A Year Ago
The Moretti estate was nothing more than a gilded cage. To the outside world, it was a symbol of power, wealth, and prestige—a sprawling fortress hidden behind high iron gates and hedges that stretched for miles. Inside, it was suffocating. The marble floors echoed every step I took, and the chandeliers glittered like they were mocking me.
I sat by the bay window in my room, my chin resting on my hand as I stared out at the rain. The storm outside felt like a reflection of the storm inside me. This was supposed to be my world—the only world I'd ever known—but it never felt like it belonged to me. My father made sure of that. Salvatore Moretti didn't raise a daughter; he trained a weapon.
My phone buzzed on the table beside me, dragging me out of my thoughts. I glanced at the screen, already dreading what I'd see.
Don't forget the gala tonight. It Looks perfect. Act perfect.
The message was short, but it carried the weight of a thousand expectations. That was how my father operated: control wrapped up in cold efficiency. Love wasn't part of the deal. I deleted the message without replying. He didn't expect one anyway.
I sighed and stood, crossing the room to my wardrobe. The emerald-green dress hanging in the center caught my eye. I ran my fingers over the smooth silk before slipping it on. It fit perfectly, of course. My father wouldn't allow anything less. The dress screamed power and elegance—strong, commanding, yet still feminine. Exactly how he wanted me to appear.
By the time I descended the grand staircase, the main hall was already alive with activity. Staff moved with practiced precision, arranging flowers, setting tables, and polishing every surface until it gleamed. The annual gala was one of the cornerstones of my father's empire—a night for allies, potential enemies, and business partners to gather under one roof. On the surface, it was an elegant celebration. Beneath the surface, it was a battlefield.
"Good," my father said as I reached the bottom of the stairs. He gave me a quick once-over, his sharp eyes scanning for any imperfections. "You'll sit at the head table tonight. Remember, appearances matter."
"They always do," I replied evenly.
He gave a curt nod before turning back to bark orders at one of his men. That was the extent of his approval—a nod and a few short words. I'd learned not to expect anything more.
The gala was exactly what I expected—fake smiles, shallow compliments, and conversations laced with hidden agendas. I played my part flawlessly, moving through the crowd like a ghost. I smiled when I was supposed to, laughed when it was expected, and spoke just enough to seem polite without revealing anything of substance.
But the longer I stayed, the heavier the air felt. I needed to get away, even if only for a few minutes. Slipping out of the main hall, I made my way to the garden. The cool night air hit me like a blessing.
The garden was my sanctuary, a place where I could breathe without feeling like I was being watched. I walked along the stone path, my fingers brushing against the petals of the roses blooming in the moonlight. My thoughts wandered, as they often did, to a life beyond this one. Would I ever escape? Would I ever be more than my father's pawn?
"Escaping the festivities already?"
The voice startled me, smooth and familiar, tinged with amusement. I turned to see Nico leaning casually against one of the stone columns. His dark hair was slicked back, and his suit was tailored a little too perfectly, as always.
"You know me," I said with a small smile. "Crowds aren't really my thing."
He pushed off the column and walked toward me, his eyes scanning my face like he always did, like he was trying to figure out what I wasn't saying. "You're wasted in there with those snakes," he said. "You could do so much more, Pris. You're smarter than all of them combined."
I crossed my arms. "And what would you have me do, Nico? Run away? Start a new life somewhere no one knows my name?"
He shrugged. "Why not? You've always wanted out of this life. What's stopping you?"
I sighed. "My father. My name. The fact that running would only make me a target."
Nico frowned, his expression darkening. "You're too loyal for your own good, you know that?"
"Maybe," I said softly, my gaze drifting to the horizon. "But loyalty is all I've ever known."
The sound of approaching footsteps made me turn. Marco, my father's consigliere, was walking toward us with a look that set my nerves on edge.
"Priscilla," he said, his voice sharp. "Your father needs you inside. Now."
I exchanged a quick glance with Nico before following Marco back into the estate. The grand hall was still buzzing with activity, but there was a tension in the air now, like everyone was holding their breath. My father stood in the center of the room, surrounded by his men. His expression was cold, his eyes burning with barely restrained fury.
"Priscilla," he said as I approached. His voice was low, controlled, but I could feel the anger simmering beneath the surface. "We have a problem."
His words sent a chill down my spine. I didn't know it then, but this moment would mark the beginning of everything. The cracks in my world were starting to show, and soon, they would shatter entirely.
