Chapter 12 - The Italian GalaThe Palazzo Barberini in Rome was a masterpiece of Baroque architecture, glowing under the golden wash of floodlights as a procession of luxury sports cars and black Maybachs discharged Europe's elite. Politicians, industrialists, bankers, and high-ranking figures of the Italian underworld mingled under crystal chandeliers, sipping vintage champagne and exchanging polite, venomous smiles.
And right in the center of it all walked Alessandro Russo, with me on his arm.
I wore a floor-length, backless emerald-green gown that hugged my curves like liquid silk—a dress that Alessandro had specially commissioned within twenty-four hours of our arrival in Italy. It was stunning, expensive, and entirely intimidating.
As we stepped into the grand ballroom, the ambient noise of the crowd seemed to drop by half. Every head turned. Whispers rippled through the sea of tuxedoes and designer gowns like a sudden gust of wind.
Who is she? Is she a noblewoman? Where did Alessandro find her?
I kept my chin up, channeling every ounce of NYC street smarts I possessed so I wouldn't trip over my four-inch stiletto heels. Alessandro felt the slight tension in my muscles and tightened his grip on my waist, pulling me fractionally closer to his side.
"Breathe, Sophia," he murmured against my ear, his breath warm and grounding. "Let them look. Let them see who stands beside the Russo name."
We hadn't taken three steps before a tall, impeccably dressed man with sharp silver hair and cold, calculating eyes approached us, holding a crystal flute of champagne. It was Don Lorenzo Rossi, the undisputed patriarch of the Roman syndicate.
"Alessandro," Rossi greeted, his voice like gravel sliding over glass. His eyes flicked to me, taking in my appearance with a predatory evaluation. "You cause quite a stir. Bringing an unknown American into the lion’s den. Is she a new business venture, or merely a temporary distraction?"
The air around Alessandro instantly froze. The charming, attentive partner vanished, replaced by the lethal mafia boss who had slaughtered his own traitors without blinking.
"Watch your tongue, Lorenzo," Alessandro said softly, each word a falling blade. "She is neither. She is my future. And if your eyes linger on her a second longer, you won't live to see the sunrise."
Rossi’s smile didn’t reach his eyes, but he took a half-step back, raising his glass in mock surrender before melting back into the crowd.
May you like
I looked up at Alessandro, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Your future?" I whispered.
Alessandro looked down at me, the harshness completely evaporating from his face, replaced by an absolute, terrifying devotion. "Did you think I brought you across an ocean just to keep you in a Tuscan cage, Sophia? I intend to make you untouchable."
