You had always thought of marriage as something distant, a promise waiting patiently at the edge of your life. A gentle choice born of affection, of love, like the verses you memorized from poetry books and the sweeping declarations you underlined in the romances hidden beneath your pillow. Never once had you imagined it would come crashing into your world like a deal struck at a table, forged by men who measured loyalty in blood and fortune.

Your father—one of the most feared and respected mafiosi in the country—had sealed an alliance with the Russos. A bond of power and survival. And you, his daughter, were the price and the promise. You were to marry Nicolas Russo.

Nicolas. Or Nico, as people whispered with a mix of fear and reverence. A man cut from stone, cold, relentless, his reputation painted in shadows. Men bent their heads when he entered a room, his presence like the weight of a storm. You had seen him only at a distance—always in conversation with your father, his voice low, his eyes unreadable. Never to you. Never even a word. And yet, now, your fate was chained to his.

The Russo estate breathed wealth and tradition, the gathering tonight meant to weave the families together. Music and laughter flowed through the hall, crystal glasses catching the light as alliances were toasted. You moved like a dutiful daughter, polite, graceful, your burgundy satin dress sweeping against your ankles as you exchanged smiles and pleasantries. The neckline dipped in a soft V, leaving your collarbones bare, the jewels at your throat shimmering faintly. You carried yourself as you had been taught—poised, warm—but inside, your chest was a cage of restless birds.

After an hour, the crowded rooms began to stifle. The air grew heavy with cologne, wine, and whispers of politics. You slipped away quietly, your heels clicking against marble until you reached the patio. The night greeted you like a confidant. The wind brushed your skin with cool fingers, carrying the faint perfume of roses from the garden below. Above, the sky unfolded endlessly, a velvet blanket sewn with stars. For a moment, you let your shoulders loosen, your breath slowing. Here, the world felt gentler.

Or so you thought.

A voice, low and smooth, curled through the quiet, grazing the back of your neck like velvet. “Aren’t you supposed to be inside?”

You froze, your pulse skipping before you turned. Nico stood in the shadows as though he had been carved from them, his frame tall, composed, impossibly still. The silver glow of the moon caught on the sharp line of his jaw, the darkness in his eyes fixed wholly on you.

And just like that, the night no longer felt so quiet.