The Caruso estate glimmered in the Sicilian twilight, draped in luxury and the pretense of tranquility. Rows of golden lanterns swung softly in the evening breeze, and their light flickered across manicured rose gardens and marble archways. The vineyard murmured beyond, rows of vines dipping and weaving like dancers in mourning black, and for a fleeting moment, Isla Caruso let herself believe in something that might be soft. Hope.
She was standing on the terrace of her family's estate, the sweet scent of lemon blossoms lingering on her gown as her eyes raked over the endless crowd of industry and government titans amassed for the Caruso Foundation's annual gala. But for her, this night meant something else. Something secret.
Her fingers brushed across the delicate sapphire pendant nestled above her collarbone—prized gift from Matteo. A token of love, or maybe a mark of something much more sinister. Tonight, he would find the opportunity to propose privately. After so many exchanges of shared glances, whispered promises and stolen nights, it was finally happening.
But underneath the silk and champagne, tension throbbed like a second heartbeat.
"You're looking pale," her father said, putting a protective hand on her shoulder as he came out on to the terrace. "Second thoughts?"
Isla consulted Don Salvatore Caruso, a man whose name inspired fear in politicians and reverence among criminals. But to her, he was just Papà. His eyes, always cold with calculation, had something softer in them now. Regret. Maybe fear.
"No," Isla replied softly. "Just… tired. It's been a long week."
A lie. She had not slept in two nights. Not since listening in on a conversation between two of her father's capos in the cellar. Something about a leak. A mole. War. It was there in her head, like smoke hanging in the air from a fire you can't see.
Salvatore read her face, then flashed a grim smile and drew near. "I want you to know… regardless of what happens after tonight, I am so proud of you."
The words landed wrong.
Just as she was about to, the master of ceremonies rose to the dais beside the fountain and beckoned for attention. There were glasses raised, there were pauses in conversation. Salvatore cleared his throat and stepped down, hoisting his glass in the silence.
"Friends, allies and my enemies masquerading as both," he began, prompting polite ripples of laughter. "Tonight is a celebration not just of what we've built, but of what we hope for. Peace. Legacy. Bloodlines secured."
Isla's fingers closed around the stem of her champagne flute.
"As some of you may have surmised," her father continued, sweeping his eyes over the crowd with slow, deliberate weight, "tonight begins a union. It was a fusion of the old with the new. My daughter will be—"
The sentence was cut short but a loud round of applause from the far end of the courtyard. Matteo Romano had arrived.
Tall and immaculate in a midnight suit, he carved a silence into the space around him. Dark hair slicked back, eyes of onyx—and focused on Isla. He strode toward her in a way that made him seem like he owned the world, because in a way he did. The Romano empire covered more continents than the Carusos would ever have the guts to touch. And he had always bent at her feet. Until now.
He took her hand, kissed the knuckles, then murmured, "You look like fire and glass. I'm trying not to shatter."
A hitch of breath caught in her throat.
"You're late," she murmured.
"I had an address to take care of that was… sensitive."
There it was again. That undercurrent. Tension lurking beneath the poetry of his gaze.
They stood side-by-side as the audience chuckled and sipped, their bodies close, their hearts worlds apart. Matteo's hand was still on her waist, but his focus had shifted — watching, listening.
"There's something wrong," Isla said at last.
Matteo didn't deny it. "Can we talk tonight? Privately."
"You're not moving away again, are you?" she pleaded, half playful, half desperate.
His gaze softened. "Never. Juliet, just… wait for me after the gala. There's a little something I have to clarify. Something important."
A strange shiver went through her. She nodded slowly.
Isla walked alone hours later through the estate's eastern wing, her heels quiet on marble floors. The party had shrunk down to just select guests in the main ballroom. She'd taken her leave, hoping to clear her head, but unease had stuck to her like smoke.
Near the library, she paused. Voices.
Her heart stuttered as she pressed herself against the wall.
"…you told me everything was secure, Dario," echoed her father's voice, low and sharp.
"We thought it was. But Matteo had been informed — he suspects someone leaked the engagement. The Romano side is on edge."
"I could never trust Luciana."
"She's his cousin. Not his conscience."
"And how about the shipment from Istanbul? If that's compromised—"
"Then you kill this alliance before it's born."
Silence.
Isla took a step back, her breath hitching. Her father and Dario — his consigliere — suspected they had a traitor among them. It wasn't merely a personal union that the engagement signified. It was a signal to the world. A power consolidation. And someone had taken steps to sabotage it."
She stepped away from the door, mind whirring.
Had Matteo known? Was that what made him look so haunted? So distant?
A figure emerged in the hall. Matteo.
He saw the panic spread across her face then moved to her.
"What did you hear?" he asked quietly.
"Enough," she whispered.
"We need to talk. Now."
She trailed him out to the east veranda, where the stars spread above frozen silence.
"There is more happening than you think," he said. "I attempted to postpone the announcement. And told your father it was dangerous."
"So you knew something was going to happen?"
"I wasn't certain."
She stepped back. "Were you protecting me, Matteo, or protecting yourself?"
His jaw clenched. "Both."
"I'd heard them say Luciana. She's your blood."
"She doesn't speak for me."
"Then why is she here?" Isla hissed. "Why is everyone acting like this is just a party when it's obviously a trap?"
Matteo gazed at her, then beyond her, toward the distant hills.
"Maybe we can't stop what's coming."
In that instant, the sky erupted in color — fireworks, a scripted ending to the gala. But just as Isla turned to glance, a second flash hit. Not gold. Not celebratory.
An explosion.
The ground shook.
The fire wasn't in the sky.
It was from the west wing.
From inside the house.
Screams erupted behind them.
And the last thing Isla saw before the power went out … was blood.