Salvatore D’Amico stood still, his storm-grey eyes fixed on the woman before him. Zara Valentina Morano. The Mafia Queen herself — as beautiful as she was dangerous. Her black orbs burned with unadulterated anger, though beneath it he caught something else, a flicker of pain he couldn’t name.

Her black, slightly wavy hair was pulled into a loose ponytail, exposing the sharp line of her jaw and the simple studs in her ears. It looked hastily done, yet somehow enhanced the aura she carried — regal, lethal, and untouchable. The face of an angel, the reputation of hell.

“Don D’Amico, I do not wish to fight you today. I was about to leave.”

Charles seized the moment, his voice trembling as he tried to insert himself.

“Don… Donna here didn’t know it was your party. I had just informed her.”

His words stumbled over themselves, but he wasn’t defending her. No one defended Zara Morano. She didn’t need it — not the Mafia Queen who had clawed her empire back from blood and betrayal. But his own fear pressed him forward; what if her recklessness brought Salvatore’s wrath down on him instead?

Zara broke the staring game, choosing to continue her way. She sidestepped him, heels clicking toward the door, when his voice stopped her.

The DJ had killed the music. The once-ecstatic crowd stood frozen, dread thick in the air as every gaze clung to the two sovereigns who should never have shared a room.

“Stay.”

His cool, husky voice rolled across the hall like velvet dipped in steel. The single word shocked everyone — most of all, the woman it was meant for.

“We have a treaty between us. That makes it plausible enough to share a drink.”

Her eyes widened slightly. She turned back, incredulous, only to meet his stoic face. Salvatore D’Amico — tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired and handsome as sin, every inch of him radiating control. His grey eyes had unsettled many men, broken many women, but now… now they pinned her in place as though he could see beneath her armor.

And she realized with a jolt: he had noticed.

He had seen it. The faint fracture in her aura. The broken glint in her gaze.

The Zara everyone knew was too composed to drop her keys, too sarcastic to walk away from a fight. This woman was grieving.

And though Salvatore D’Amico was ruthless, feared for his cold precision, he did something unexpected. He offered her a moment — a drink instead of a fight.

Her mind whirled.

Yes, there was a treaty. Yes, they would always hate each other. But he was right: treaties demanded coexistence, and a drink in the same room wasn’t treason.

Still—what if it was a trap?

Maybe it was the alcohol already in her veins, maybe it was the ache in her chest, maybe it was grief clawing at her judgment. But for once, Zara chose not to care.

She had lived a cautious life, and what did she have to show for it?

A brain tumor.

Throwing caution away, she stepped closer, black eyes locking with his storm-grey ones.

When she stood mere inches from him, she pulled out her phone and pressed a button. The line rang once before it was picked up.

“Donna,” came the low, familiar voice.

“Luca, I’ll be drinking. If I’m not back by morning, burn the D’Amico mansion.”

Salvatore’s brow lifted, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.

As though accepting her challenge, he turned to Charles.

“Get those keys.” His eyes flicked to the floor where Zara’s keys had fallen.

“And clear the building. I want to drink in silence. Do you mind?” His gaze returned to Zara.

She tilted her head, that faint mocking smile touching her lips.

“I’d rather not have dancing teenagers around when you decide to flip back to being an enemy. But let him keep the lights.”

Charles hesitated, baffled at how the night had turned. Shouldn’t Don D’Amico have thrown her out? Shouldn’t there have been blood, not… this?

Still, he obeyed. From the corner of the room, he watched them walk side by side toward the bar. They looked like contradictions carved from fire and shadow — Zara, fierce and beautiful with her midnight eyes, and Salvatore, cold and magnetic with his storm-grey stare. How could two rulers like them breathe the same air without the world burning?

---

“She said that?” The older man’s voice was low, sharp, carrying the edge of both irritation and intrigue.

The guard stiffened. “Yes, Don.” His tongue stumbled on the title. Micheal Morano was no Don, not officially, but he demanded it as though it were already his.

Micheal’s eyes narrowed, the greed in them glinting under the golden glow of his study. He was a man of polished charm — silver at his temples, expensive silk draped over a body still sharp with strength. But beneath it all lay a ruthless hunger that had never been satisfied.

Why would Zara agree to drink with Salvatore D’Amico?

What was she scheming?

“Did it not occur to you,” Micheal asked, voice smooth but dangerous, “that you might’ve learned more if you’d gone closer?”

“I apologize, Don. I didn’t want to compromise my cover.”

Micheal studied him, then waved him off.

“Return to the house. Be there when she comes back. Report everything.”

“Yes, Don.” The guard nodded and hurried out.

Micheal leaned back, smirk twisting his lips.

“Zara, Zara… what are you up to?”

---

“Luca, is Zara still not back?” Marco’s voice was groggy, heavy with sleep, but his stubborn eyes remained open.

Luca shifted awkwardly. The Morano bodyguard — tall, broad, clean-cut, his olive skin unmarked by tattoos unlike the men he commanded — had fought wars in silence. He was a wall of loyalty, built for violence. But faced with Marco, his defenses faltered. Comforting children was one battlefield he had never mastered.

He cleared his throat, stepping closer to the boy’s bed.

“Your sister always has a reason for what she does. She may be caught up in her responsibilities, but you know… I know… the world knows that you are her top priority.”

Marco’s lips trembled, but he swallowed hard. Eleven years old, smart beyond his age, yet still only a boy who adored his sister.

He knew life hadn’t been kind to her. Their father’s sudden heart attack. Their mother’s death years ago in the coup. And Uncle Micheal — greedy, treacherous, circling like a vulture. Zara carried everything alone. To him, she was not only his sister, but his mother, his protector, his best friend.

Sometimes, when he caught her tired smile, he wondered how much longer she could carry it all.

Had she finally let herself rest tonight?

“You’re sure she’s okay?” Marco whispered.

“That,” Luca said firmly, forcing conviction into his voice, “I can assure you.”

Yet when he stepped out of the room, unease gnawed at him. Her words echoed in his mind: *If I’m not back by morning, burn the D’Amico mansion.*

She was walking into danger.

And for the first time in years, Luca wasn’t sure he could protect her.