Chapter 2: Argument
The door had barely settled when Alessandro Vitale’s eyes snapped to the intruder.
A maid had dared to cross the invisible line—she had stepped into his room, a place no servant was ever allowed to enter. The law was simple: knock, wait, hand the wine to Mivova, his trusted guard, and leave. She had broken it.
“You know the rules,” Alessandro said, his voice low, razor-sharp, each syllable a blade.
The maid froze, lips parted, eyes wide. Fear—or was it lust?—had clouded her judgment. Before she could react, Alessandro’s hand struck. The crystal cup shattered against her head, wine spilling across the marble floor like scarlet ink. She crumpled with a cry he did not bother to hear.
“You are lucky Mivova isn’t here,” he murmured, voice colder than winter stone. “Next time, curiosity will cost you more than a bruise.”
The room fell silent. Only the shards of glass glittered in the dim light.
At twenty-six, Alessandro Vitale inherited the Corte Vitale empire—a kingdom built on blood, loyalty, and silence. A wife had been chosen for him, not for love, but to seal a dangerous alliance. She was a contract, a possession, a symbol of obedience. But he hasn't agreed to the marriage contract, they don't know what he's made of
He poured himself another glass of wine, ignoring the shards at his feet. Tonight, the tension would mount. Don Vittorio, the ruthless patriarch, expected compliance. Contessa Elisabetta, elegant and poisonous, would manipulate and threaten, her words sharper than any blade. And yet Alessandro, cold, calculated, and immune to pain—both physical and emotional—bent only when it suited him.
His thoughts drifted to Marco, the younger brother with an irrepressible smile and boundless humor. Rumors had already reached Alessandro about his parents planning an arranged marriage for him, a move to tighten the family’s alliances. He would not allow it—not now, not while Marco still had the right to choose his own path.
Luca, sly and cunning, would follow quietly, always a few steps ahead in thought. Isabella, the elegant voice of reason, got what she wanted from Alessandro with a single glance. And he would protect them all from the tyranny of Don Vittorio and Contessa Elisabetta, even if it meant enduring their wrath himself.
The echo of footsteps in the corridor reminded him that the empire waited for no one. He lifted his glass, tasting the wine that carried the bitter tang of power and blood. Behind closed doors, loyalty was currency—and Alessandro Vitale, cold, ruthless, and unstoppable, was already wealthier than anyone in his family could imagine.
The game had begun.
