Meanwhile at the Romano Mansion
The Romano private lounge reeked of old money and danger—glass walls, floor-to-ceiling windows reflecting the city's golden glow, the faint scent of cigars, and leather chairs that had hosted countless shadowy deals. Gold-rimmed whiskey glasses sat untouched on the low table, as if waiting for a toast to chaos. The chandelier's dim, warm light pooled across polished marble floors, casting long, elegant shadows that whispered of secrets.
Alessia crossed one long leg over the other, the slit in her silk dress shifting just enough to reveal a toned thigh. She swirled wine in a crystal glass, the deep red catching the light, her expression unreadable. Her nails were sharp and blood-red—tiny, deliberate weapons. She looked perfectly unbothered—too composed, even—as her brothers circled her like wolves scenting blood.
Giancarlo, the eldest, stood tall in a tailored charcoal suit that looked stitched directly onto him, the broad cut sharpening his already imposing figure. His cologne—cedar and cold steel—hung faintly in the air. With dark hair slicked neatly back and a jaw set in authority, he embodied the heir-in-waiting: measured, diplomatic, dangerous when cornered. His voice was calm, too calm. The kind of calm that came before bones shattered.
"Tell me you're not serious," he said, not asking. "Adrian Blake isn't some rich playboy, Ale. He's dangerous."
She didn't blink, didn't flinch, only fixed her gaze on him as if he were a painting she'd already studied and dismissed. "I'm well aware of who he is."
"That's the problem," Giancarlo pressed. "You're playing a game with someone who doesn't play. He eliminates."
From the bookshelf, Nico—the second son—spoke. He leaned casually against first editions lined in leather, the faint scent of aged paper curling in the air. The lamplight sharpened the cut of his cheekbones. Arms folded, tie loosened just so, jacket unbuttoned—he looked careless, but everyone knew Nico cared about everything. Cool-headed, calculating, he was their fixer, the one who spoke softly but left bloodless cleanups behind.
"Good," Enzo cut in before Alessia could reply. The third son lounged in his seat like a lazy king, one arm draped over the chair, a half-smile tugging his lips. Always restless, always theatrical, Enzo thrived on an audience. His posture was loose but dangerous, like a predator pretending to be tame. His suit hung open, his tie undone, and his grin promised trouble.
"Then she'll prove she can't be eliminated. Maybe it's time Adrian Blake learned he's not untouchable." He said it like he could walk out the door and challenge Adrian head-on without hesitation.
Giancarlo's head snapped toward him, jaw tightening. "You want to declare war? Over a man?"
Like he couldn't believe they'd risk so much—playing the Blake brothers off each other—just to satisfy Alessia's ego.
Enzo scoffed, eyes glittering. "Over power. If Alessia aligns with the Blake family—especially Victor—she controls the game."
"I'm not aligning," Alessia finally said, voice silky, almost bored. She shifted her glass, the wine catching golden light. "I'm redirecting. Adrian had a choice. He said no. Now I'll show him he's not the only one who chooses."
Silence stretched, broken only by the faint clink of ice in a tumbler.
"Victor Blake isn't Adrian," Nico said slowly. "He's more impulsive. More… reachable. But this still feels too dangerous for you."
At the bar, Luca finally lifted his gaze from his drink. The youngest of the five children, he always carried the air of a blade hidden in velvet. Tall and lean, his strength was understated, his every movement deliberate. His tanned skin made the wine-red waves of his hair stand out even more—a rebellious flourish that suited him perfectly.
Stormy gray eyes—contacts chosen because they unsettled people—glinted under the low light. A faint scar traced his jaw, a relic from some forgotten fight that only enhanced his dangerous allure. His lips curved in an easy smile that never truly revealed what was going on in his head.
On his forearm, a finely inked hourglass served as a reminder: time always runs out, and Luca liked to decide when.
"When did you become weak, Luca?" Enzo asked, smirking. Dangerous Luca, now speaking of danger?
"I am not weak," Luca replied gently, his voice silk over steel. "But I don't fight battles that don't benefit me."
If Alessia married Victor or Adrian, it made her powerful—not him. Why bleed for something that didn't profit him? He wasn't stupid—and tonight, he wasn't in the mood for this meeting.
"Everything we do is dangerous," Alessia replied, brushing her fingers along the rim of her glass, the crystal ringing faintly. "But marrying into another family doesn't mean I submit. It means they join us. Not the other way around."
Nico's jaw tightened as he stepped closer, his calm voice carrying weight. "Just make sure your pride doesn't get us killed. Because the Blakes—especially Adrian—don't forget insults."
Alessia rose, poised and unshaken, silk whispering against her legs. "Let them come. I don't mind a little fire."
"You need to stop this before it spirals," Giancarlo warned, his eyes tracking her every move. "Adrian Blake is not a man to provoke."
"And since when do the Romano fear provoking anyone?" Enzo snapped back, throwing one leg over the other with mocking arrogance. He turned to Giancarlo, grin widening. "Or are you the coward here, big brother?"
Giancarlo's shoulders squared. "This isn't fear. It's strategy."
"Strategy?" Enzo shot to his feet, pacing like a caged predator. His voice rose with each word, thickening the tension in the air.
"You and Nico sit on your thrones, preaching 'strategy,' while someone spits in our sister's face?"
"This isn't personal—it's business," Nico countered, calm as ever. "Adrian didn't spit—he rejected a political opportunity. That's his right."
Enzo spun back to Giancarlo, heat radiating off him. "Or maybe you're just afraid Adrian Blake will outplay you. Afraid he'll prove you're not the only heir in this family."
Giancarlo's jaw locked. "Watch your mouth, Enzo."
Alessia's lips curved slightly as she watched them. They were playing right into her hand.
Even if her brothers doted on her as the only daughter, she wanted to master them. And to do that, she needed someone powerful. Adrian Blake was ideal. If not him, Victor would do.
"Come on," Enzo said, voice low but edged with danger. "Everyone knows Father hasn't named a successor. Maybe it's time he did. But if we're choosing between the man who sits and the man who strikes—"
Giancarlo stepped chest-to-chest with him, heat sharp between them. "Then strike, little brother. But don't cry when the empire falls on your head."
The silence that followed pressed in heavy, like fog.
Alessia smoothed her silk blouse, dismissing the tension like dust. "Big brothers," she said, velvet laced with venom, "save your testosterone for the real fight."
"Does Father know about this?" Nico asked, curiosity threading his calm.
"Yes," she answered simply.
"And he allowed it?" Luca tilted his head, a flicker of surprise breaking through his easy demeanor.
"I'm trying to give him a powerful son-in-law," Alessia said with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Why wouldn't he approve?"
It wasn't a question—it was a challenge.
Luca only smirked. He was looking forward to the chaos.
Giancarlo studied her, his face unreadable. "Just don't bring war to our doorstep, Alessia. Because if it comes… you won't control where it ends."
She tilted her chin, unbothered. "Then I suggest everyone pick their side now. Before I make the choice for them."
Her stilettos clicked sharply across the marble, each step echoing like a gavel.
Behind her, the brothers exchanged glances. Giancarlo tense. Nico calculating. Enzo practically grinning.
And Luca?
Luca stared at the door she disappeared through, a shadow crossing his storm-gray eyes.
Quietly wondering who the real threat was.
Adrian Blake… or Alessia Romano herself.