I just didn't know yet that the man who would change everything—Anton Rosenthal—was waiting at the end of it all.
I froze under my father's cold gaze, my pulse quickening. Whatever this "problem" was, it had to be serious. Salvatore Moretti didn't call for me unless he wanted something—or someone—to be handled.
"What's going on?" I asked, keeping my voice calm and collected, the way he'd taught me to speak in moments like this.
He gestured for me to follow him. His men parted to make way, their expressions unreadable, though their tense postures told me enough. Something big was happening.
My father led me to his private study, the heavy oak doors shutting behind us with a loud thud. The room smelled of leather and aged whiskey, a space dominated by shelves of books no one read and a massive desk that served more as a symbol of his authority than a workspace.
Salvatore poured himself a drink, his back to me. I waited, knowing better than to interrupt his thoughts. He finally turned, his sharp features shadowed in the dim light of the room.
"One of our shipments was intercepted," he said, his voice like steel. "Someone is testing us."
"Who?" I asked, though I already had a suspicion.
"The Rosenthals," he replied, the name dripping with disdain.
I felt a chill run down my spine. The Rosenthals were our rivals, another family entrenched in the same business, equally ruthless and just as powerful. There had been whispers of unrest between our families for months now, but this—this was a bold move.
"What do you need me to do?" I asked, my tone steady despite the turmoil brewing inside me.
My father's eyes bore into mine, calculating, assessing. "You'll attend the meeting with me tomorrow. We're going to remind them who they're dealing with. Your presence will send a message."
"Understood," I said, though my stomach twisted at the thought.
This wasn't the first time he'd used me as a pawn in his games of power. My role was clear: be poised, be untouchable, and make them think twice before crossing the Morettis again. But this felt different, heavier. The Rosenthals weren't like the others. They played the long game, and they played to win.
---
That night, I couldn't sleep. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, my mind racing. The rain had stopped, leaving the world outside eerily quiet. The thought of facing the Rosenthals filled me with unease, not because I was afraid, but because I knew how dangerous they were.
And then there was my father. Salvatore had always demanded perfection, but lately, his expectations felt like a noose tightening around my neck. I wanted to prove myself, to show him I wasn't just a pawn, but I also couldn't shake the feeling that this path—his path—was leading me somewhere I didn't want to go.
The next morning came too quickly. By the time I joined my father in the car, the sun had barely risen, casting a pale light over the city. He was silent as we drove to the meeting, his expression unreadable.
We arrived at a private club, the kind of place where deals were made behind closed doors and loyalties shifted over expensive cigars. My father's men flanked us as we entered, their presence a reminder that this wasn't just a business meeting—it was a show of power.
The Rosenthals were already there, seated at a long table in a room that reeked of polished wood and old money. I recognized their leader, Matthias Rosenthal, immediately. He was older than my father, his silver hair slicked back, his expression calm and confident.
But it wasn't Matthias who caught my attention.
It was the man sitting beside him.
He was younger, mid-to-late twenties, with jet-black hair and piercing grey eyes that seemed to cut through the room. He sat with an air of casual authority, his fingers drumming lightly on the table as though he was bored.
I knew instinctively who he was.
Anton Rosenthal.
I'd heard the name before, whispered in conversations and mentioned in passing, but seeing him in person was something else entirely. He didn't just exude power; he owned it. There was something cold and detached about him, as though he'd already assessed everyone in the room and found them lacking.
Anton's eyes flicked to me, and for a moment, our gazes locked. Something flickered in his expression—curiosity, perhaps?—before his features smoothed into a neutral mask.
"Salvatore," Matthias said, his voice smooth and practiced as he stood to greet my father. "Thank you for meeting us on such short notice."
"This situation requires immediate attention," my father replied, his tone clipped.
The two men exchanged pleasantries, though there was nothing pleasant about it. I stayed silent, standing slightly behind my father as he took his seat at the table. My role here was to observe and intimidate, not to speak.
The conversation was tense from the start. Accusations were made, denials were given, and threats were implied. I could feel the weight of the tension pressing down on me, but I kept my expression neutral, my eyes flicking between Matthias and Anton.
Anton barely spoke, but when he did, his words carried weight. He didn't need to raise his voice to command attention; his presence alone was enough.
"You seem awfully defensive for someone who claims innocence," my father said, his tone sharp.
"And you seem awfully eager to place blame," Anton replied smoothly, his grey eyes locking onto my father's.
