Chapter 2
Only one sound disturbed the penthouse: the low, distant sound of Milan’s sirens, eight floors below.
I stood in front of the window—a floor-to-ceiling glass wall—watching the city wake up beneath a cold fog. My suit, a charcoal-gray, custom-tailored Tom Ford, hung on the closet door, looking more like a suit of armor than festive attire.
My heart was racing at a muffled, heavy pace I didn’t recognize. Nerves surged through me—the same charge I felt before closing a hostile, billion-euro deal—but this was different. It wasn’t cold. It was hot, almost feverish, and it made my hands sweat.
I, Marco Valenti, the man who built an empire from nothing, who took on transportation cartels and broke up monopolies, was nervous.
I laughed to myself, a short, dry chuckle.
“Pathetic,” I muttered.
I adjusted my platinum cufflinks.
I wasn’t nervous about the merger. It was a masterpiece, the logical consequence of two empires colliding. I wasn’t nervous about the money, or the power, or the Ferraro name.
I was nervous because of her.
Bianca…
I’d spent the last six months in boardrooms with that woman, expecting to find the spoiled heiress the press described. The ice princess. Instead, I found a queen.
I remembered our first serious negotiation. I laid out my terms, expecting her to back down, to call in Dad’s lawyers. Instead, she laughed. A low, sarcastic laugh that completely disarmed me.
“Is that the best you’ve got, Valenti?” she asked, leaning across the table. “I expected more from the man who supposedly built everything on his own.”
She took me apart, piece by piece. She wasn’t just beautiful; she was brilliant. So smart it was downright dangerous. She rewrote three clauses of the contract right then and there, off the top of her head, increasing Ferraro Uomo’s profit by 9 percent and, somehow, making me feel as if I’d won.
From that day on, I was lost.
The sex… God… was just an inevitable consequence. It was the first time I’d met a woman who didn’t just want my money or my name. She wanted control and to fight for dominance. When Bianca surrendered, it was like watching a fortress fall—a victory I knew I’d never feel with anyone else again.
She was strong, intelligent, and in an hour, she would be mine.
I was in love. Completely, irrevocably in love with Bianca Ferraro’s strength and mind. The empire was just a bonus.
I checked my watch. 9:15 a.m. The ceremony was at 11:00 a.m.
Breathe, Marco, I told myself, adjusting my dark silk tie. The knot felt too tight, choking me. Anticipation had me wound tight. I couldn’t wait to see her walk toward me, to see if, beneath that pragmatic armor, I’d be able to see the woman I’d met that night.
I, who had collected women and conquests, felt like a teenager, anxious for our honeymoon and for the times I’d see that strong, determined woman moaning my name while I fucked her until sunrise.
It was definitely more than just a simple arrangement, and the physical attraction I felt for her was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
Just a few more hours, I thought to myself, as I imagined her wearing nothing but white lingerie that I would make a point of tearing off…
That’s when the doorbell rang.
I frowned. I wasn’t expecting anyone. My godparents were already on their way to the church.
I opened the door, my irritation already rising.
Standing in the hallway, out of breath, was Silvio. My former mentor. The man I hadn’t seen in almost three years—not since our fortunes had taken opposite and bitter paths.
“Silvio? What the hell are you doing here? The wedding is in…”
“You can’t marry her, Marco.”
His voice was urgent, desperate. He looked older, his eyes sunken and bloodshot.
Anger rose, swift and ruthless. My moment of nervousness was gone, replaced by the ruthless man who had made me one of Italy’s billionaires.
“You have five seconds to get out of my doorway before I call security.”
“I won’t let you do this!” Silvio shouted, pushing against the door. He was weaker than I was, but his desperation gave him strength. He barged into my apartment.
“You’re not going to marry that… that Ferraro whore!”
I grabbed him by the collar, ready to throw him out.
“Watch what you say.”
“She’s lying to you!” he spat.
Silvio struggled, pulling a brown envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket.
“I wasn’t going to let Alessandro Ferraro do to you what he did to my family!”
He threw the envelope onto the marble coffee table. The photos and papers scattered.
My breath caught in my throat.
“She’s using you, Marco. Look!”
Against every fiber of my being and everything I felt for Bianca, my gaze fell on the first photo.
