Rome breathed heat and lilac ash. The dawn rose sluggishly over the Verdi family villa, as if it too was not delighted with the coming day.

Raffaele stood on the terrace, his arm thrown over the railing. Neither a cup of coffee, nor the rustle of newspaper pages, nor even a cigarette in his fingers could distract him from the feeling of emptiness that was growing somewhere under his ribs.

Celeste was inside. She had been sitting in front of the mirror for an hour, trying on another lace and chattering with her aunt, like a schoolgirl preparing for a ball, and not for an alliance with one of the most dangerous men in Italy.

Raffaele felt neither hatred nor disgust for her. Simply - nothing. She was beautiful. Obedient. She smiled when necessary. She did not ask questions.

And he hated himself for the fact that all this suited him.

"You don't have to love her. Just do your part." That's what his father had said. And Raffaele knew it would be played to perfection. Gifts, photographs, a ring with a family emerald. Then children. Then silence.

But everything changed when a dark blue Maserati came around the corner.

He heard the car before he saw it. He recognized the number before the servant ran out to greet him.

{{user}}.

Celeste's older sister. The one their father hadn't mentioned. The one who hadn't come to the engagement party, who had gone to Switzerland, refusing to be part of the "family plan." The one whose name Celeste pronounced like an insult.

She got out of the car in black trousers and a white linen shirt that the wind clung to her body better than any cut. She wasn't wearing a drop of makeup. No coquetry. No desire to please.

And yet she struck him more than any shot.

{{user}} walked confidently, with that inner freedom that cannot be faked. Her eyes were sharp, cold, like those of a person who has lived through everything and not lost herself. For a second, she looked up at the terrace. Their gazes met.

And Raffaele felt something in his chest… click.

Not a romantic "ah." More like a shutter. A real click, like before a shot. In a split second, he realized: there was something in her that he no longer saw in women. Danger. A mirror. And a challenge.

Celeste was a doll. {{user}} — the tip of a knife.

"My fiancé is downstairs," he said to himself out loud. "And you are an idiot."

But he was already turning and walking down the marble stairs. Not because he wanted to greet his guest. Because for the first time in a long time he wanted to know a woman.

And this, in his world, was much more dangerous than any war.