Chapter 1
The private dining room of the Montesi estate was bathed in crisp, cinematic natural light. There was no warm, yellow filter muting the atmosphere; the bright video colors of the lavish celebration popped against the pristine white walls and marble floors. Dozens of white American adults, draped in formal evening wear, mingled with glasses of champagne, their fair, rosy skin glowing under the crystal chandeliers. It was a gathering meant to celebrate the impending birth of a new heir to the Montesi syndicate. But beneath the sophisticated hum of American accents, a dark, suffocating tension was rapidly uncoiling.
At the absolute head of the impossibly long mahogany table sat Alaric Montesi. At fifty-nine years old, he possessed a deeply masculine, terrifying power that commanded absolute obedience without a single word. He was handsome, possessing the rugged, weathered look of a veteran Mafia boss. He wore a flawlessly tailored dark three-piece suit, a crisp white dress shirt, and polished leather shoes. The heavy gold of his family signet ring and the sleek face of his luxury wristwatch caught the light as he steepled his hands. His cold, sharp, intimidating eyes swept across the room, analyzing every micro-expression of the capos and family members seated before him.
To his immediate right, the ornate, high-backed chair traditionally reserved for the heir apparent was currently occupied by his twenty-nine-year-old daughter, Serena. She was eight months pregnant, her fair skin pale and exhausted, dressed in an elegant maternity dress that draped beautifully over her swollen belly. A heavy diamond wedding ring glinted on her finger.
"The northern shipping lines are secure, Boss," a senior capo reported from the far end of the table, his voice loud enough to carry. "We don't expect any delays."
"Ensure the customs agents are compensated," Alaric commanded, his voice a low, raspy rumble that carried effortlessly. He spoke slowly, with deliberate, controlled pauses between his words. Every sentence sounded measured, cold, and immensely dangerous.
Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the dining room swung open. Bianca Coletti, the sixty-three-year-old mother of Serena’s husband, marched into the room. She wore a luxurious, deep-colored formal dress, heavy pearl jewelry rattling against her collarbone as she moved with an unearned, aggressive arrogance.
Without a word of greeting to the Don, Bianca walked directly to the head of the table. She looked down at Serena, her fair face twisting into a mask of pure, unwarranted malice.
Before anyone could register her intent, Bianca reached out and violently shoved pregnant Serena.
The force of the sudden attack caught Serena completely off guard. She was thrown sideways, tumbling out of the ornate chair. She crashed heavily against the plush dining room carpet, letting out a sharp, terrified gasp. Immediately, instinct took over, and Serena curled one arm protectively around her swollen belly, her face contorting in pain.
"What are you doing?!" Serena cried out, her American accent breaking with shock.
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Bianca sneered, looking down at the pregnant woman with absolute contempt. She brushed her hands together as if wiping away dirt.
"That chair belongs to the real heir’s mother," Bianca stated coldly, her voice carrying across the suddenly silent dining room.
