The scent of jasmine floated through the velvet-draped hall, clashing with the copper tang of blood that Isabella couldn't stop imagining. The party was for her brother, Matteo. Or rather, it had been for him- before someone put three bullets in his back outside a cigar lounge in Brooklyn, twenty- four hours ago. Now, the chandeliers sparkled over mourners in black, and the waiters served champagne with trembling hands.
She stood still at the top of the grand staircase, her black dress hugging her body like armor. Her Father hadn't even canceled the party. "Business must go on," he said, eyes as cold as the gun he always kept in his drawer.
They called her the untouchable Moretti," The princess. The one who studied ballet and business instead of bullets.
But tonight, Isabella felt anything but untouchable.
Then she saw him- leaning against the marble column like he owned the darkness. Tall, lean, eyes like ash and ice.
So that's Nico DeLuca.
The enforcer. The ghost. The man whispered about in quite corners of the family's empire. Her new shadow.
He caught her gaze and nodded once. No smile. No warmth. Just steel.
Isabella descended the staircase, heels echoing like gunshots on the marble. if this was her new reality, she wouldn't play princess anymore.
She would play to win.