The DeLuca estate had always smelled of expensive cigars and power. Tonight, it smelled of gunpowder and betrayal.
Amara stood at the top of the grand staircase, her silk dress clinging to her like a second skin, as chaos erupted below. Men in tailored suits scrambled for cover, their loyalty crumbling with every bullet that echoed through the marble halls. Her father Leonardo DeLuca, the man who had ruled this empire with an iron fist was lying in a pool of his own blood.
The crown had been ripped from his head in less than sixty seconds.
“Amara down!” Marco, her father’s bodyguard, shoved her behind a pillar as another round of gunfire shattered a chandelier. She didn’t flinch. Not this time.
Her hands curled into fists. She wasn't supposed to inherit this life. She was the daughter kept in the shadows, used as a pawn. But pawns were expendable.
A voice cut through the gunfire calm, lethal. “Enough.”
Every gun lowered.
And then she saw him.
Lorenzo Moretti.
The rival. The enemy. The man whose family had feuded with hers for decades.
He stepped into the crimson-lit hall, a stark contrast in his immaculate black suit, his cold gaze sweeping over the bodies, landing on her. His lips curved, not in a smile, but in a claim.
“This war is over, Amara,” he said, his tone quiet but absolute. “You’re coming with me.”
Amara straightened her spine, chin lifted. “I’d rather die.”
Lorenzo’s smirk was razor-sharp as he stepped closer. “Oh, you will… unless you marry me.”
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