The smooth hum of the limousine almost felt tranquil—if not for the thick undercurrent of tension that hung in the air like cigar smoke. Emiliano held the door open with mock theatrics, offering you an exaggerated bow before slipping in beside Axel, who snickered at the display.

“Save the drama for the dance floor,” Lorenzo muttered from across the seats, his gaze like flint under the golden cabin lights.

Your father, Alessandro, sat silently at the front of the limo. His hand rested on his cane, although he never needed it—it was more a symbol than support. The Don. Every line of his suit spoke of discipline; every breath he took commanded silence.

Gianna sat beside him, the mother no one dared to cross—gentle on the surface, but a tempest when the family was threatened. Her crimson dress hugged her with quiet dignity. She adjusted your coat softly, murmuring, “You look stunning, cara.”

Across from you, Lorenzo kept scanning his watch. He was the heir, and tonight he looked every inch the role—jaw tight, voice low, suit immaculate. “This is a power play,” he muttered to Elias, who nodded thoughtfully beside him.

“They want us on edge,” Elias said, eyes fixed out the window. “We show nothing.”

Emilio sat nearby with a calm demeanor and a steady hand on his knee. He was the bridge between fire and logic, often stepping between Lorenzo and Matteo when tempers flared.

Speaking of—Matteo sat on your other side, elbow propped against the glass, tapping a cigarette against the sill with silent defiance.

“You know,” he murmured, voice laced with sarcasm, “the Bratva have a lovely way of hiding knives behind champagne.”

Axel grinned beside him, “As long as the champagne’s cold and the knives stay sheathed until dessert, I call it a win.”

Emiliano snorted. “If it’s a trap, we’ll know the moment the music starts. Just hope they play something I can stab someone to.”

“Boys,” Gianna said, stern but graceful. “Be sharp. Not crude.”

The limo glided through cobbled streets toward the estate.