Page 4 of Shattered Engagement

Still, Vieri earned his place—every inch of it. He bled for it. Killed for it. Whatever ambition simmered beneath that cold exterior, he kept it leashed tight.

Until now.

Now he's feeding information to Gaincarlo’s rival—or at least moving pieces in their favor—and the question lingers like the sting of a knife wound.

What changed?

What does Vieri know that I don't?

I reach for another cigarette, lighting it with a flick of my thumb. The flare briefly cuts through the darkness. I inhale deeply and let the smoke burn through me.

Giancarlo trusts him, and that trust might be the crack I need. I just need to know whether Vieri is another pawn, or if he’s playing his own game entirely.

Either way, I can't move yet.

Not until I have every piece lined up. Every weakness exposed. Every betrayal nailed to the wall with iron certainty.

I tap ash into the cup holder and stare out at the ocean, black and endless.

Vieri’s loyalty or disloyalty is a thread I intend to pull—carefully and methodically. And when it unravels, I’ll be standing at the center of the wreckage.

Exactly where I belong.

I close my eyes for a moment, breathing in the silence, feeling the city buzz beneath the horizon. Everything is unfolding exactly the way I want. I just have to be patient a little longer.

Patience and blood.

Two currencies I know better than anyone else.

2

Isadora

The champagne tastes like an obligation poured into a glass.

I sip it anyway, watching my so-called friends dance beneath the pulsing lights of New York’s most exclusive nightclub. The VIP section—rented out for my bachelorette party—feels like another gilded prison. Just like the De Angelis estate. Just like my entire life.

“Isadora! Come dance!” Valentina calls, waving her hands above her head, diamonds glittering at her wrists. She is the daughter of my father’sconsigliere. Not a friend. An assigned companion.

I force a smile and raise my glass. “In a minute!”

My wedding to Luca Calviño is in two weeks. Fourteen days until I’m handed from one family to another like a peace treaty. The thought makes me drain my champagne in one swallow.

The irony isn’t lost on me. Here I am, surrounded by luxury, draped in a designer dress that costs more than what most people make in months, and I’ve never felt poorer. My currency isn’t money; it’s obedience.

“The bride needs another drink!” Someone shouts, and suddenly, there’s a fresh glass in my hand. I don’t argue.

Two hours later, the party has wound down. Most of my “friends” are stumbling drunk, taking selfies with bleary eyes and smeared lipstick. I’ve nursed my drinks carefully. Tonight is too important for recklessness.

“We should head back to the hotel,” Valentina slurs, leaning heavily on another girl. “Big day of spa treatments tomorrow.”

I nod. “You all go ahead. I need some air first.”

“Want me to wait?” she asks, though her eyes are already drifting toward the exit.

“No need.” I wave her off with practiced casualness. “I’ll catch a cab in a few minutes.”

She doesn’t argue, which tells me everything about our supposed friendship. Once they’re gone, I wait precisely seven minutes, keeping my expression neutral for the ever-present cameras. Then I move.

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