The devil's dance

The Ricci estate was alive with opulence.

Golden chandeliers bathed the ballroom in a warm, ethereal glow, their flickering light reflected in the polished marble floors. The finest silk-draped tables bore crystal glasses filled with rare wines, their ruby and amber hues shimmering under the glow. Soft strains of a waltz wove through the air, a melody both haunting and mesmerizing, setting the rhythm for whispered conversations and calculated glances.

Italy's most powerful families moved through the space with the grace of seasoned actors, their movements a careful choreography of deception. Smiles were exchanged, but they were sharp, laced with hidden knives. Every touch, every lingering gaze, carried an unspoken transaction—a deal struck in silence, a betrayal waiting to unfold.

And at the heart of it all stood Alessandra Ricci.

Tonight, she wasn't just Luca's fiancée.

She was Alessandra, daughter of the Ricci empire. A woman born into power, wrapped in elegance. The princess of a dynasty built on blood and influence.

Her entrance was a carefully crafted performance.

Descending the grand staircase, she moved with an effortless grace, each step measured, each sway of her hips deliberate. The emerald silk of her gown hugged her curves like a second skin, the deep-cut back a whisper of rebellion against the control that bound her. The fabric shimmered under the lights, a shade so rich it seemed to drink in the room's glow.

This wasn't a dress chosen by her mother.

This was Luca's choice.

A silent declaration. A reminder of his claim.

She felt him before she saw him—Luca Corsini, standing at the foot of the staircase, waiting. His suit, black as sin, fit him like it had been sculpted onto his frame, the crisp lines emphasizing his effortless dominance.

His hand found the small of her back the moment she reached him, his fingers pressing just firmly enough to remind her of their earlier conversation.

"Remember what I said," Luca murmured, his lips barely grazing her ear. "Stay away from him."

As if that were possible.

She didn't need to turn to know Matteo was already here.

She could feel him.

Like a storm waiting on the horizon.

The Arrival

The moment Matteo Corsini stepped into the Ricci estate, the air shifted.

No grand entrance. No spectacle.

Just presence.

The kind that made people turn their heads instinctively, their spines stiffening in recognition of something raw and untamed.

The low hum of conversation faltered. Women's eyes flickered toward him—some with curiosity, others with barely concealed desire. Men watched him with veiled unease, as if sensing a predator in their midst.

Dressed in a black suit, Matteo looked effortlessly lethal, his broad shoulders cutting an imposing figure. His dark eyes scanned the room, unreadable, detached. He carried himself with the kind of power that didn't need validation—the kind that was simply understood.

Alessandra kept her gaze forward, even as the energy in the room shifted around him.

She was the host of this gala. The daughter of the family everyone had come to pay respects to.

The future wife of a man who demanded her loyalty.

But Matteo?

Matteo didn't ask for loyalty.

He took it.

And that made him dangerous.

She gripped her champagne glass, the coolness of the crystal grounding her, though it did nothing to slow the quickening of her pulse.

Luca noticed.

His hold on her waist tightened, fingers pressing into the silk of her gown. His voice was smooth, yet sharp enough to draw blood.

"He's looking at you."

She tilted her head, feigning indifference. "So?"

Luca's jaw flexed. His fingers traced small, deliberate circles against her skin—a warning masked as affection.

"Don't play with fire, amore mio."

Too late.

The Dance

The orchestra swelled, the first notes of a waltz curling through the air like smoke.

Luca turned to her, a practiced smile on his face. "Dance with me."

It wasn't a question.

And then—

Another hand reached out.

Matteo.

Standing before her.

Tall. Unyielding. Inevitable.

Dark eyes locked onto hers, heavy with something she couldn't quite name. There was amusement in them—yes—but beneath that?

Something deeper.

A dare.

The silence stretched, thick as smoke.

Luca didn't move. His fingers tightened, ever so slightly, on her waist. The air between the three of them was suffocating, charged with unspoken threats and undeniable truths.

Matteo's lips curled, just slightly, the edges of a smirk barely forming.

"Shall we?"

He wasn't just asking her for a dance.

He was challenging Luca.

Alessandra's heart pounded, a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

Logic told her to step back.

To let Luca lead her onto the dance floor.

To maintain the fragile peace of the evening.

But her body?

Her body betrayed her.

She placed her hand in Matteo's.

And the world exploded.