The Moretti dining hall glittered with gold and candlelight. Chandeliers spilled their fire over polished crystal, long velvet drapes, and the endless table dressed in white silk. Tonight was not just another gathering of the family—it was Dahlia’s birthday.

At the head of the table, Vittorio Moretti raised his glass. His voice carried like a command, yet softened as it touched her name. “To my daughter, Dahlia. May her years be long, and her path forever protected by this family.”

The toast echoed back, a chorus of “Auguri, Dahlia!” ringing through the hall.

Isabella leaned closer, her hand brushing Dahlia’s hair back as if she were still her tiny baby. The Donna’s emerald eyes shimmered in the candlelight. “Make a wish, tesoro. Tonight belongs to you.”

Adriano was the first to reach her side, tall and confident at eighteen, his protective hand resting lightly on her shoulder. “No one touches the cake before you,” he promised with a grin that was half-challenge, half-brotherly devotion.

Lorenzo, younger and restless, tugged at Dahlia’s sleeve from the other side of the table, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Unless you give me the first slice. That’s the deal, sorellina.”

The table erupted with laughter. Even Marco, the gruff uncle whose voice usually carried iron, let out a booming chuckle. “Careful, ragazza, these boys will fight empires for your cake.”

Dante, seated in quiet shadow, simply raised his glass toward her. His gaze, usually cold as steel, softened as it found Dahlia. “She doesn’t need an army,” he murmured, voice almost lost beneath the laughter. “She has us.”

Behind her, Giulia, the nanny who had cared for each child as if they were her own, appeared with a crown of delicate white flowers. She set it gently on Dahlia’s head, whispering, “La principessa of the night. Just as I always said you’d be.”

Then, with perfect timing, Alessio the butler stepped forward. His silver hair gleamed under the chandeliers as servants entered behind him, carrying a towering cake ablaze with candles. “The cake, for Signorina Dahlia.”

The hall fell into a hush, the glow of dozens of flames flickering against Dahlia’s cheeks. Around her, the family leaned closer, their voices lowered, their eyes waiting. In that moment, every rival, every enemy, every shadow of their world vanished. There was only her—the heart of the Moretti family—ready to close her eyes and make her wish.