Page 208 of Untamed

The long table is set in silver and crystal, each place immaculate, glowing under the soft chandelier light. The wine glints dark in the glasses, and laughter hums at the far end of the room, fake, delicate, like glass on the verge of shattering.

Ares isn’t here yet.

And neither isshe.

But I can feel her already.

Giana Mancini, the girl promised to the man I love.

The man who ismine.

My steps slow as I move along the edge of the room. No one says it out loud, but everyone knows why tonight matters. It isn’t about wine or business. It isn’t about hospitality or diplomacy. It’s about names and power and control, and which woman will sit beside Ares when the smoke clears.

I grip the back of the nearest chair for a moment, steadying myself. My palms are cold, even though my skin feels like it’s burning from the inside out.

I shouldn’t be here. Every instinct in me says so. But I came anyway. Because if I didn’t, I’d be handinghereverything without a fight.

I catch my reflection in the rim of a wine glass, flushed cheeks, tight mouth, eyes too wide. I try to relax my expression, smooth my posture. But nothing stops the way my pulse jumps every time someone new walks through the door.

She could walk in any moment.

The girl with the last name that sounds like a crown. The girl bred for this life. The girl Don Luciano chose. The one he deems perfect for his son.

I already hate her, and I haven’t even seen her face yet.

The chair beside me shifts as Bianca sits, smoothing her silk skirt over crossed legs. She reaches for her wine glass with the kind of ease I can’t mimic tonight. Her expression is neutral, perfect, practiced, but I can feel the tightness in her body.

She’s nervous too.

Luciano stands at the head of the table, glass in hand, voice smooth as velvet as he welcomes the guests already seated. There are men I recognise, half-smiles, firm handshakes, glances that slide too slow in my direction. Enzo sits near the end, his expression unreadable, eyes flicking toward the door every few seconds.

Just past Enzo, I catch sight of Matteo, half-sunk in his chair, wine glass dangling lazily from his fingers. He’s dressed in black, casual compared to the rest, but the tension in his jaw betrays him. His hazel eyes flick to the door, then to me. He hasn’t smiled all night.

Still no Ares.

Still no Giana.

Fuck, what if they’re together? My heart clenches painfully inside my chest. Enough to make me visibly wince.

The clink of silverware. A soft cough. Another bottle of wine opened with a hiss.

Then the doors open again.

I don’t turn right away. I don’t need to. I feel her arrival like a drop in air pressure. Like a shift in gravity. Conversations slow and heads lift. And I force myself to look. Matteo shifts as Giana enters, his gaze cutting sharply between her and Ares’s empty seat. He watches the way Luciano and Enzo greet her, the way Giana floats across the room like a crowned queen. But his attention keeps drifting, past her, toward me.

But all I can do is stare at her. The way she glides into the room like it was built for her.

Giana Mancini is tall, poised, and beautiful in that ruthless kind of way, every feature carved sharp, every movement calculated elegance. She wears a fitted black gown with gold threading, long dark hair twisted into something regal, flawless. There’s a diamond at her throat. The kind that saysI was born into power.

Her hazel eyes like two liquid pools of honey scan the room once, measured, completely detached.

Then they land on the empty seat beside Luciano’s.

Ares’s seat.

And she smiles.

Not at me.Pastme. Like I’m something invisible. Like I don’t matter.

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