The violence in my chest coils tighter. I want to cross the room and break every bone in his hand. I want to make it clear that he doesn't get to touch her like that, doesn't get to look at her like she's already his property. But I can't move. I can onlysit here and watch, my hands clenched so tight my knuckles are white, because I have no right to say any of that. I have no right toher.
Romeo shifts slightly across from me, and when I glance at him, I see his jaw is tight. He doesn't like Enzo either. Good. At least I'm not the only one who wants to kill him.
But then Alessandro Ferrucci speaks, and everything gets worse.
"I have to disagree with Marco's assessment," Alessandro says, his voice gentle but firm. He's been quieter than the other two, watching and listening more than talking. "I don't think Giulia needs to be lectured about traditional values. She clearly understands duty and family. What she deserves is respect."
He turns to look at her, and there's something in his eyes that makes my stomach drop. Not the crude entitlement of Enzo or the cold calculation of Marco. Something worse.
He’s looking at her as if he cares about her. As if he has an interest in her that goes beyond business and what she can do for him. I don’t trust it in the slightest.
There’s something too perfect about him. Too on the nose for what a woman trapped in this situation would gravitate toward. It’s as if he’s been created to be a foil for the other men who aren’t shy about the fact that they only want her money and her body.
I watch her face soften slightly, see some of the tension leave her shoulders. She's responding to him, engaging in a way she didn't with the other two.
And it's killing me. Alessandro is good at this. He's making her feel seen, heard, valued. He's doing everything right. And then his hand reaches over to touch her arm—just a brief, gentle touch that probably looks reassuring to everyone else.
To me, it looks like a brand.
Something dark and violent explodes in my chest, hot and vicious and completely irrational. My hands curl into fists at my sides, and I have to physically force myself to stay still, to not cross the room and break every bone in Alessandro's hand.
The intensity of the reaction shocks me. I've killed men—more than I can count, more than I probably should be able to live with. I've done it efficiently and professionally, without hesitation or remorse. Violence is a tool I use when necessary, nothing more.
This isn't that. This is something primal and possessive and so far beyond professional that I don't recognize myself.
"I'd love to take you to a gallery opening next week," Alessandro says, his hand still resting on her arm. "There's a new exhibition at the Met that I think you'd enjoy. We could make an evening of it—dinner, the gallery, maybe a walk through Central Park afterward."
He's asking her on a date. In front of everyone. Staking his claim publicly. And Giulia is smiling. Actually smiling, even if it doesn't quite reach her eyes.
"That sounds lovely," she says.
Dante nods approvingly from the head of the table. Romeo's expression is carefully neutral. And Alessandro's smile widens, satisfied. He thinks he's won. He thinks she's already his.
My vision is startingto blur at the edges, red creeping in from the sides. I can feel my control slipping, feel the violence that lives in me rising to the surface like a beast that's been caged too long.
Alessandro leans in closer, saying something that makes Giulia laugh—a polite, practiced sound. But he doesn't seem to notice. His hand moves from her arm to her shoulder, a gesturethat's probably meant to be comforting but looks possessive as hell.
"I have to say," Alessandro continues, his voice warm, "I'm very interested in your family's business operations. Your father has built something remarkable here. The way he's managed to maintain control while expanding into new territories—it's impressive."
He's asking about the family business. Trying to show he's not just interested in Giulia, but in becoming part of the organization. Smart. Strategic. It makes me hate him even more.
"I don't know very much about the business side of things," Giulia says carefully. "My father prefers to keep me focused on other matters."
"Of course, of course." Alessandro smiles indulgently at her. "But I'm sure you understand more than you think. Growing up in this world, you absorb things. You understand the importance of loyalty, of family, of maintaining appearances."
He's good. He's so fucking good at this. He's making her feel valued while also showing Dante that he understands how things work, that he'll be a good addition to the family. And Giulia is responding. I can see it in the way she's leaning slightly toward him, in the way her smile is becoming a little more genuine. He's breaking through her walls, making her feel something other than resignation. She wants something real out of all of this, something to make it not as bad as it is, and he’s giving her that… or at least pretending to.
I want to put my fist through the wall. I want to drag him away from her and make it clear that he doesn't get to touch her, doesn't get to look at her like that, doesn't get to act like she's already his. But I can't. Because she's not mine either. She's not mine, and she never will be, and standing here watching her smile at a man who sees her as a prize to be won is a special kind of torture I didn't know existed.
Marco tries to regain her attention, talking about his properties and his wealth, but it's clear he's lost. Enzo makes a few more inappropriate comments that make Giulia's smile tighten, but even he seems to realize that Alessandro has the advantage. And through it all, I'm dying. Slowly, painfully, watching the woman I can't have smile at a man who will probably be her husband.
"Luca."
Romeo's voice cuts through the haze of violence in my head. There's something sharp in his eyes that tells me I'm not hiding my reaction as well as I thought.
I need to get out of here. Now. Before I do something we'll both regret.
"I need some air," I say, my voice low and rough.
