Prologue: Heirs and Alliances
The whiskey burned like hellfire down Adrian’s throat, and still, he poured himself another.
Maxwell raised a brow. “Pacing yourself’s not a thing anymore?”
Adrian leaned back against the leather booth, rolling the glass between his fingers. “I pace myself when I give a shit.”
Maxwell snorted, clinking his glass with Victor’s. Their father looked far too relaxed for the news he was about to drop.
“You both act like this is a social call,” Adrian muttered. “What is it really?”
Victor Blackwood didn’t speak right away. He simply sat back, hands steepled, watching both his sons like a man who’d already played his hand and was just waiting to watch the pieces fall.
Maxwell was the one who broke the silence.
“Alright, baby brother. Try not to choke on your drink, yeah?” He smirked. “You’re getting married.”
Adrian blinked. “The fuck I am.”
Victor’s voice was calm, precise. “You’re twenty-nine, Adrian. It’s time.”
“I lead half your operations. I don’t need a wife. I need less bullshit.”
Victor arched a brow. “You need stability. Someone to temper your recklessness.”
Maxwell chuckled. “Translation: someone who’ll tie you down and keep you from blowing up our alliances with your mood swings.”
Adrian scowled. “I’m not interested in playing house with some mafia princess who wants to leash me.”
Maxwell shrugged. “It’s not the end of the world, you know. Paloma and I are married, and we still fuck like rabbits.”
“Thanks for the mental image.”
“I’m just saying—marriage doesn’t kill you. It might even make you a bit less of a cold bastard.”
Adrian downed the rest of his whiskey. “If I wanted a babysitter, I’d hire one.”
Victor finally leaned forward, folding his hands. “You won’t have to settle. I’ve made a shortlist. Daughters of powerful families. Well-trained, obedient, beautiful.”
“Jesus Christ,” Adrian muttered.
Victor ignored him, producing a folded page from his inside jacket pocket like it was a goddamn government file. He slid it across the table.
Maxwell whistled low. “You actually made a fucking list?”
Victor’s eyes glinted. “I’m a practical man.”
Adrian picked up the list with a sigh, eyes dragging over the names like a hitman browsing a catalogue of targets.
Name: Gianna Russo
Age: 25
Polished and quiet personality;
Flexible/ adaptable;
Raised in a convent;
Victor leaned back, swirling his drink.
“Gianna Russo—twenty-five, all polished and quiet like a statue. They say she bends like a reed in a storm, but don’t let that softness fool you. Raised in a convent, yeah, but her father’s grip on her is tight as hell. He’s itching to marry her off quick before that curiosity of hers ruins their reputation.”
Name: Nicolette Vanzetti
Age: 28
Razor-sharp intellect with a ruthless edge;
Holds two prestigious degrees;
Fluent in four languages;
Known for dismantling opponents with cold precision;
Leaves even the toughest men shaken and defeated;
Victor took a slow sip of his drink, eyes narrowing.
“Nicolette Vanzetti—twenty-eight, sharp as a razor and twice as ruthless. Two degrees under her belt, fluent in four languages, and a knack for breaking men down until they’re begging for mercy. She doesn’t just play the game; she rewrites the rules—and charges you a damn service fee for the pleasure.”
Maxwell let out a low whistle and grinned.
“We call her ‘Adrian in a dress,’ and trust me, that’s not a compliment you want to hear.”
Adrian smirked despite himself. “Hard pass.”
Name: Alessia Romano
Age: 26
Picture-perfect on the surface;
Polished manners and impeccable etiquette;
Trained to smile and curtsy on command;
Expert at staying silent and unseen;
Completely unthreatening, utterly forgettable;
“Alessia Romano—twenty-six, all polished charm and empty promises. Trained to smile, curtsy, and shut the hell up. She won’t challenge you, but she won’t matter when the real games start.”
Adrian rolled his eyes. “Sounds like a mannequin with a pulse.”
And then—his eyes stopped.
Name: Elina Castellano
Age: 22
Soft-spoken and careful;
Sheltered but quietly curious;
Studied social welfare, idealistic at heart;
Polished enough to meet expectations, yet subtly defiant;
Treads the line between obedience and rebellion;
Seen as the “perfect” mafia daughter;
Victor’s eyes flicked towards Adrian, catching his attention.
“That one’s the youngest—twenty-two. Antonio Castellano’s only daughter. Studied social welfare, of all things.”
Adrian snorted. “That family breeds control freaks. I’ve got enough of those breathing down my neck already.”
Victor shrugged. “She’s different. Soft-spoken, sheltered, but sharp. Her family’s desperate to marry her off before she starts causing trouble.”
Maxwell smirked. “A little rebel, huh?”
Victor nodded slowly. “Maybe. But she’s careful. Doesn’t cross the line too much yet. Still clean—Castellano’s daughter, but not yet tainted.”
Adrian exhaled, folding the list in half, then slipping it into his coat.
“I’m not promising shit,” he muttered. “I’ll meet them. That’s it.”
Victor raised his glass. “That’s all I ask.”
Maxwell chuckled. “Enjoy the buffet, little brother. Just don’t fuck it up.”
Adrian drained his glass again and leaned back, the image of a mysterious girl with fire in her blood already crawling into the back of his mind.
He didn’t believe in fate.
But if she was anything like Victor hinted…
She might be the one storm he’d finally have to weather.
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