Chapter 1
The grand ballroom of the Bellandi estate was flooded with brilliant, cinematic daylight. The bright, vivid colors of the venue popped with high-definition clarity, completely devoid of any dull or yellow tint. Crystal chandeliers caught the natural sunlight pouring through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, refracting it across the pristine white marble floors and the lavish floral arrangements. Gathered throughout the sprawling room was the extended Bellandi crime family, a wealthy assembly of White American adults dressed in immaculate formal wedding attire. The melodic hum of crisp American accents filled the air as guests exchanged polite pleasantries, their fair, rosy skin glowing with health and untouchable privilege.
At the absolute head of the primary dining table sat Nico Bellandi. At forty-two years old, the patriarch of the family was a man of terrifying, deeply masculine power. He possessed the intimidating, immovable aura of a veteran Mafia boss. He wore a flawlessly tailored dark three-piece suit, a crisp white dress shirt, a heavy gold signet ring, and polished leather shoes. A vintage luxury wristwatch gleamed on his wrist. His fair, rosy skin was pulled taut over a sharply defined, handsome face that currently betrayed absolutely no emotion.
"The perimeter is entirely secure, Boss," murmured Rafe Calder, stepping up to the side of Nico’s heavy oak chair. The forty-five-year-old head of security wore a dark, professional suit, his sharp eyes scanning the room.
"I expect nothing less today, Rafe," Nico replied, his voice a low, resonant rumble. "It is my sister's wedding day. I want no interruptions, no business talk, and no mistakes."
"Of course, Nico," Rafe nodded, his American accent smooth and respectful. "We have men stationed at every access road. Not a single uninvited guest will step foot on this property."
"See that they don't," Nico said, taking a slow sip from his crystal glass of water.
Across the bright, sunlit room, the bride was holding court. Marcella Bellandi, Nico’s thirty-nine-year-old older sister, wore a breathtakingly luxurious white wedding gown. Heavy diamond jewelry sparkled at her throat, and expensive rings flashed on her manicured fingers. Her fair, rosy cheeks were flushed with the excitement of being the center of attention.
"It is a beautiful ceremony, Marcella," a female relative fawned, holding a flute of champagne. "You look absolutely flawless."
"I accept nothing less than perfection," Marcella laughed, though her smile didn't quite reach her cold, calculating blue eyes.
However, her smile instantly vanished as she looked toward the grand entrance of the ballroom.
Walking slowly into the brilliantly lit room was six-year-old Vivia Bellandi. Nico’s daughter was a beautiful child with fair, rosy skin and bright eyes. But it was her clothing that brought the surrounding conversations to a grinding halt. Surrounded by thousands of dollars of designer silk and tailored wool, Vivia was wearing an old, slightly tattered, faded formal dress and simple, scuffed flats. It was a dress she had inherited from her late mother.
Marcella’s eyes narrowed into vicious, dark slits. "What is the meaning of this?" she hissed under her breath.
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"Aunt Marcella?" Vivia called out softly, holding a small, handmade wedding card in her hands.
"Don't you dare approach my table looking like that," Marcella growled, abandoning her guests and marching directly toward the six-year-old girl, her designer heels clicking furiously against the marble floor.
