Drawn by his daughter’s desperate cries, Mafia boss Alessandro Rizzano strode in from the adjoining corridor

The bridal suite of the Rizzano estate was flooded with brilliant, natural light. Crisp, cinematic sunshine poured through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, completely free of any dull, yellow tint. The bright video colors of the room—the pristine white of the marble floors, the vibrant silver of the fixtures, and the deep emerald accents—were sharp and breathtaking. At the center of the room sat Bianca Moretti, thirty-four years old and draped in a luxurious, heavy wedding gown. Her fair, rosy skin was flawless, adorned with dripping diamond jewelry and a massive engagement ring that caught the bright light.

"The lace on this sleeve is entirely too stiff," Bianca complained, her sharp American accent cutting through the quiet of the room. She adjusted herself on the plush, rolling bridal vanity stool stationed beside the expansive makeup table. "If I have to stand at the altar feeling like I am wrapped in cardboard, heads will roll."

"I can have the seamstress soften it immediately, Miss Moretti," Rosalie Kent replied quickly. The twenty-eight-year-old maid stood near the door, wearing a crisp, professional maid uniform, a white apron, thick tights, and sensible flats. Her fair, rosy complexion was pale with the stress of managing the bride-to-be.

"Don't bother. Just fetch my electric hair clippers from the travel bag," Bianca snapped, examining her perfect reflection. "The stylist left the nape of my neck uneven. I have to fix it myself because the staff in this house is entirely incompetent."

"Yes, ma'am," Rosalie said, moving swiftly to retrieve the silver clippers.

As she did, the heavy oak door of the suite opened slightly. Three-year-old Livia Rizzano stepped into the bright room. The little girl wore an exquisite, formal flower-girl dress made of soft tulle, her tiny feet clad in white flats. Her fair, rosy cheeks were flushed with excitement as she looked at the beautiful bride.

"Bianca?" Livia asked softly, her sweet American accent echoing in the large room. "Do you like my dress? Daddy said I look like a princess."

Bianca turned on the rolling vanity stool, her eyes narrowing with instant, unfiltered disdain. She hated the child. Livia was a constant, living reminder of Alessandro’s past, a complication in the perfect, powerful future Bianca had envisioned for herself within the Rizzano family.

"You look like a walking doily," Bianca muttered under her breath.

"Miss Moretti, please," Rosalie whispered, stepping forward and handing over the electric clippers. "She is just a little girl. Today is a big day for her, too."

"Today is my day," Bianca hissed, snatching the clippers from the maid’s hands. She turned the device on. The loud, aggressive buzzing sound filled the bright room. Bianca’s eyes locked onto Livia, a cruel, sociopathic idea forming in her mind as she looked at the little girl's perfectly curled hair. "Come here, Livia. Let me fix that ridiculous hair of yours."