Chapter 1
The conference room overlooked Florence like a kingdom.
Rain pressed softly against the glass walls of Hale Publishing while the skyline beyond glowed gold beneath the late evening storm. The Duomo stood in the distance like something eternal, untouched by modern ambition.
Inside the room, ambition was all anyone breathed.
Cameras.
Lights.
Polished marble.
An espresso growing cold on the table.
Damiano sat at the head of the conference table, one arm resting lazily against the chair while a makeup artist gave up trying to reduce the shadows beneath his eyes.
“Two minutes,” someone from production called.
Damiano didn’t answer.
Across from him, the interviewer adjusted the cuffs of his navy suit while reviewing notes on a digital tablet.
Arjun Mehra.
British.
Award-winning political and cultural journalist.
Known for interviews that felt less like conversations and more like public autopsies.
Damiano already disliked him.
Not because he was rude.
Because he was observant.
Men like that were dangerous.
“You’ve avoided my show for years,” Arjun said conversationally.
Damiano finally looked up.
“I avoid most things that waste my time.”
One of the producers choked back nervous laughter.
Arjun smiled faintly.
Damiano said nothing.
The cameras rolled seconds later.
And instantly, both men transformed.
Three, two, one... and, action.
“Tonight,” Arjun began smoothly into the camera, “I’m joined by one of the most controversial figures in modern publishing. Founder and CEO of Hale Publishing — Dr. Damiano De Luca.”
No applause.
Just silence.
Expensive silence.
The kind that existed around powerful people.
Arjun folded his hands neatly.
“You’ve been called many things over the years. Visionary. Opportunist. Cultural vandal.” A small pause. “The Cowboy of Publishing.”
Damiano leaned back slightly in his chair and smiled.
“I prefer publisher.”
A few restrained chuckles moved through the room from crew members.
Arjun smiled.
“Hale Publishing has doubled its value in less than four years. You’ve published politically dangerous books, controversial memoirs, banned manuscripts—”
“Banned by whom?”
Arjun tilted his head slightly.
“Governments. Universities. Religious groups. Critics.”
“Then it sounds like they read them.”
That earned a real laugh.
Even Damiano’s publicist allowed herself a small smile from where she stood near the cameras.
Vivianna Corazza.
Tall. Sharp-boned. Dark red hair pulled into a sleek knot. Green eyes like broken glass.
Up close, faint freckles still lived beneath the expensive concealer painted across her nose.
Arjun glanced back at Damiano.
“Some critics say you profit from outrage.”
Damiano adjusted the cuff of his black shirt slowly.
“People have confused discomfort with danger for centuries.”
“And what do you think is dangerous?”
A pause.
Then:
“Control.”
The room quieted slightly.
Arjun noticed.
Of course he did.
“That’s interesting coming from a man accused of controlling the literary conversation across Europe.”
“I publish books, Mr. Mehra. I’m not holding a gun to anyone’s head.”
Arjun smiled politely.
“No. You’re simply influencing millions of people.”
Damiano returned the smile.
“That frightens you?”
“No,” Arjun said calmly. “But it appears to frighten a great many powerful people.”
Silence stretched between them.
Professional.
Sharp.
Measured.
Two intelligent men teasing and testing each other carefully.
Then Arjun glanced down briefly at his notes.
And the atmosphere changed.
Subtly.
“You’ve spoken extensively about institutions.” He looked back up. “But very little about family.”
Vivianna straightened near the cameras immediately.
Damiano noticed without looking at her.
“My family is not relevant to Hale Publishing.”
“Some would argue Hale Publishing exists because of your family.”
Damiano’s gaze cooled.
Arjun continued anyway.
“You inherited the company from your father after his death.”
“A very small company.”
“And yet now you’ve transformed it into one of the most disruptive publishing houses in Europe.”
Damiano remained silent.
Arjun leaned forward slightly.
“There are stories about your younger years. Boarding schools. Arrests. Substance abuse. One Italian paper called you ‘Florence’s most expensive collapse’ before your recovery.”
Vivianna stepped forward slightly.
“Sir—”
Damiano lifted one finger subtly.
She stopped speaking immediately.
Arjun noticed that too.
Interesting.
“You rebuilt your image remarkably,” Arjun continued. “But people remain fascinated by the contradiction. The discipline. The reputation. The women.”
A faint smile ghosted across Damiano’s mouth.
“The women?”
“Models. Actresses. Heiresses.” Arjun tilted his head. “Yet no serious relationships. No marriage.”