My father leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a dangerous level. "Watch your tone, boy."
Anton didn't flinch. If anything, his smirk deepened, and for the first time, I saw a hint of amusement in his eyes.
"Careful, Moretti," he said softly, his voice carrying a quiet menace. "You wouldn't want to make this personal."
I felt my pulse quicken. There was something dangerous about Anton, something that made it impossible to look away. I didn't know it then, but this moment—this first meeting—was the beginning of everything.
The beginning of the end.
The tension in the room was suffocating, the kind that pressed into your chest and refused to let go. My father sat rigid in his chair, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of the table. I could sense the storm brewing within him, but he held back. Barely.
Anton's words hung in the air, a challenge he'd delivered with an unsettling calmness. My father's pride was a fragile thing, and Anton had pressed just hard enough to crack it.
"You seem to have a lot to say for someone who's yet to prove their worth in this business," my father said, his voice measured but laced with venom.
Anton tilted his head slightly, the faintest of smirks tugging at his lips. "You'd be surprised, Moretti. Some of us don't need decades to leave a mark."
My father's men stiffened at the insult, but Anton didn't seem to care. He leaned back in his chair, exuding an air of indifference that only served to fan the flames. He was dating my father to react, and for a moment, I thought he might.
But Matthias Rosenthal intervened, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "We're not here to trade insults, Salvatore. Let's stay focused on the matter at hand."
My father's jaw clenched, but he relented, leaning back in his chair with a sharp exhale. "Fine. Let's get to it, then. What's your excuse for interfering with my shipment?"
Matthias spread his hands in a gesture of innocence. "Interference? That's a strong word. We've had… overlapping interests, perhaps, but nothing intentional."
I nearly rolled my eyes at his feigned ignorance. It was a game, a carefully constructed dance of lies and manipulation, and I hated every second of it.
"We both know that's a lie," my father said, his voice low and steady. "You don't accidentally intercept a shipment of that size. This wasn't an overlap—it was an act of aggression."
Matthias's expression didn't falter, but I noticed the brief flicker of tension in his jaw. "Aggression? Salvatore, I think you're overreacting. Our families have coexisted peacefully for years. Why would we jeopardize that now?"
"Because you want what's mine," my father snapped.
The room fell silent. My father's words were a direct accusation, and there was no way to soften the blow.
Anton's gaze shifted to me again, lingering for a moment longer this time. His grey eyes were sharp, calculating, as though he were peeling back the layers of my composure to see what lay beneath. I met his stare head-on, refusing to look away.
"I don't know what's more entertaining," Anton said, his voice breaking the silence. "The fact that you think we're afraid of you, or the fact that you think we need to stoop to this level to beat you."
My father's fists slammed against the table, the sound echoing through the room. "Watch yourself, boy."
But Anton didn't flinch. If anything, he leaned forward, his smirk turning colder. "Or what?"
The room felt like it might erupt, the unspoken threats hanging heavy in the air. My father's men shifted uneasily, their hands inching toward the concealed weapons at their sides. I could feel the weight of every eye in the room, the expectation that something—anything—was about to happen.
But Matthias intervened again, his voice calm but firm. "Enough. We came here to talk, not to start a war."
Anton didn't respond, but he finally leaned back in his chair, his expression still unreadable. My father's glare lingered on him for a moment longer before he, too, sat back.
"Talk, then," my father said, his tone sharp.
And so they did. The conversation shifted back to the logistics of the intercepted shipment, but I barely heard a word. My focus kept drifting back to Anton. There was something about him, something I couldn't quite pin down.
He was arrogant, yes, but it wasn't just arrogance. It was controlled. He carried himself like a man who knew exactly who he was and what he wanted, and it unnerved me. Most men in this life hid behind their bravado, their power a fragile facade. But Anton wasn't like them.
He didn't need to prove his strength. He was strong.
---
By the time the meeting ended, the sun had climbed higher in the sky, casting harsh light through the windows of the private club. My father left the room without another word to me, his men falling into step behind him.
I lingered for a moment, my gaze drifting back to Anton. He was still seated, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his glass. He didn't look at me this time, but I could feel the weight of his presence all the same.
Finally, I turned and followed my father out.
In the car, he was silent, staring out the window with a stormy expression. I knew better than to break the silence.
But I couldn't shake the feeling that today had been a turning point. Anton Rosenthal wasn't just another rival. He was something else entirely, something dangerous.
And I had the sinking feeling that this was only the beginning.