Chapter 1
The chandelier of cut Bohemian crystal hummed under the weight of eighty gathered guests, its pale light gleaming off silver cutlery, vintage Pinot Noir, and the silk-draped shoulders of the Montesi syndicate. At the head of the banquet table sat Alaric Montesi. At fifty-nine, his shoulders filled his charcoal three-piece suit like armor, his knuckles resting against mahogany with the quiet gravity of a monarch who had outlived three wars.
Beside him sat his only daughter, Serena. Eight months into her pregnancy, she wore an emerald maternity gown that framed her swollen belly, her hand resting over the slight, fluttering kicks beneath the fabric.
Then the heavy dining chair scraped violently across the parquet floor.
Bianca Coletti didn’t merely nudge her daughter-in-law. With both hands braced and venom flashing in her pale eyes, the older woman shoved Serena sideways. The sudden, brutal impact threw Serena off balance. Her low heel caught the carpet, and she crashed down hard on her knees, crying out as she instantly curled her upper body inward, wrapping both arms like a cage around her belly.
The room gasped, forks freezing in midair.
“That chair belongs to the real heir’s mother,” Bianca sneered, dusting off her pearl bracelets with theatrical disgust.
Across the room, standing beside a mountain of wrapped baby gifts, was Bastian Coletti. At thirty-seven, his tailored tuxedo was immaculate, his jawline sculpted, his wedding ring catching the light. Beside him stood Faye Mercer, twenty-six, dressed in clinging rose-gold satin that highlighted a petite, unmistakable four-month bump.
Alaric didn’t yell. The silence that fell over the ballroom was colder than an open grave. Slowly, the patriarch rose from the head of the table. His six-foot-two frame seemed to blot out the chandelier. He stepped down, bent on one knee, and gathered Serena by her elbows, lifting her back to her feet with infinite gentleness.
“Dad…” Serena whispered, her voice trembling, tears spilling over her lashes as she gripped his lapel. “Bastian says… Bastian says she’s carrying his son.”
Alaric wiped a tear from her cheek with a thumb scarred by thirty years of empire-building. “Stand straight, Serena.”
Bastian took Faye’s hand, his expression calm, smug with calculated audacity. He began walking toward the vacant chair beside Alaric, guiding his mistress forward as if presenting a queen to court.
Alaric stepped directly into his path.
Bastian stopped, forcing an easy smile. “Alaric, let’s be practical. The family needs a male heir. Serena couldn’t give me—”
The crack was like a gunshot.
Alaric’s open hand struck Bastian across the jaw with brutal, uninhibited force. The impact snapped Bastian’s neck sideways, lifting his polished shoes clear off the rug. He crashed backward into the five-tier gift table, sending gilded boxes, crystal decanters, and silver ribbons exploding into the air before slamming against the marble wainscoting.
Faye screamed, clutching her belly as she backed away.
Bianca lunged forward, placing herself before her groaning son and stabbing a manicured fingernail at Serena. “You savage! Take your broken daughter and choke on her! My grandson inherits everything!”
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Alaric turned his back on her, guiding Serena gently back into the carved armchair. Only when his daughter was seated did he face Bianca again. His voice dropped into a register of terrifying calm.
“Your grandson inherits nothing I own.”
