"I'm ready," I said. And surprisingly, I meant it.
In the limo, I watched the city pass through tinted windows. Cesare was on his phone, speaking in rapid Italian, sharp and commanding.
My hands shook. I clasped them in my lap.
He noticed. Ended his call, took my hand.
"You'll be perfect."
"How do you know?"
"Because you were perfect at the wedding. You've been perfect at everything I've asked you to do. It’s like you were made for this, whether you knew it or not."
"Even this morning?"
His eyes darkened. "Especially this morning."
Heat flooded through me.
"Why did you choose today?" he asked. "You had four more days."
"I don't know. It felt... right."
"Regrets?"
"No. Confusion. Questions. But not regret."
He brought my hand to his lips, kissed my knuckles. "Good."
The limo slowed.
"Last chance to prepare," Cesare said. "These men are predators. They'll smell fear, insecurity. Show them neither."
"And if I can't?"
"You can. You're stronger than you think. You're a Monti. That means something."
"Remember," he continued, "tonight you're the symbol of the Lombardo-Monti alliance. You represent peace between families that have been at war for three generations."
"No pressure."
His lips quirked. "Just stay close. Show them you're not afraid."
"But Iamafraid."
"Then lie convincingly. That's what power is."
The door opened. Cesare stepped out, then extended his hand. I took it, stepping into a world I'd never imagined.
Inside the club was opulent—old world elegance, dark woods, leather, cigars and expensive whiskey.
And men. Everywhere. Men in suits with sharp eyes that missed nothing.
The room quieted when Cesare entered. All eyes turned to us.
Cesare's hand was firm on my lower back—possessive, grounding, claiming me in front of everyone. We moved through the room. Men approached with greetings, calculating looks that made my skin crawl.
I smiled, nodded, and played my part. Then across the room, I saw him.
