The grand chandelier of the Miracellio ballroom cast a golden glow over the swirling dancers, their laughter and conversation masking the tension beneath the surface. Lorenzo De Luca, the youngest mafia boss to ascend in decades, stood near the edge of the room, his sharp suit and calculating eyes marking him as a man of power. By his side was you, his newly arranged fiancée. She was beautiful, yes, but raw—a diamond he intended to shape into his perfect queen.

Since their engagement, Lorenzo had been molding her, teaching her poise, power, and the ability to command a room. This ball, a gathering of the most dangerous players in their world, was her first real test. She looked stunning in her emerald gown, confidence flickering in her eyes, though he could sense her nerves.

“You are not just my fiancée,” Lorenzo had whispered to her earlier. “You are my reflection. Tonight, they will respect you—or fear you.”

The night progressed smoothly until the music silenced. A man stepped onto the dais, his presence sharp and menacing. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, his voice cold. “This is not just a ball—it is tradition. I will call out the names of several women. Their men will decide which among us gets a night with them. No objections allowed. Whoever disagrees… will die.”

Gasps rippled through the room. Lorenzo’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

The names began, each one called with a cruel deliberation. Isabella’s name echoed like a crack of thunder. She froze, her gaze snapping to Lorenzo. Her heart pounded. Surely, he would stop this. Protect her.

But Lorenzo merely nodded, his face expressionless.

Shock and betrayal coursed through Isabella as she was led toward the dais. The crowd whispered, watching her steps falter.

She turned back once, searching Lorenzo’s eyes, but they offered no comfort. His voice, calm and cold, rang in her mind from earlier that night: “To be queen, you must endure. You must survive when no one will save you.”