My breath caught in my throat. The first photo was of Bianca. Unmistakably, she was laughing.
It wasn’t the controlled smile she wore at meetings or the vulnerable one she’d given me as she came apart in my arms. It was a carefree, intimate laugh.
She was in a dimly lit bar, her hand flat against another man’s chest—a handsome, classically good-looking man from an old-money family I despised.
“Bullshit,” I blurted out in an incredulous roar. “You faked this.”
“Faked it?” Silvio laughed, a high-pitched, unpleasant sound. “What about this? What about this?”
He shoved another photo toward me. Bianca, entering a private palazzo near Via Monte Napoleone. The same outfit as in the previous photo. Seconds later, the same man followed her inside. The date in the lower corner: eight weeks ago.
The blood drained from my face. Eight weeks. The calculation was instant, brutal. Just a few days before that first night in my apartment. The night I thought she’d given herself to me.
“She was with him… and then she came to me?” The question slipped out before I realized it.
“Worse!” Silvio leaned forward, his face a mask of twisted triumph. He didn’t pick up a photo, but a stack of folded papers. “Do you think she’s just unfaithful? She’s strategic. You admire her strength so much, don’t you? Admire this.”
He threw the papers down in front of me.
They weren’t photos. It was a report. Letterhead from a private obstetrics clinic in Geneva—discreet and expensive.
My jaw dropped. My fingers, which had been unsteady with prewedding nerves, went rigid and numb.
I opened the document.
Patient: Bianca Ferraro. Gestational Age: Six Weeks.
The world tilted. A metallic taste flooded my mouth.
The words echoed through the penthouse.
Panic gave way to a sickening confusion.
“She’s quick, isn’t she?” Silvio hissed, reading my confusion. “She secured the heir with you, but her heart is with him. Or maybe…”
He let the pause hang in the air, poisonous.
“That child isn’t even yours, Marco.”
I gripped the edge of the table. The cold marble burned my palms. No!
That meant she’d gotten pregnant after our night together. She’d kept seeing him. Her lover…
“And why the marriage, Marco? Why the rush?” Silvio shoved the last document toward me.
It wasn’t a medical report; it was a financial one. A leaked summary of Ferraro Uomo’s internal balance sheets. Numbers in the red. Massive debts hidden in offshore accounts. A financial hole that Alessandro Ferraro wouldn’t be able to cover.
“The Ferraro Empire is crumbling,” Silvio whispered in a low, triumphant voice. “She’s broke and pregnant by a lover. Bianca needed a rich man who would do anything to save the Ice Princess.”
The truth hit me like a train.
The “logical marriage.” The “aligned” goals. The sparkle in her eyes. The way she challenged me.
It wasn’t passion. It was a calculation.
She was using me and my money to save her empire and cover up her bastard son.
The feverish excitement from earlier died instantly, replaced by an absolute hatred for myself. For being so blind and believing that her strength was real, when it was nothing but desperation.
That love I’d felt just ten minutes ago now seemed like a pathetic joke.
“Get out,” I said, my voice lifeless.
“Marco, I’m just trying to protect you…”
I stood up, and the force of my anger made Silvio step back.
“I TOLD YOU TO GET OUT OF MY APARTMENT!”
My roar echoed through the room. Silvio didn’t argue. He grabbed his empty envelope and ran out, almost tripping over his own feet, letting fear replace his triumph.
The door slammed.
I was left alone.
I looked at the wedding suit that seemed more like a clown’s costume to me.
I sank into the couch, my ears ringing in the stillness. I picked up one of the photos—Bianca laughing with another man, her pregnancy, her family’s bankrupt business…
I felt bile rising.
The love I felt was a fraud, the wedding was a farce, and I was the proud fool she’d almost managed to trap.
I glanced at the clock on the wall. 10:15 a.m. The ceremony would be in less than an hour. She’d be waiting for me at the altar.
A slow smile, devoid of any warmth, curved my lips.
“Do you want a sucker, Bianca?” I whispered to the empty room. “Do you want a wedding?” I stood up, walked over to the bar, and poured myself a double shot of whiskey. “You’ll get your answer.”
I downed it in one gulp, feeling the alcohol burn my chest, but it wasn’t enough to burn away the frost that had settled in my heart.