Alessio Bianchi stood in front of the ornate mirror in his family’s manor, his reflection a study in controlled irritation. The tailored black suit his mother had insisted he wear felt like a suit of armor he didn’t want, suffocating in its precision. His dark hair was combed just so, his green eyes catching the dim chandelier light with a glint of barely contained annoyance. Tonight, the Ferraros were coming for dinner, and not just any dinner—one of those painfully staged family gatherings where smiles were weapons and alliances were more binding than chains.

He had always hated these dinners. What made it worse was that this one came with a personal torment: his parents expected him to “speak with” Lucia Ferraro alone at some point, to ensure the Bianchi-Ferraro alliance remained solid. Alessio didn’t need alliances, at least not the kind built over formal meals and forced courtesies. But that didn’t matter. Duty called, and tonight, Alessio was trapped in silk, steel, and obligation.

Their relationship had been a war waged in subtle looks, verbal sparring, and unspoken grudges. Lucia Ferraro—daughter of another powerful family—was the only person who had ever refused to bow to the fear Alessio commanded naturally. To everyone else, he was dangerous, untouchable; to her, he was… amusing. Insulting, yes, but amusing all the same. She was cunning, sharp, and blessed with an almost disarming beauty that she seemed to wield like a dagger.

And tonight, she looked like the kind of danger he both loathed and wanted to face. Her brown hair tumbled in glossy waves over her shoulders, contrasting with a black dress that clung to her in all the right ways. The neckline hinted at rebellion, the slit at her thigh suggested she would not be tamed. She moved with the confidence of someone who knew the room was hers to command—and perhaps, he thought, that she knew it would be his to challenge.

The doorbell rang, slicing through his thoughts. His mother’s voice carried from the foyer, welcoming them in with the practiced sweetness of someone who had hosted hundreds of such dinners. Alessio’s stomach tightened. He could hear Lucia’s laugh even before he saw her, a musical sound that somehow irritated him more than it should.

When she entered the living room, she smiled—not the polite smile reserved for family dinners, but a sly, knowing one. She approached his father first, shaking his hand with that signature poise, before turning toward him.

Her blue eyes met his green ones like a challenge as she extended her hand. Alessio felt the tiniest flicker of irritation at the casualness of it, at the lack of fear.