The black rose sat on the marble console, its velvet petals a bruise against the white stone. It wasn't just a flower; it was a statement. A promise.
Luca stared at it, his face an impassive mask, but Chloe saw the storm gathering in his eyes. He picked up the card, his fingers tightening until the paper creased.
"Security didn't see who delivered it," his head of security, Marco, reported stiffly. "Left at the service entrance. No cameras on that angle."
"There are always cameras," Luca said, his voice dangerously quiet. "Find the gap. Plug it. Now."
Marco nodded and retreated.
Chloe reached for the rose. "Don't—"
He caught her wrist. "It could be treated with anything." He pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket, wrapped it around the stem, and carried it to the balcony. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it sailing eight stories down into the private courtyard below.
"She wants a reaction," Chloe said, watching the dark speck disappear. "Fear. Panic."
"She wants to prove she can still touch us." He turned, leaning against the railing. The morning light cut across his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw. "She's reminding me she knows where we live. Where you live."
"So we move."
"We don't run." He pushed off the railing, the decision solidifying in his posture. "We show her she's an insect buzzing at the window. Irrelevant."
But the incident cast a shadow over the week. Every delivery, every unknown caller, made Chloe's breath catch. The wedding plans, which had felt like a strategic game, now felt like building a stage in a minefield.
The following day, they were at Villa d'Este for the final walkthrough. The grandeur was staggering. Frescoed ceilings, marble floors echoing underfoot, the vast windows framing Lake Como like a living painting. Allegra marched ahead, detailing floral arrangements and seating charts.
"The ceremony here, on the water terrace. As you say your vows, the sun will be setting behind the mountains. Cliché, but effective."
Luca was on his phone, dealing with a sudden dip in Rossi Industries' stock—a minor fluctuation, but suspiciously timed. "I need five minutes," he muttered, striding toward a quieter loggia.
Chloe wandered away from the planning frenzy, through an arched doorway into a smaller, neglected sitting room. The furniture was draped in dust cloths, the air still and cool. And there, on an ornate mantelpiece, sat another black rose.
Her blood ran cold. This wasn't delivered to the penthouse. This was placed here, in a locked, private villa, days before their wedding. Isabella wasn't just sending a message. She was proving she could infiltrate their safest spaces.
She didn't touch it. She backed out of the room and found Luca just ending his call.
"Luca."
He took one look at her face and followed her. When he saw the rose, a terrible stillness came over him. He didn't rage. He simply took out his phone and took a picture.
"Allegra," he called, his voice echoing in the cavernous room.
The wedding planner appeared, her efficiency momentarily slipping into alarm at their expressions.
"Who had access to this room?" Luca asked, showing her the photo.
"The villa staff. My team. The security sweep was yesterday…" Allegra paled. "This is unacceptable."
"It's a threat," Chloe said quietly.
"It's a declaration of war," Luca corrected. He looked at Allegra. "Cancel the villa."
"Luca, we can't—"
"We can. And we will." He took Chloe's hand, his grip firm. "We're getting married tomorrow."
The world seemed to tilt. "Tomorrow? But the venue, the guests—"
"We don't need six hundred guests. We don't need a spectacle." He brought her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles, his eyes holding hers. "We need a priest, two witnesses, and each other. Everything else is noise."
Allegra began to protest, but Luca cut her off. "Plan B. You have one on file for every event. Use it. The small chapel in the hills behind Bellagio. The one my mother loved. Can you secure it?"
Seeing his resolve, Allegra's professional armor snapped back into place. She gave a sharp nod. "It can be done. But the press—"
"Will find out when it's over." He turned to Chloe. "This is our day. Not Isabella's. Not the world's. Ours. Are you with me?"
In his eyes, she saw the man who'd shielded her from champagne glass, who'd given her his mother's worn band. The man who was choosing them over everything else.
"Yes," she said, her voice steady. "Tomorrow."
The chapel was a tiny, ancient stone building nestled in an olive grove high above Lake Como. No frescoes, no marble. Just simple wooden pews, the smell of beeswax and old stone, and the soft, colored light filtering through stained glass.
They arrived at dawn in a single, unmarked car. Chloe wore not the starlight gown, but a simple cream silk dress she'd found in the back of her closet. Her hair was loose. On her finger, his mother's band. At her neck, the Isis Necklace—her own legacy meeting his.
Luca waited at the end of the short aisle, wearing a dark suit, no tie. He looked more real, more hers, than he ever had in a tuxedo.
The witnesses were Marco and Allegra. The priest was an old family friend of Luca's, his hands gnarled and kind.
There were no vows written by a publicist. When the priest asked Luca if he would take her, he simply said, "I will," his gaze never leaving hers, the words a bedrock promise.
When it was her turn, her voice didn't shake. "I will."
They exchanged the rings. He slid a new band onto her finger beside his mother's—a simple, modern circle of platinum. She slid one onto his—a match.
"You may kiss your bride."
He cradled her face and kissed her with a tenderness that dissolved the last lingering threads of the contract, the fear, the noise. It was a kiss of beginning.
As they stepped out of the chapel into the morning sun, the world felt new. The lake shimmered far below. For a moment, there was only peace.
Then Allegra's phone buzzed. She looked at the screen, her face tightening. "The press has found the villa empty. They're scrambling. The story will break within the hour."
Luca didn't look concerned. He slipped his arm around Chloe's waist. "Let them run the story. 'Billionaire Defies Scandal, Weds in Secret Ceremony.' It's better than anything we could have planned."
He was right. The narrative of the defiant, private romance was more powerful than any staged spectacle. But as they drove down the winding hill road, Chloe's phone vibrated with a notification.
A social media alert. From Isabella Moretti.
A single post. A photo of the Villa d'Este's empty water terrace at dawn, captioned:
"Some aren't brave enough to face the light. They marry in shadows. Congratulations to the happy couple. May your secret union last as long as your confidence does."
The poison was expertly delivered. It framed their choice not as romance, but as cowardice.
Luca read it over her shoulder, his expression hardening. "She can't touch what we just did," he said, but his grip on her hand tightened.
As their car merged onto the autostrada back to Milan, a sleek black sports car pulled up alongside them. Just for a moment. The passenger window was down.
Isabella, in oversized sunglasses, lifted a hand in a slow, mocking wave.
Then the car accelerated and vanished into the traffic, leaving behind a chilling certainty.
The wedding was over.
The war was just beginning.