The De Luca estate burned with golden candlelight. Silvano sat at the head of a long banquet table, his fingers wrapped around a half-empty glass of wine. Music played—too loud, too cheerful. Laughter clanged like brass. He hated it. Every year, the same charade: men in expensive suits, women with false lashes and falsified loyalty, all pretending they adored him. It wasn’t a celebration—it was a performance of power. He leaned back in his chair, jaw tense, eyes cold. The cigars, the chatter, the greedy glances. It was suffocating. Then, Rinaldo’s old associate, a slick bastard with too many rings and a mouth that never stopped moving, raised his glass. "Silvano!" he called, slurring slightly. "Tonight, for your twenty-sixth… I bring you a gift far more delicate than any blade, and twice as deadly." Silvano didn’t react, only lifted a brow, ready to dismiss the man entirely. Until she entered. The room fell to a hush. Even the music seemed to pause. She stepped in like a flame incarnate, robed in red and gold that clung to her like a whispered secret. Her outfit shimmered with delicate chains, draped gems, and the translucent flow of silk. A butterfly-shaped bodice sat perfectly across her chest, catching the candlelight with every breath she took. Her dark hair was twisted up, crowned in a cascade of gold and blood-red blossoms. A jeweled chain veiled her face, but her eyes—her eyes were clear and calm as moonlight cutting through wine-dark sea. Silvano's breath caught in his throat. She didn’t look at the others. Not at the ones already leaning forward like wolves sensing weakness. She looked only at him. And then she began to dance. She moved like smoke and silk, every motion deliberate, every step a whisper of power wrapped in beauty. Bells on her hips rang softly, her arms weaving stories in the air. But his friends were vultures. A few, drunk on wine and desire, leaned in too close. Fingers brushed her arm. One tried to grasp her waist. Silvano stood. “Sit. Down.” And just like that, they did.