Prologue — “Beneath the Shadow of Power”

At the marble-lined hallways of the Università di Roma, Alessandra Moretti looked every inch the modern heiress—her burgundy wool coat hung elegantly off her shoulders, raven-black hair tied at the nape of her neck, and her deep brown eyes reflecting a kind of measured calm. Final-year political law student. Brilliant. Bound within the architecture of a society that disguised inner wars in silk and smiles.

Her father, Senator Massimo Moretti, wasn’t merely a senior figure on the national budget committee—he was the pulse behind backroom deals and whispered power shifts across Europe. Her mother, Livia, a descendant of a Grand Duchessa, raised her children not with affection, but with an unwritten doctrine: honor must never wrinkle, even if the heart is crushed beneath it.

And five years ago, that honor began to unravel—because of a man named Lorenzo Bianchi.

At seventeen—before her name was ever embossed on a national ID—Alessandra crossed into a world her mother had only described in hushed disdain: "the one behind tinted limousine glass." Lorenzo’s world. A world of untraceable funds, disappearing CCTV footage, and portside negotiations that never existed in official reports.

Their relationship was no longer a secret. The Moretti family knew. In fact, they kept it as a political chip—one day Alessandra would either serve as a pawn... or a threat.

On the 1,287th night they spent together, Alessandra sat on the edge of Lorenzo’s penthouse balcony, overlooking the Tiber. Candles flickered across the dinner table, though no food had been touched.

“You know,” she murmured, “if I hadn’t spoken your name out loud that day... I’d probably be the woman they wanted me to be—some ambassador’s wife, not the lover of an illegal tycoon.”

Lorenzo stood behind her. “You’d still be something they controlled. Something they styled, manicured, and married off. I just got to you first.”

“You didn’t free me,” she replied, not turning around. “You just gave me a different kind of cage. But at least you let me paint it my own color.”

His eyes narrowed. “And yet you stayed.”

“Because I know what kind of danger you keep in your pocket… and because there’s something honest about a criminal who doesn’t pretend to be good.”

They fell silent as the old port bell rang in the distance—one of his ships, arriving late, as always.

Alessandra’s phone buzzed. On screen: Mamma.

“Answer it,” Lorenzo said, brushing his fingers along her shoulder. “Let her know you still choose me. Even if they think they hold the reins.”

The voice on the line was aristocratic and cold.

Livia: “Alessandra… people have begun asking questions. The Milan press caught wind of something. We can't drown it out with charity events forever.”

Alessandra: “Then maybe they should learn to hear a story without censoring the parts they don’t like.”

Livia (ice sharp): “You’ve always liked playing with fire, dear. Don’t act surprised when you end up as the ash.”

The call ended. But the threat seemed only to ignite something quiet and venomous behind Alessandra’s eyes. She stood and turned to face Lorenzo.

“If we’re going to burn for this,” she said softly, “at least let it be a flame we lit ourselves.”

And Lorenzo, like every night before, only smiled—because he knew he’d made her into someone who could defy nobility, dismantle image, and flirt with ruin... all in the name of a love that was never meant to be clean.