The gala moved like a symphony of power. Crystal glasses clinked in rhythm with the orchestra's waltz; polished laughter floated across the air like smoke hiding fire.
From his position near the Rossi investors, Adrian lifted his glass of scotch without drinking. His eyes, however, refused to stay where they should.
They kept returning to her.
Isabella Valentini.
She stood beside her father, face composed in that perfect mask she wore for society, every gesture graceful and measured. But Adrian noticed what others didn't: the slight stiffness in her shoulders, the way her gaze lingered too long on the exits, the faint press of her lips when her father's hand tightened on her arm.
She wasn't just a jewel on display—she was a jewel locked in a cage.
"Rossi."
Adrian turned. Her father, Don Valentini, stood before him. Sharp suit. Colder eyes. A man who built his empire with deals written in blood and signatures carved in silence.
"Don Valentini," Adrian replied smoothly, his tone clipped yet polite.
The older man's smile was thin. "It's been a long time since a Rossi dared walk into my ballroom."
Adrian raised his glass, unflinching. "Empires don't last forever, Valentini. Not even yours."
A beat of silence stretched—icy, suffocating. Nearby guests smiled as though they hadn't just witnessed a declaration of war disguised as casual banter.
Valentini's voice lowered, just enough for Adrian alone. "Stay away from my daughter. Or you'll regret it."
The threat burned in Adrian's ears long after the Don moved away.
He turned his head instinctively—her eyes were already on him. From across the ballroom, Isabella's gaze met his, an unspoken defiance gleaming behind the restraint.
It was madness to look at her this way. Madness to want her. And yet, Adrian couldn't stop.
The orchestra struck a new tune, a waltz heavy with romance. Guests drifted onto the dance floor, swirling gowns and dark suits blending like storm clouds colliding.
A hand touched Isabella's arm.
"Dance with me," her father commanded, but his eyes had already shifted elsewhere, dismissing her before she could reply. Another ally was waiting to toast with him.
Left behind, Isabella stood at the edge of the floor, heart pounding as the music swelled.
Then a shadow fell across her.
"Miss Valentini," Adrian said, bowing his head with practiced elegance. His voice was smooth, edged with danger. "Would you honor me?"
She froze. To accept would be reckless. To refuse would be noticed.
Her father was busy laughing with investors. The room was watching.
And Adrian's hand extended, steady was a temptation too sharp to resist.
Her fingers slid into his.
The moment their hands touched, a current shot through her veins. His palm was warm, steady, his grip firm but not possessive. He led her onto the marble floor, and suddenly the world seemed to shrink to only them.
The music swelled.
He pulled her close. Not indecently, but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that her pulse hammered against her ribs.
"You shouldn't be here," she whispered, her lips barely moving.
"And yet," he murmured, eyes fixed on hers, "I can't seem to leave."
Her breath caught. "If my father sees—"
"Then let him."
They moved in perfect rhythm, but the dance wasn't polished like the others. It was dangerous, crackling with the tension of two people who should not touch yet couldn't pull away. Each step was a defiance, each turn a silent battle between duty and desire.
Isabella's mind screamed at her to look away. But Adrian's eyes—dark, intense had anchored her. They spoke of power, of hunger, of a man who saw her not as property but as fire he wanted to claim.
The waltz slowed, drawing to its final note.
And just as silence hovered, Isabella realized how close their faces had become. His breath brushed her cheek. One move closer, and their lips would have met.
A gasp rippled through the crowd.
Her father stood frozen at the edge of the floor, eyes narrowed, suspicion burning like a blade.
Adrian released her hand instantly, bowing with a smirk that felt like both challenge and invitation.
"Thank you for the dance," he said, loud enough for the room to hear.
Isabella's cheeks burned, her heart thundering.
She stepped back, but her father's gaze pierced her like ice. He had seen too much.
And Adrian Rossi… had just declared silent war.