The room had no windows. No clocks. Just the slow burn of time, tobacco, and the stink of old ambition.
It was cold inside Miguel Moretti's estate—not from lack of heat, but from an absence of soul. The kind of chill that lived in the walls of men who traded daughters like currency.
The table stretched long and lifeless between them, oak polished to a mirror-shine, not a single scuff or fingerprint.
At one end, Miguel Moretti, in his throned arrogance. At the other, Dante Rizzoli—posture relaxed, but nothing about him casual. His presence pressed against the room like a loaded gun laid on silk.
Between them sat a briefcase. Black. Sealed. Waiting.
Two lawyers flanked the table. One belonged to Miguel, the other to Dante. Neither spoke. Neither moved. They were there to watch history ruin a girl.
Dante lit a cigarette, the ember flaring bright in the dimness. The smell curled into the air, clean smoke over the rot of the old estate.
"Let's not pretend this is about family," Miguel said, voice rough with age and bitterness. He didn't look at the lawyers, didn't touch the briefcase. "You get her. I get peace. Everyone wins but the girl."
Dante exhaled slowly, ash clinging to the tip of his cigarette. "You offered her. I just agreed to the terms."
Miguel's mouth twitched. He poured himself a drink—neat, something amber, the kind of liquor only handed down through blood. He didn't offer one to Dante. Dante didn't expect him to.
The older lawyer opened the briefcase with a metallic click. Inside, a cream envelope rested like a corpse—silk, wax-sealed in red with the Moretti crest.
"Marriage terms," the lawyer said, sliding it forward. "Final copy. Both signatures required."
Miguel didn't read it. He took the pen offered and scrawled his name with a hand that didn't shake. Not even a flinch.
Dante leaned forward. His signature was slower, deliberate. Final.
The second lawyer reached forward, resealed the envelope, and placed it back into the case. Snap. Locked. History, made.
"The Northern and Southern syndicates," the lawyer said, voice flat, "are now unified by blood."
Miguel stood. "Don't play pretend, Rizzoli. This doesn't make us family."
Dante crushed the end of his cigarette in Miguel's empty glass, a slow, quiet hiss rising. "Wouldn't dream of it."
The corridor outside the negotiation room was long and echoing, tiled in white veined marble, gilded sconces lighting the way like a funeral procession.
Dante walked alone, the briefcase in his hand like a weight chained to his wrist.
A sound caught his attention.
Not footsteps. Not voices.
A thud.
Followed by a gasp.
Then a sharp, wet slap.
He turned the corner.
And saw her.
Sophia Moretti, barefoot and half-drenched in morning light spilling from the stained glass. Her hair wild, her dress askew.
One of the housemaids was crumpled at her feet, arms raised as Sophia yanked her up by the wrist and struck her across the face.
Another blow.
The maid cried out.
Sophia raised her hand again—
Then paused.
She felt him.
Her head turned, slowly, like a predator caught mid-feast.
Their eyes met.
She didn't speak. Didn't drop the maid. Didn't look afraid.
If anything, she looked defiant. Daring him to say something.
Dante didn't.
He looked at her. Held her gaze.
Then he walked past. Calm. Silent. Unbothered. Like she wasn't a person but a problem he'd already solved.
Behind him, the maid sobbed quietly. Sophia didn't hit her again. She didn't move at all.
Dante didn't look back.
Earlier, before the ink had dried, the lawyer's voice had cut through the smoke:
"As per the agreement, Miss Sophia Moretti will receive the title of Duchess—Queen of the Northern Syndicate in name. She is entitled to a private stipend of ten million euros annually, ownership of two international safehouses, a vineyard in Tuscany, and a twelve-percent non-voting stake in Vescari Imports."
Miguel barely blinked.
"She will be afforded diplomatic immunity in six countries, a personal protection team, and full access to all Rizzoli-owned properties and travel fleets."
A pause.
"If the marriage produces three male heirs," the lawyer continued, "Sophia will be granted a fifty-percent share of Mr. Rizzoli's assets—properties, businesses, and territorial claims, to be transferred to her or her sons upon maturity."
"And if she has daughters?" Miguel asked dryly.
"Clause is nullified."
"And no children?"
"Annulment after five years. At Mr. Rizzoli's discretion."
Miguel stared at Dante. "She'll hate you."
Dante didn't smile. "She can hate me in silk."
And now, she stood in the light of stained glass, blood on her knuckles, silence in her throat.
No one told her.
No one warned her.
No one asked if she wanted to be Queen.
And Dante? He didn't need her to want it.
He just needed her to become it.