Chapter 1
The crystal chandeliers of the Montesi estate cast a brilliant, uncompromisingly bright light across the grand banquet hall. The room was a sea of vivid, opulent colors—crimson silk draperies, gold-leafed moldings, and towering centerpieces of pristine white roses that smelled faintly of vanilla and power. It was a celebration of blood and alliance, filled with white American adults wearing their finest formal mafia-family attire. Their fair, rosy skin flushed with the warmth of expensive champagne and the animated, boisterous cadence of their American accents. At the absolute head of the massive, polished mahogany table sat Alaric Montesi. At fifty-nine, he was the undisputed king of this world. Deeply masculine and intensely intimidating, Alaric wore a flawlessly tailored three-piece suit that armored his broad shoulders. A heavy gold signet ring glinted on his finger, catching the light alongside a diamond-encrusted wristwatch.
Seated directly to his right, in an ornate, velvet-cushioned chair reserved for the favored heir, was his daughter, Serena. At twenty-nine, her fair, rosy complexion glowed with the undeniable radiance of an eight-month pregnancy. She wore an elegant, flowing maternity dress in a deep shade of sapphire blue, her diamond earrings sparkling as she laughed softly at a joke made by an uncle across the table. Her wedding ring, a heavy band of platinum and diamonds, felt unusually heavy on her finger tonight.
"The structural integrity of the downtown project is sound, Alaric," an underboss noted from down the table, raising his glass. "We clear the final permits by Tuesday. The mayor is playing ball."
"He plays ball because he knows the alternative is entirely unpleasant," Alaric replied, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that commanded instant silence from the surrounding conversations. "Ensure the union heads receive their envelopes by tomorrow morning. I do not want any delays."
"Consider it done, Boss," the man nodded respectfully.
Serena shifted uncomfortably in her ornate chair, a subtle ache radiating through her lower back. She placed a protective, manicured hand over her swollen belly. "Dad," Serena whispered, leaning slightly toward Alaric. "Have you seen Bastian? He told me he was just going to the bar to get me a sparkling water, but that was twenty minutes ago."
Alaric’s sharp, assessing eyes scanned the brightly lit room. "Your husband has a habit of mingling with the wrong crowds at these events, Serena. Do not worry yourself. You need to rest."
Before Serena could reply, a sudden, violent shadow fell over her.
Bianca Coletti, Bastian’s sixty-three-year-old mother, stepped up right behind Serena’s chair. Bianca was dressed in a luxurious, heavily beaded formal gown, dripping in thick pearl jewelry that clattered against her chest. Her rosy face was twisted into a mask of absolute, unadulterated venom. Without a single word of warning, Bianca placed both of her hands on the high back of the ornate chair.
With a vicious, explosive burst of strength, Bianca violently shoved the heavy chair sideways.
Serena gasped, a sound of pure terror escaping her lips as the chair tipped past the point of no return. She crashed hard against the thick, expensive Persian carpet. The impact knocked the wind out of her lungs. Instinctively, with the fierce desperation of a mother, Serena immediately curled her body inward, throwing her left arm tightly and protectively over her swollen belly to shield her unborn child from the devastating fall.
The entire banquet hall went dead silent. The clinking of crystal glasses ceased.
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Bianca stood towering over the fallen, pregnant woman, her heels planted firmly on the carpet. She looked down at her daughter-in-law with cold, contemptuous eyes, her American accent dripping with pure malice.
"That chair belongs to the real heir’s mother," Bianca spat, the vicious words echoing off the vaulted ceilings of the silent room.
