Father and Grandfather lead the line. Behind us, Armani, Raf, Remo, Ricci. Leo follows quiet, sharp, all steel.
Legacy clings to us in every stitch, every step.
This isn’t a ball. It’s a battlefield dressed in glass and gold and we came to win.
My suit’s black, pressed sharp enough to cut. The Messina crest gleams silver at my cuff.
No mask tonight.
I want every enemy here to see my face when their reckoning comes.
None of them matter the moment she walks in.
Aoife.
Pale dress. High neck. Sleeves like chains.
Her family dressed her like an offering, pure, untouchable, breakable.
But her eyes burn. Fire still lives under all that silk.
She sees me.
Across the marble floor, her gaze locks on mine.
Conor’s glued to her side. Rory stands too close, hand on her back like he owns her, well he does. It’s his ring on her finger.
