Or so I thought.
If he’s rallying men against me, if he’s the one planting these seeds of doubt, then this isn’t just a minor rebellion. This is the start of something bigger.
Something that could tear this family apart.
I set the tablet down carefully.
Then I lean back against my desk, crossing my arms over my chest, staring at the information in front of me.
One wrong move, and this explodes.
Luca will see this as a direct threat, and he won’t hesitate to put Mancini in the ground.
But that’s not what worries me.
What worries me is the fact that Mancini didn’t come for Luca.
He came for me.
And that means he thinks I’m vulnerable.
I exhale sharply, pushing away from the desk, rolling my shoulders to release the tension curling hot along my spine. My pulse is steady, but my mind is racing, running through every possible angle, every move Mancini could make next.
There’s only one way to handle this.
I need to get to him before he makes his next move.
Before this poison spreads any further.
My fingers curl into fists at my sides, my jaw tightening as I come to a single, undeniable conclusion.
Mancini is a problem.
And I don’t leave problems unsolved.
19
SOFIA
The evening is supposed to be different. A breath of fresh air. A reminder that life exists beyond bloodstained streets and whispered threats.
I spent the last hour carefully planning somethingnormal—a quiet dinner, an elegant restaurant where no one would be armed to the teeth, no one would be watching our every move with suspicion. A place where Marco and I could pretend, just for a little while, that we weren’t tangled in the middle of a war.
Hours searching for the perfect restaurant, combing through reviews, wanting somewhere intimate but not suffocating, upscale but not drenched in the weight of money and politics, made me settle on Rosetta, a quiet, candlelit spot nestled in the heart of the city, known for its handmade pasta and wine list that is long enough to make even a sommelier pause. I booked a corner table—semi-private, where the shadows curled at the edges but still let the light kiss our faces. Somewhere we could talk without prying eyes, without the weight of expectation. I’d even called ahead to ensure they’d have Marco’s favorite—aged Barolo, smooth and deep, something he could sip slowly.
After that, I took my time getting ready. For myself as much as for him.
The dress was the first decision. Nothing too overt, nothing too cold.I chose a deep shade of burgundy, rich and elegant, the kind of color that felt likeme—bold, without needing to beg for attention. The silk molded to my skin in all the right places, the high slit offering just enough temptation, but not in the way he was used to. This wasn’t for seduction. This was for the version of us that existed before all of this.
Little things that I’d never do, given what I’ve been through the last couple days, like wanting to look nice. A sweep of liner to frame my eyes, a hint of warmth on my lips. I didn’t want to look like a woman trying too hard to escape the past few days, but I wanted to see myself in the mirror and remember who I was before all of this, back to when Marco would visit my home and we’d just have sex, or read books, or watch movies and eat good food.
The final touch: perfume. A light press of it at my wrists and just below my throat. By the time I was ready, my heart felt lighter than it had in days. We needed this.I needed this.
Which brings me to the present.
I make my way through the mansion to find him. There’s a lightness in my step, a warmth in my chest that I haven’t felt in too long.
Of course it doesn’t last. Peace never does in this house. Not when the walls are still learning how to hold it. Raised voices bleed into the corridor ahead—fast, urgent, overlapping in that way that tells me this isn’t just tension. It’s coming undone. I slow, just enough to listen, just enough to read the edges of it. The tone, the rhythm, the desperation clawing through the sound.