Damiano’s expression flattened instantly.
Arjun saw it.
And pressed.
“There are some who believe your refusal to build a family may stem from your relationship with your father.”
Silence.
The storm outside cracked against the windows.
Nobody in the room moved.
Arjun continued carefully now.
“Especially considering reports that his final words to you were—”
Damiano removed the microphone clipped to his jacket.
The sound technician froze.
Vivianna closed her eyes briefly.
There it was.
The fracture.
Damiano stood slowly from the chair.
Calm. Controlled. Dangerously calm.
Arjun held his gaze.
“I think the public has a right to—”
“The public,” Damiano interrupted softly, “has confused access with ownership.”
The room went dead silent.
Damiano dropped the microphone onto the conference table with a sharp metallic crack.
“This interview is over.”
And then he walked out.
Vivianna and his assistant moved immediately after him, heels striking sharply against the marble floors as they struggled to keep pace.
“You cannot keep doing this,” Vivianna hissed once they cleared the conference room doors.
“He knew exactly what he was doing.”
“And you played directly into it.”
Damiano shoved a hand through his dark hair, jaw tight as they strode toward the private elevators.
His assistant hurried ahead first — tall, blonde, immaculate.
The elevator doors slid open.
And stopped.
Inside stood a girl holding a large office box against her chest. Struggling.
Files. Folders. A struggling office plant drooping sideways.
She looked up immediately.
Young. Wide-eyed. Slightly overwhelmed.
Vivianna barely glanced at her.
The assistant, however, frowned instantly.
“Go on...”
The girl blinked once, startled.
“Oh— sorry.”
She shifted awkwardly, trying to manoeuvre the heavy box without dropping the plant.
Damiano never looked up.
Not once.
“Vivianna, I’m not discussing this tonight.”
“You embarrassed the network.”
“They embarrassed themselves.”
The blonde assistant exhaled impatiently toward the girl still trying to exit around them.
“Hurry, please.”
The girl stepped outside very quickly.
One folder nearly slipped from the box.
She caught it against her chest at the last second.
Damiano entered the elevator without noticing her face.
Vivianna followed after him, still arguing under her breath.
The assistant stepped in last.
The doors began sliding shut.
And for one brief second, the girl outside the elevator looked up again at the man inside.
Cold.
Sharp.
Unreadable.
Someone important, clearly.
But she had no idea who he was.
The elevator doors closed shut in her face—
And Damiano De Luca never even realised she existed.
The elevator doors opened onto absolute chaos.
Liberty stepped out carefully, balancing the heavy office box against her hip while the small office plant trembled dangerously near the edge.
Nobody noticed her.
Not one person.
The entire floor had gathered around the televisions mounted between the glass offices and bookshelves of Hale Publishing.
Assistants.
Editors.
Designers.
Publicists.
Interns.
Executives.
Standing. Sitting on desks. Perched against counters.
Watching.
The interview.
The atmosphere reminded Liberty less of an office and more of a sports bar moments before a championship final.
Only nobody was drinking.
Nobody was smiling either.
The interview played across every screen simultaneously.
Damiano De Luca sat beneath soft conference room lighting, calm and devastatingly composed.
“Oh my God,” Liberty whispered quietly.
That was the man from the elevator.
One editor cursed sharply under his breath in Italian.
Another dragged both hands down his face anxiously.
“Cristo…” someone muttered.
“Why is he asking this now?” a woman hissed.
“Because he wants ratings,” another snapped back.
Liberty shifted the box awkwardly in her arms, trying to understand what exactly she had walked into.
The room seemed to move emotionally with the interview.
Every answer Damiano gave—they reacted to.
Every pause—they reacted to.
Every dangerous question—the tension sharpened visibly.
It was like watching people monitor a bomb disposal in real time.
Then Liberty noticed the woman watching her.
She stood near the back of the room in an immaculate cream suit, tablet tucked beneath one arm. Mid-forties perhaps. Severe posture. Sharp eyes.
Authority radiated from her effortlessly.
She glanced at Liberty once with clear irritation — another employee not paying attention during a crisis.
Then her eyes dropped to the office box.
The plant.
The folders.
Understanding flickered instantly.
The new intern.
Without speaking, the woman crooked one finger.
Come here.
Liberty hurried over awkwardly before setting the box down beside a desk.
On-screen, Arjun Mehra continued pressing forward.
