Chapter 3
Several yards away, near the grand stone fountain that anchored the center of the terrace, Raffaele Marconi stood among a tight circle of high-ranking Mafia associates. At thirty-three, Raffaele was breathtakingly handsome, possessing the rugged, classic looks of a vintage movie star. His thick, slightly wavy dark hair was naturally slicked back, though a few loose strands fell over his forehead, giving him a charming, romantic edge that masked the absolute monster beneath.
He wore a dark, impeccably tailored suit, his crisp dress shirt unbuttoned at the chest. The exposed fair, rosy skin revealed artistic, refined tattoos snaking up his neck. The ink was sharp, featuring enough negative space that it looked elegant rather than dense—a moderate, neatly placed design that made him look dangerously attractive.
"The shipments from the northern docks need to be rerouted by Tuesday," an older capo was saying, swirling a glass of whiskey. "If we wait any longer, the feds will start asking questions."
"Let them ask," Raffaele said.
He spoke slowly, with controlled, deliberate pauses between his words. His volume was incredibly low, forcing the older, hardened men to lean in and hang on his every syllable. Every sentence he delivered sounded measured, cold, and profoundly dangerous.
"We do not change our schedules for the FBI," Raffaele continued, his sharp, intimidating eyes scanning the vibrant crowd. "We dictate the terms. Ensure the warehouse supervisor understands the penalty for delays."
"Understood, Boss," the capo nodded quickly, swallowing hard. "I will handle it personally."
"Make sure that you do," Raffaele murmured.
As Raffaele raised his own glass of bourbon, a sudden, sharp movement near the dessert terrace caught his peripheral vision. His cold eyes darted through the brightly colored crowd. He saw Margaret. The older housekeeper was kneeling on the stone, her arms wrapped fiercely around a small, sobbing figure in a dress suit. Noah.
Raffaele’s jawline, sharply defined and framed by extremely short, neatly trimmed stubble, locked into iron. He turned his head slightly, his gaze drifting up to the woman standing over them. Victoria. She was pointing a sharp, manicured finger toward the service area, actively directing his three-year-old son away from the party like a servant.
The low, polite hum of the nearby guests began to falter. The white American adults standing in the immediate vicinity had noticed the commotion. They watched with wide, uncomfortable eyes as the bride-to-be stood off against the veteran housekeeper.
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There was no dialogue. Raffaele did not say a single word to the men surrounding him. He simply handed his glass of bourbon to the nearest capo. The associates followed his gaze, and the blood drained from their fair faces as they realized what was happening.
The crowd parted instantly. No one dared to step in his path as the Mafia boss began a slow, silent, and terrifyingly deliberate walk across the sunlit terrace toward his fiancée.
