Simona had a gift for turning obedience into art.

Margherita stood motionless before the mirror as her stepmother made one last adjustment to the soft folds of the evening gown. It was a pale blush silk that shimmered faintly with every breath—innocent, fragile, deliberately understated. A perfect dove.

The maids had worked on her for hours: hair pinned into a delicate chignon, skin powdered to porcelain, lips tinted rose. A string of pearls rested at her throat, matching Simona’s own.

Simona hovered behind her, immaculate in black satin, her beauty sharp as glass.

“Perfect,” she murmured, adjusting Margherita’s necklace. “A proper lady again. No one would ever guess what a disappointment you’ve been lately.”

Margherita said nothing.

Simona turned her chin upward with two fingers. “You’ll behave tonight. You’ll smile. You’ll speak when spoken to. And if someone asks you to dance, you’ll accept. But only those I approve of.”

“Yes, Simona.”

Simona’s expression softened into something almost maternal—almost. She leaned forward and brushed a kiss against Margherita’s cheek. “Promise me you’ll be good, cara mia.”

“I promise.”

“Good girl.”

They left the room together, their heels echoing through the marble corridor. Outside, the car waited, its lacquered black surface reflecting the night.

During the drive, Margherita stared out the window, her reflection ghosting over the passing streets. Her hands rested in her lap, cold beneath her gloves. Simona sat beside her, silent, scrolling through messages on her phone. Every so often, she would glance at Margherita—checking, assessing.

When the car stopped before the grand villa, guards opened their doors. Music floated faintly from inside—the murmuring pulse of laughter, strings, and champagne.

Before they stepped inside, Simona leaned toward her head of security. “If Maurizio Benedetti or any of his men arrive,” she said softly, “I want to know immediately.”

He nodded and vanished into the crowd.

Then Simona’s smile returned, all polished grace. She took Margherita’s arm and led her through the entrance. “Come, Margherita. Time to be charming.”

The ballroom glowed under chandeliers heavy with crystal. Every surface gleamed—marble, gold, glass. Guests moved like a slow tide of wealth and perfume.

Simona led Margherita through the crowd, her hand lightly at her stepdaughter’s back.

“Simona!” someone called. “You look divine—and this must be your daughter?”

“My stepdaughter,” Simona corrected smoothly, her smile sweet. “Though people often say we look like sisters, don’t we?”

A ripple of polite laughter followed.

Margherita smiled when expected, nodding when introduced, bowing when offered a compliment. She could feel the weight of eyes on her—admiring, appraising. Especially the men’s. Whispers spread quickly.

“Domenico Altieri’s daughter.”

“His only heiress.”

“Quite the bride to have.”

Simona heard them too; her smile didn’t falter, but her eyes sharpened.

When a few overeager men tried to monopolize Margherita’s attention, Simona interceded gracefully. “Not that one,” she murmured under her breath. “Nor him. You’ll dance only with the ones who matter.”

The waltz began, and Margherita let herself be led onto the floor by one of Simona’s approved partners. His grip was too tight, his cologne suffocating. She tried to follow the rhythm, counting the steps in her head, waiting for the music to end.

Then she felt it.

That prickling awareness—eyes on her.

She looked up and froze.

Leaning against a column across the ballroom, a man stood, watching her. His suit was dark, perfectly tailored, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal a trace of ink. The light caught on the silver rings on his fingers.

For a heartbeat, her chest forgot to move.

He caught her gaze and smiled, slow and knowing. And then—he began to move toward her.

When the dance brought her near the edge of the floor, he stepped in, smooth and certain, cutting between her and her partner with the effortless audacity of someone used to getting his way.

“Mind if I steal her?” His voice was low, rich—commanding without needing to be.

Without waiting for a response, he caught her hand and drew her in, his touch firm but not cruel. “Relax,” he murmured, his breath brushing her ear. “You’ll draw attention.”

She felt the strength of his arm, the steadiness of his step, the faint scent of smoke and wood.

She blinked up at him, disoriented. “Who—”

“Ezio,” he said simply. “Ezio Moroni.”

The name meant nothing to her, but his voice did. That rough, smoky cadence—the same voice that had whispered fiorellina in the dark.

Her heart stuttered. “It was you,” she whispered. “That night.”

He smiled, slow and knowing. “Took you long enough.”

“You saved me.”

“I did. And you vanished before saying thank you.”

“I—thank you,” she breathed.

He leaned closer, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “You look better than the last time I saw you.”

Her cheeks flushed.

“Do I frighten you?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” she said. “But not enough to stop dancing.”

He laughed quietly—a low, genuine sound that startled her. “Brave little thing.”

She dared to look at him closely. Dark eyes, unreadable. Roman nose. Chiseled jaw. A small scar at the corner of his mouth. His rings glinted as they moved, catching the chandelier’s light.

They turned again, moving in perfect rhythm now, her hand trembling slightly in his.

“You owe me, you know,” he murmured, smiling.

“What do you want?”

His lips curved. “We’ll see.”

Then his gaze flicked past her shoulder—sharp, alert.

Simona.

She was moving quickly through the crowd, her expression a mask of fury behind polite civility.

Ezio leaned close, his breath brushing her ear. “Ah. The warden approaches.”

“What?”

“Another time, fiorellina.”

And just like that, he released her and melted into the crowd.

