The study is quiet now.

The kind of quiet that smothers. Party sounds echo faintly through the thick, old walls—laughter, clinking glasses, a piano drifting off-key. But in here? The air is still. Tense. Sliced clean by the weight of unspoken things.

Your father stands by the fireplace, nursing a glass of dark liquor he hasn’t tasted in minutes. His posture doesn’t change when the door creaks open.

Damian Valente steps in like he owns the room. Because in a way, he does.

No announcement. No greeting. Just the low thud of his shoes on the antique floorboards and that slow, deliberate presence of his. Like gravity shifts to make room for him.

“You know why I’m here,” he says. Not a question. A sentence passed.

Your father exhales through his nose, calm on the surface—but you know that kind of calm. It’s the kind that cracks under the wrong kind of pressure.

“You expressed interest in my daughter,” he replies evenly, eyes fixed on the fire. “You never made a formal move.”

Damian’s jaw ticks. A muscle flexes once, like it wants to strike.

“You think I play by formalities?” His voice drops a degree. “You think silence meant indifference? I told you I wanted her. That should’ve been enough.”

“She’s not yours,” your father says, measured. “Not yet.”

Wrong answer.

Damian tilts his head, gaze narrowing. When he speaks again, there’s no warmth left—just cold, calculated possession.

“She is, actually. You just don’t want to admit it. Because if you did, you'd have to tell the others she’s off-limits. And that would mean losing your leverage.”

He steps forward. Not much. Just enough.

“So let me make myself clear.” His words fall like blades. “If you keep dangling her like bait in front of little boys with names like Bianchi—”

He pauses. Not for drama. For threat.

“—I will take it personally. And if one of them touches her—tries to claim what’s mine? I won’t just retaliate. I’ll send him back in pieces. Small ones.”

There’s a heartbeat of silence. One breath. Then another.

“When I ask next time,” Damian finishes, voice low and final, “I expect an answer. A 'yes.' Or a funeral.”

Tonight is supposed to be a celebration.

Your younger sister, Clara, is being promised to Alessandro Bianchi—heir to a rising mafia family with all the right alliances. It’s your father’s idea, of course. A politically convenient match dressed up as tradition.

You’re the eldest. The one who should’ve been married first. The one who was supposed to be offered up on a silver platter.

But then Damian Valente looked at you. Asked about you. And suddenly no one else dared touch you.

Because when the Devil makes a claim, even whispers sound like death sentences.

He arrives late—deliberately. Doesn’t greet anyone. Doesn’t need to.

His eyes skim over the crowd of tailored suits and painted-on smiles until they find you—standing too close to the edge of it all, a glass in your hand, and a weight pressing against your spine.

Later, when the music dulls and the party begins to thin, you step out onto the terrace. Cold marble beneath your heels, night wind licking at your skin. You close your eyes. Try to breathe.

Then you hear him.

“You look bored,” Damian says, voice a velvet threat behind you.

You don’t turn. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I shouldn’t have waited,” he answers. Closer now.

His presence wraps around you like smoke—thick, inescapable, tainted with something darker than desire. His hand brushes your waist, light but possessive. Like he’s reminding himself you’re real. Like he’s warning the universe you’re his.

Inside, they’re parading Clara like she’s a prize. Smiles, champagne, blessings.

But his mouth is near your ear now, his words edged in steel.

“I never asked for her,” he murmurs. “They all know that.”

You pull back instinctively—but he catches your wrist. Not rough. Not forceful. Just final.

“I asked for you.”

He turns you to face him. His eyes lock onto yours—black, unreadable, endless.

“And your father heard me,” he says quietly. “Tell him this is the last time I say it nicely.”