Chapter 21
Lucio
T he Hoffmans’ estate is sprawling, a picture of old money and ruthless ambition.
The afternoon sun beats down on the perfectly-manicured lawn, where the scent of grilled steak and whiskey lingers in the air.
It’s a gathering of alliances, a carefully curated social event that masks the constant undercurrent of power plays and silent negotiations.
I stand off to the side, nursing a glass of bourbon instead of my usual vodka, my gaze drifting over the gathering. Matteo is across the patio, his posture loose, deceptively at ease, but I know better. He’s detached. Uninterested. And most importantly, he’s ignoring his fiancée.
Vivian sits beside him, beautiful and poised, just how the newspapers described her. Her dark hair cascades over one shoulder, her elegant fingers curled around the stem of a wine glass.
She tries. She leans toward him, her voice soft, an attempt at pulling him into conversation. Matteo doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t acknowledge her. It’s like she doesn’t exist.
The air is thick with tension. People laugh and talk around them, but I see it. The way Vivian’s spine stiffens, the way her nails dig into her glass for a second before she forces herself to relax. A mask slipping back into place, and I know she’s barely holding it together.
It would almost be amusing, how little Matteo gives a shit, if not for the way his attention flickers. Not toward Vivian. Not even toward business. But to something else.
To someone else.
Cicely Hoffman.
It’s subtle. No one else would notice if they’re not watching close enough, but I’m watching.
The way his eyes follow her as she moves through the crowd, greeting guests with that quiet, composed charm that makes her so goddamn untouchable.
The daughter of the most powerful Hoffman, the epitome of grace and prestige. She’s everything Matteo wouldn’t want.
And yet he watches her.
My grip tightens around my glass.
Cicely is laughing at something her father says, her head tilting back just slightly, her golden hair catching the light. She’s beautiful, almost angelic. But Matteo has never cared about beauty, nor innocence. He cares about control. Precision. Power.
And Cicely? She’s dangerous in a way I don’t think even she realizes.
Because Matteo shouldn’t be looking at her the way he is right now.
I take a slow sip of my drink, studying him. He’s always been unreadable, a mask of boredom and indifference, but there’s something else lurking beneath the surface now. Something restrained. Calculated. And I don’t fucking like it.
Matteo finally shifts his gaze, reaching for his drink as if nothing’s changed. But I saw it. That flicker of interest. The crack of his composure.
And so did someone else.
Vivian watches him, her jaw tight, nails pressing into her palm. She follows his line of sight, and for a split second, I think she’s going to snap. Say something. Make a scene.
But she doesn’t. Instead, she takes a long sip of her wine, her expression smoothing over into something distant and unreadable. A game played between them, silent but razor-sharp.
I exhale slowly, dragging a hand through my hair.
This is bad. Cicely Hoffman is off-limits. And Matteo knows it.
But that won’t stop him, because he’s a Folonari and the men in our family tend to go after what they want. Aggressively.