“You’ve rebuilt your public image remarkably, Dr. De Luca, but many still question whether your personal life reflects unresolved—”
“Cazzo!” one of the men near the television shouted suddenly, throwing his head back dramatically.
Several others hissed in frustration.
“Oh, he’s pushing too far now.”
“He’s doing this deliberately.”
“Bastardo.”
Liberty blinked rapidly.
Wait.
That really was him.
The elevator guy.
She looked back toward the screen.
Same black shirt. Same cold expression. Same impossible presence.
“Is this…” she started quietly.
“Shh.”
The woman beside her didn’t even look away from the television.
Liberty closed her mouth immediately.
The office had gone nearly silent now.
Arjun kept speaking.
Damiano’s face grew stiller. Colder.
Even Liberty — who knew absolutely nothing about him — could feel the atmosphere changing.
Then:
Damiano removed the microphone.
The entire office erupted instantly.
Some groaned.
Others swore.
One assistant actually clapped once in satisfaction.
Voices crashed over one another in rapid Italian.
“Finalmente.”
“Dio mio— PR will kill us.”
“He walked out—”
“No, no, no, no—”
“Good.”
“Not good!”
Liberty stood frozen beside her box.
Completely lost.
The woman beside her finally turned.
And immediately launched into rapid Italian.
Liberty blinked.
“Scusa— I don’t speak Italian. I’m the new intern.”
The woman stopped.
Looked her over once.
Long enough to assess her completely.
“Oh.”
A pause.
“You’re the American.”
The words carried no warmth. No hostility either.
Just evaluation.
The woman picked up a thick black folder from the nearby desk and shoved it toward Liberty.
“You go take this to Vivianna.”
Liberty grabbed the folder automatically.
“I— sorry, who’s Vivianna?”
But the woman was already steering her away from the viewing crowd with a firm hand against her shoulder.
“Go.”
And before Liberty could ask another question, she found herself pushed back toward the elevators—
straight into the aftermath of the storm she didn’t yet understand.
The elevator opened onto an entirely different world.
Liberty stepped out slowly, holding the folder given to her.
Downstairs had been chaos.
Phones ringing. People shouting over one another in Italian. Televisions blaring. Fluorescent lights humming overhead.
This floor felt nothing like that.
The air itself seemed quieter.
Warmer.
The harsh white lighting from below had disappeared entirely, replaced by soft amber lamps tucked into dark corners and along marble walls. The scent of espresso and expensive perfume lingered faintly through the corridor.
Even the voices here were different.
Low. Calm. Controlled.
Liberty immediately spotted the two women from earlier.
The redhead from the interview. The blonde assistant from the elevator.
Both disappeared around the corner beside a set of dark office doors before either noticed her standing there.
One of them had to be Vivianna.
Hopefully.
Liberty adjusted the file awkwardly in her hands before approaching the desk slowly.
Nobody looked up.
The secretary and red-head remained focused on their conversation.
Liberty hesitated.
She glanced as they walked and disappeared in an office.
The conversation happening sounded serious. Fast.
Definitely not the moment to interrupt.
Maybe she could leave the folder at the desk and quietly disappear before anyone noticed her.
Honestly, that felt safer.
She placed the black folder on the desk she’d been given downstairs.
Then immediately picked it back up again.
No.
What if this Vivianna person needed it urgently?
Liberty shifted awkwardly back and forth in front of the desk, internally debating whether to knock or leave before making a complete fool of herself.
Then—
“Come in.”
The voice was deep.
Masculine.
Controlled.
Not loud.
Which somehow made it worse.
Liberty froze instantly.
Oh no.
That was definitely not Vivianna.
For one horrifying second she considered grabbing the file and pretending she’d never been there at all.
But now whoever was inside already knew someone was outside their office.
There was no escape.
Fantastic.
Liberty inhaled carefully before walking toward where the voice was coming from.
An office across the secretary’s desk.
Partially open door, she tried her absolute hardest not to let her kitten heels click too loudly against the wooden floors.
She reached the doorway slowly.
Then awkwardly leaned her head inside first before her nerves betrayed her completely.
“Hi.”
The word left her mouth.
And instantly she wanted to die.
A man seated behind the large desk finally lifted his head from his fists.
Dark hair slicked neatly back. Sharp jaw. Cold eyes.
That face.
Liberty’s stomach dropped immediately.
The interview.
The elevator.
The entire office downstairs losing their minds over him.
It was him.
Damiano De Luca.
