It’s meant to be quick. It isn't.
By the time I break the kiss, my blood is thrumming and I know if I don’t stop now, I won’t be leaving this room any time soon. I press my forehead to hers, catching my breath.
“You look dangerous,” I whisper.
She signs, Good.
I kiss her one more time, sharp and claiming. Then I take her hand and lead her out.
The main ballroom is already filling when we arrive. Light pours in from the chandeliers overhead, casting gold over everything. I kept the guest list tight, but every name here matters. Allies. Rivals. Men who owe me, and men who want what’s mine. They all look up when I walk in with Liliana on my arm.
She doesn’t shrink.
She holds her head high, her posture straight, her fingers steady where they rest against my forearm. I keep her close. We move through the crowd like the eye of a storm. Polite nods. Short greetings. Empty pleasantries that mean less than nothing. I smile when I need to. She doesn’t need to smile at all.
Tomasso meets us by the west alcove, dressed to the teeth, but still carrying the weight of his usual sharpness. He leans in toward Liliana first. “You look incredible tonight,” he says. He lifts his hand and signs a slow, deliberate version of it again. “Gio’s not gonna survive this.”
Liliana smiles slightly, tilting her head in acknowledgment. There’s a glint in her eyes. A quiet confidence. She signs back, Thank you, Tomasso.
He grins, then leans toward me. “We’ve got eyes on Martelli.”
My jaw tightens. “Vittorio’s guy?”
He nods. “Not hiding, either. Walked in like he owns the place. Word is that he and Greco fell out.”
He wasn’t invited.
I turn my head slightly and find him almost instantly. Giacomo Martelli. Slick, snake-like. Suit pressed. Smile false. His eyes land on me the moment I see him. There’s no flinch. No shift. Just a slow, deliberate lift of his drink in mock salute.
Liliana’s hand touches my forearm. She signs quickly. Problem?
I nod once. “Handled.”
But it isn’t. Not yet.
The tension coils tighter as the hour slips past. Polite laughter masks cold calculations. Old loyalties rub shoulders with new threats. Rival groups split into corners of the room, watching, waiting. I know this rhythm. I’ve lived it for years. But tonight, I’m not just watching for myself.
I watch for her.
Liliana is unreadable, poised, and magnetic. Her posture perfect, her gaze steady. She doesn’t lean into me like she needs protection. She walks beside me like she belongs.
I make my way to the center of the room, with her still at my side. I let them come to us. Let them bow their heads. Offer their greetings. Pretend they aren’t assessing her every move. Let them see.
Then, with my hand firm at the small of her back, I lift my voice just enough for the closest group to hear. “Allow me to introduce my wife.”
There’s a pause. A beat that stretches longer than it should. Then heads turn. Expressions shift. Some eyes widen. Some jaws clench. Others school their features quickly, but it’s too late.
Liliana glances up at me, surprised. Her eyes search mine, full of something sharp and trembling and lit from within. Then she looks back at the crowd and lifts her chin. She doesn’t sign a word, but she doesn’t need to. She looks every inch the queen I’ve named her.
Whispers spread. The news will travel fast. Let it.
Martelli starts drifting. Not toward me, but through the room, weaving through conversation circles, brushing shoulders with men who shouldn’t be letting him near. He’s measuring the room. Testing boundaries. Watching who watches him back. And I don’t look away.
Tomasso leans in. “Want me to move him out?”
“Not yet.”
Let him think he’s got room to move.