When Simona reached her, he had vanished, leaving only the ghost of cologne and a heartbeat too fast.

Simona seized Margherita’s arm. “Who was that man?”

Margherita struggled for composure. “He said his name was Ezio Moroni. He—he asked me to dance—”

Simona’s face hardened. “That filth? You spoke to him?”

“I didn’t know who he was—”

“You stay away from that man,” Simona hissed, her tone low and poisonous. “He doesn’t belong here. If I ever see you speak to him again—” Her voice dropped to a hiss. “—you’ll regret it.”

Margherita nodded quickly, pulse still wild.

Simona straightened, restoring her smile, and guided her toward the exit. “We’re leaving.”

The car ride home passed in silence.

Simona stared out the window, her expression unreadable. Margherita kept her hands in her lap, trembling despite the warmth of the car.

She didn’t know who Ezio Moroni really was—or why Simona seemed afraid of him—but she could still feel the echo of his touch, the weight of his gaze, the ghost of a voice that had called her fiorellina.

***

The house was silent when they returned.

Simona dismissed the guards, told the maids to leave, and retired to her own suite. The party perfume still clung to her—champagne, lilies, smoke. She undressed slowly, unpinned her hair, and removed her earrings one by one, placing them in a velvet jewelry box.

Margherita was asleep in her room down the hall. Good.

For now, at least, the girl obeyed.

Simona slipped beneath the silk sheets, the exhaustion of the evening pressing down like a second skin. Her thoughts drifted—to the music, the endless parade of faces, and that man, Ezio Moroni.

She had hoped never to see him again.

Sleep came, shallow and restless.

Then a noise—muffled footsteps, a door creaking open.

“Signora,” a voice whispered.

Simona opened one eye. Her maid stood trembling at the foot of the bed.

“What is it?”

“Signora, there are—”

“Whatever it is, it can wait until morning.”

“Signora, please—”

The words cut off in a gasp as the door burst open. Hands—rough, gloved—seized Simona before she could scream. The sheets tangled around her legs as they dragged her off the bed.

“Idioti!” she spat, kicking, clawing. “Who the hell do you think you are? This is my house!”

They ignored her, hauling her through the hall, down the staircase, her bare feet scraping against marble. Her protests echoed through the corridors, unanswered.

In the foyer, they threw her down like a sack.

The chandelier’s light flared above her, dizzying. Simona pushed herself up, hair wild, silk nightgown torn at the shoulder.

Then she saw him.

Maurizio Benedetti stood by the door, immaculate in a dark coat, hands clasped behind his back. His expression was composed—almost bored—but the cold fury in his eyes made the air thin.

“Maurizio,” she breathed, forcing composure. “What is this?”

He stepped closer. The guards who’d dragged her in fell back.

“I should be asking you that,” he said quietly. His tone was measured, but each word struck like a blow. “You think I wouldn’t hear about your little stunt tonight?”

Simona tried to rise. “I have no idea what you—”

He seized her chin, forcing her face up. “Don’t play dumb with me, Simona. Parading that girl like some debutante while she’s promised to my son? You insult me.”

“She’s not ready—”

He cut her off with a bitter laugh. “Ready or not, she’s mine. Domenico made that clear before he died. The girl was promised to Adriano. You don’t change agreements like that.”

Simona’s voice trembled despite her best effort. “She’s barely out of school. Let her finish her studies—”

Maurizio’s hand tightened until she winced. “I’ve been patient with you because you were useful. Because I remember what I gave you—the house, the name, the protection. Don’t mistake generosity for weakness.”

He released her, shoving her back. She hit the floor hard, breath catching.

Maurizio straightened his cuffs. “You’ll announce the engagement soon. Publicly. If you don’t—” He smiled without warmth. “I’ll make sure you never see your precious girl again.”

He turned and walked toward the door. “Have a good night, Signora Altieri.”

The men followed him out. The heavy doors shut behind them.

For a moment, there was only silence—broken by Simona’s ragged breathing.

She pressed a hand to her throat. The tremor passed slowly, replaced by anger.

She staggered to her feet, calling for her head of security. When he arrived, disheveled and half-asleep, she lashed out immediately.

“How the hell did they get in? Where were you?!”

He stammered, “They came through the servants’ entrance. My men didn’t—”

“Enough!” she snapped. Then her breath caught. “Where’s Margherita?”

“She’s safe,” he said quickly. “Her door’s locked. No one’s been near her.”

Simona didn’t believe him. She pushed past him and ran up the stairs, her heart hammering. She unlocked Margherita’s bedroom door with shaking hands.

Inside, the room was still. The girl lay asleep in her bed, her face turned toward the window. A soft glow from the lamp revealed the maid sitting nearby.

“Signora,” the maid whispered. “She had trouble sleeping. I gave her the pills. She’ll rest until morning.”

Simona crossed the room slowly, her bare feet soundless on the rug. She stood beside the bed, studying Margherita’s sleeping face—serene, unaware, utterly defenseless.

She reached out and brushed a strand of hair from the girl’s forehead.

“My sweet dove,” she murmured. “You’re mine. They won’t take you from me.”

Her hand trembled, then stilled.

“I won’t let them.”

Outside, the night wind stirred the curtains. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled—low and distant, like a warning.

Simona straightened, her reflection in the window a pale ghost against the dark.

If Maurizio wanted a war, she would give him one.