1. Aria #2
It was the first time in Nuova Speranza's history that a family had risen to power not just through fear, but through something stronger: through choice.
And once they had the docks, everything else followed.
Papa never forgave them, even though an uneasy but necessary truce followed.
He had spent his entire life watching my grandpapa build an empire, only to see the Salvatores dismantle it, piece by piece, man by man, until there was nothing left but the illusion of power.
The Lombardis had wealth, influence, history, but unfortunately none of that mattered when men no longer believed in their rule.
Because power is not about money, or even how many politicians you own or how many businesses bear your name.
It is about who people turn to when they are afraid.
And they no longer turned to us.
For Papa, it was a betrayal he could never forget.
"Signorina, hold still."
I barely register my maid's soft voice as she laces the back of my gown.
The fabric is delicate, handcrafted in Milan, but I feel like I'm being trussed up for slaughter.
I've always been a pawn in Papa's empire, raised not as a daughter, but as an asset.
The perfect Lombardi woman—poised, educated, untouched by the filth of our business yet steeped in it just enough to understand my place.
They've sheltered me my entire life, kept me hidden behind security details and high walls, all so I could be used when the time was right.
And tonight, it seems, the time has come.
"Aria."
I glance up as my mother steps into the room, tall and elegant in her emerald silk gown.
She is the perfect picture of refinement, the kind of woman men fear because they cannot read her.
She inspects me the way she always does, as if I am an offering for the altar of power.
"You look beautiful, cara mia ," my mother murmurs, her voice gentle in a way that almost feels real.
The words wrap around me in how warm they sound, because warmth from her is what I have craved for so long that my throat tightens against the threat of tears.
I want to hold onto them, to believe that for once, she is speaking to me and not just to the image she needs me to project.
I want to think that maybe, just maybe, she is proud of me, not because I am useful, not because I serve a purpose, but simply because I am hers.
That foolish hope lasts all of three seconds.
Then, with all the carelessness of a man stepping on an ant with his boot, she snuffs it out. "Your training will serve the family well."
My breath leaves me in a quiet exhale.
Of course. It was never about me.
It never is.
Mother does not give compliments freely.
She does not waste affection where it does not serve a purpose.
When she praises me, it is not love, it is calculation.
I swallow the bitter taste rising in my throat, offering a tight smile that barely stretches my lips.
"I suppose that depends on what I'm being prepared for."
She tilts her head, eyes flicking over me with the kind of assessment one gives a painting they did not create but must display regardless.
There is a beauty to her, something commanding and elegant, but she has worn this expression for so long—half amusement, half cold detachment—that I don't think she remembers how to look any other way.
"You'll find out soon enough."
The words should not unsettle me as much as they do.
They are spoken lightly, as if they hold no weight, but the knowing gleam in her eyes says otherwise.
I force my spine straighter, willing the unease pressing at my ribs to quiet as I stand and follow my mother out of my room.
The Lombardi estate stands as a monument to a time when our family's power was absolute, when no one dared to question our dominion over Nuova Speranza.
Every inch of its architecture speaks to a legacy carved from ambition and ruthlessness, a testament to men who understood that wealth alone is not enough.
Power must be displayed, woven into the very walls so that those who step inside do not simply see it, but feel it.
The marble floors gleam under the golden glow of chandeliers, each stone quarried from Carrara and polished to perfection, their smooth surfaces whispering of extravagance and permanence.
The ceilings stretch high above, covered in hand-painted frescoes that depict not just scenes of gods and kings, but of conquest, of dominion, of stories that mirror our own.
Every brushstroke serves as a reminder that we are not just businessmen or criminals.
We are the architects of a dynasty that was never meant to fall.
Beyond the grand entrance, the courtyard unfurls like something lifted from the pages of history, lined with statues of our ancestors, their cold marble faces fixed in expressions of quiet authority.
These are the men who shaped our empire, who stood at the helm of Nuova Speranza long before the Salvatores ever dreamed of power.
They are not forgotten.
Their presence lingers, casting shadows over every deal made, every whispered conversation held within these walls.
The gardens, tended with meticulous care, are filled with imported olive trees and Sicilian roses, their perfume thick in the evening air.
Pathways wind through the estate, past fountains whose waters trickle in soft contrast to the weight of the conversations that unfold in the shaded alcoves.
Here, alliances are made and broken.
Here, enemies become business partners, and business partners become enemies.
At the farthest edge of the property, past the gardens and the courtyard, lies the vineyard, a piece of Italy transplanted into the heart of our city.
To outsiders, it is a symbol of culture and refinement, a nod to our heritage and our love of tradition.
To those who know better, it is something else entirely.
I take my place at the long mahogany table in the dining hall, my hands folded in my lap.
The evening tea is a mere formality.
This is not a family gathering but a war council in disguise.
Vittorio Lombardi sits at the head, the patriarch of a dynasty that is slipping through his fingers.
His silver hair is combed back, his suit impeccable, his rings flashing in the candlelight.
He is a man who wears charm like a weapon, whose smiles have always carried an undercurrent of menace.
Tonight, there is something in his demeanor that sets my nerves on edge.
"I've made a decision," he announces, swirling his wine. The candlelight catches on his wedding band, the same one passed down from my grandpapa.
"Things have been…unbalanced," he continues smoothly. "The Salvatores believe they own this city. That their grip on Nuova Speranza is unshakable. But power is never unshakable. It only waits for the right hands to tip the scales."
A slow, approving murmur moves through the table.
Vittorio leans back in his chair and looks at me. "Which brings me to you, figlia mia ."
A cold weight settles in my chest.
"You will do your part," he says simply, as if this has already been decided. "We will secure new alliances, new partnerships, and you will be at the center of it."
Dread makes my stomach turn.
"A marriage," he continues. "To an arms dealer with direct access to Eastern European manufacturers. Or perhaps an olive oil merchant with routes we can exploit. Someone with influence. Someone with power. Someone who will put the Lombardi name back on the map."
I knew this was coming.
I have always known this was coming.
But knowing and hearing it aloud are two different things, and I understand perfectly well that this is no marriage.
Rather, it is a hand extended in alliance to someone who will never love me, someone chosen for the benefit of Papa's empire, not for my own happiness.
And worst of all, I know who it won't be.
Enzo Moretti.
The name causes a physical ache in my heart because it is a precious secret I've held for too long.
He is Luca Salvatore's most feared hitman, the blade in the dark, the soldier who never hesitates when given an order.
His hands are stained with blood, and his loyalty to his family is absolute.
He would never betray the Salvatores, and I could never betray my own.
I school my face into an expression of acceptance.
I cannot fight this.
But inside, my blood burns with defiance.
Because I know the truth, deep in my bones.
No part of me wants Papa's chosen groom.
I want the man I can never have.