Nico’s hand movements are precise and deliberate as he gestures while speaking. Nothing wasted, nothing without purpose. Despite being at least twenty years Silvo’s senior, he carries himself with the same coiled energy—like a predator at rest but ever vigilant.
Something about his intensity reminds me so much of my husband. The way his gaze sweeps the room, cataloging threats, exits, and opportunities. The casual way he touches the arm of the man beside him—a gesture that looks friendly but clearly establishes dominance.
His eyes suddenly meet mine across the room. Unlike Maximo’s open hostility, Nico’s expression is unreadable, an assessment without judgment. For a heartbeat too long, we maintain eye contact, neither willing to look away first. The corner of his mouth twitches upward slightly—not quite a smile, more an acknowledgment.
I feel a strange flutter in my stomach. This man has been trying to destroy my husband’s family for weeks, yet there’s something magnetic about him. Something compelling that makes me understand how he commands loyalty.
I drift toward the bar for another drink when I notice Adele weaving through the crowd toward Nico Moretti. She passes so close to him it could be accidental, but something in her deliberate movements suggests otherwise. Nico’s gaze follows her, his expression transforming in a way that makes my breath catch.
The hardness melts from his face. His eyes soften at the corners, and something private passes between them—a look that belongs in bedrooms, not ballrooms. He straightens almost imperceptibly when she approaches, like a man preparing himself. It’s subtle, but unmistakable.
Adele says something to him while maintaining a respectable distance. Anyone watching would see nothing untoward, just apolite exchange. But I catch how his fingers twitch at his side, as though fighting the urge to reach for her. When she walks away, his eyes track her movements with naked hunger before his mask of indifference slides back into place.
The surveillance photos flash through my mind. This confirms everything.
A commotion across the room pulls my attention. Maximo Moretti has cornered Isabella near a marble column, his body language aggressive as he towers over her.
“You De Luca women think you’re too good for everyone,” Maximo sneers, loud enough for nearby guests to hear.
Isabella’s spine straightens. “And you Moretti men think with the wrong head.”
Guests around them fall silent, champagne glasses suspended midair.
“At least we have courage,” Maximo steps closer, invading Isabella’s space. “At least we don’t pretend centuries of blood can disappear with one handshake and a charity ball.”
“Is that what you call courage?” Isabella laughs, the sound brittle. “Coming to neutral ground to pick fights with women?”
Something dark and possessive flashes in Maximo’s eyes. He reaches for Isabella’s wrist, and she yanks it away, sending her champagne splashing across his custom suit.
“You’ll regret that,” he growls, but his gaze drops to her lips.
“I doubt it,” Isabella retorts, color high on her cheeks.
The tension between them crackles with something beyond hatred—something primitive that makes me flush just witnessing it.
Fed appears at Isabella’s side, positioning himself between them. Antonio and Nico approach from opposite sides of the room, their faces mirroring identical expressions of controlled fury.
I can’t tear my eyes away from the electric tension between Isabella and Maximo. There’s something familiar in the way they glare at each other—a reflection of how Silvo and I once circled one another, all teeth and claws hiding something deeper.
The realization hits me like a thunderbolt.
Behind their hostility, beneath the family names they carry like armor, Isabella and Maximo can barely contain their attraction. I see it in how Maximo’s eyes linger on Isabella’s lips even as he threatens her. I recognize it in Isabella’s flushed cheeks and the way she stands her ground instead of retreating.
They’re fighting the same magnetic pull that once existed between Silvo and me.
My mind races ahead, connecting pieces of a puzzle I hadn’t known existed. What if this forbidden attraction could be channeled and legitimized? An utterly insane thought forms: what if Isabella and Maximo could enter an arranged marriage, just as Silvo and I did?
Our families are drowning in three generations of bloodshed. The ceasefire feels tenuous, fragile as spun glass. But marriage—marriage has weight. It carries tradition, expectation, and legitimacy.
I glance at Silvo, who’s watching the confrontation with narrowed eyes, then to Nico Moretti, whose face reveals nothing. Both bosses look exhausted beneath their masks of strength. Neither truly wants more violence.
A second alliance, another binding tie between our families—it could be the reinforcement this peace needs. If Isabella and Maximo’s hatred could transform into something else, as mine and Silvo’s did...
I press my lips together, knowing how Isabella would react if I suggested it. She’d be furious, just as I was when my brother sold me to Silvo. But I’ve found something real with myhusband, something that started as an obligation and blossomed into love.
Could the same transformation happen for Isabella and Maximo?
I watch Fed pull his sister away, but not before she throws one last heated glance over her shoulder at Maximo. His eyes track her movement across the room like a predator following prey.
