Aria Ricci had always hated galas.
Too many eyes.
Too many lies.
Too many people pretending they weren't scared of the family hosting half the city's corruption.
But she smiled anyway.
She always did.
The smile was a soft curve, polite and practiced the kind you put on when your father's closest allies, enemies, and potential threats were all gathered under the same chandeliers. The grand Ricci Charity Benefit, held once every year in a glass-walled ballroom overlooking the river, was supposedly for orphans and widows. That was the official story, the one plastered on invitations and whispered in political offices.
Everyone here knew the truth: it was a battlefield dressed in velvet and gold.
Aria adjusted the neckline of her silver gown as she walked deeper into the crowd. The fabric shimmered under the warm lights, clinging to her figure like poured moonlight. Every step she took made the gown ripple, catching attention she didn't want.
People looked at her the same way every year.
Admiration.
Curiosity.
Fear.
Being the daughter of Alessandro Ricci—the man who controlled half of the East Coast's underground operations—meant she was both shielded and exposed. Protected, yet trapped.
Her father always said she was the "future of the family."
She wasn't sure if that meant heir… or bargaining chip.
Probably both.
Aria let out a quiet breath and reached for a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. She didn't drink, but the flute gave her hands something to do. She scanned the ballroom women in glittering gowns, men in sharp tuxedos, cameras flashing, security positioned like statues against the walls.
Her eyes slid to the balcony where her father stood, speaking to a senator. Thick shoulders, commanding presence, sharp jaw. Even in a crowd of powerful men, Alessandro Ricci's aura swallowed the room whole.
He hadn't seen her slip away from her assigned circle of "appropriate company." Good.
Tonight, she wanted freedom. Even if it was only ten minutes.
She was rounding the corner toward the less crowded lounge area when the room shifted—an energy change so sudden her skin prickled. A collective hush rolled through the guests, subtle yet unmistakable.
Aria paused mid-step.
Something or someone had arrived.
Security stiffened. Conversations slowed. The atmosphere thickened like smoke before a gunshot.
She turned her head.
And saw him.
Dark suit, blacker than the night outside. Broad shoulders that commanded attention even before his face did. A slow, unhurried stride. A presence so heavy and dangerous the air bent around him.
Luca Valentino.
The name struck her chest like a physical blow.
She had seen pictures—grainy surveillance shots, news articles, the occasional magazine cover—but nothing prepared her for seeing him in person.
The heir of the Valentino family.
The Ricci family's oldest enemy.
Their rivalry stretched back before she was born—blood spilled, alliances broken, borders drawn in bullets. The Valentinos were everything her father taught her to fear. Everything she was forbidden to even speak of.
And yet…
She couldn't look away.
Luca moved like he owned the room. Tall, sharp-featured, jaw cut from stone. His hair was dark, slightly tousled like he'd run a hand through it on the way here. His eyes—cold, unreadable—scanned the ballroom with bored precision, taking in threats without acknowledging them.
People parted for him without being asked.
Of course they did.
The Valentino heir wasn't just feared.
He was legend wrapped in flesh and tailored silk.
Aria swallowed, trying to turn away, but her feet refused to move. Something magnetic pulled her attention back to him, like gravity itself had chosen a new center.
Luca's gaze slid across the room.
Past politicians.
Past businessmen.
Past Ricci soldiers.
And landed on her.
Aria's breath caught.
His eyes were a deep, stormy blue—cold, calculating, and yet startlingly clear as they locked onto hers. A flicker of curiosity crossed his expression, subtle but impossible to miss.
Impossible.
He wasn't supposed to notice her.
He wasn't even supposed to be here.
Her pulse quickened.
Look away, Aria. Now.
She forced herself to break the connection, lifting her champagne glass to her lips though she didn't drink. She stared at the bubbles, willing her heartbeat to slow.
This was bad.
Dangerous.
Reckless.
She shouldn't be anywhere near him.
She took a step back—too fast, too distracted—and crashed into a hard wall.
Except it wasn't a wall.
It was a man.
Large hands steadied her shoulders before she could stumble.
Aria jerked her head up, apology forming on her lips.
But the words died.
It was him.
Luca Valentino stood inches away, towering over her, eyes narrowed with a mixture of amusement and something else—something sharper, like recognition or the start of a challenge.
He smelled faintly of clean smoke, expensive cologne, and something darker she couldn't place.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
"Careful," he said, voice smooth and low, a rumble that slipped under her skin before she could shield herself from it. "Crowds can be… unpredictable."
His tone wasn't mocking.
It wasn't kind either.
Just dangerously neutral.
Aria forced her body to move, stepping back out of his hold. The sudden absence of warmth left her breath colder.
"I—I wasn't looking," she said quietly, steadying her voice. "I'm sorry."
"You didn't see me?" His lips tilted slightly, not quite a smile—more like the ghost of one. "Hard to miss, don't you think?"
Aria blinked, heat flooding her cheeks. "That's not what I meant."
"Mm." He tilted his head. "Didn't look where you were going, didn't see what—or who—was in front of you. Dangerous habit."
Is he… scolding her?
She straightened her shoulders. "I'm usually more attentive. Tonight is just… crowded."
"Crowded." His gaze swept over her dress, her face, her posture not in a lustful way, but assessing, observant, almost clinical. "You don't seem like someone who enjoys events like this."
She raised an eyebrow, defensive. "And you figured that out by bumping into me?"
"No," he said simply, "by watching you."
Aria froze.
Watching her?
That couldn't mean anything.
That shouldn't mean anything.
But her stomach tightened.
She opened her mouth, ready to respond, when a sharp voice called her name.
"Aria!"
Her father's right-hand man, Marco, pushed through the crowd, expression tense, eyes narrowing the moment he saw who she was speaking to.
Luca didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't even blink.
Marco stepped in front of her slightly, creating a barrier. "Miss Ricci, your father needs you."
The implication was clear:
Step away from the Valentino.
Now.
Luca's gaze flicked to Marco, then back to Aria, a silent challenge in his eyes.
He wasn't scared.
Of course he wasn't.
Aria exhaled slowly and nodded. "I should go."
"Should you?" Luca asked softly.
Her breath hitched.
Marco stiffened. "She *will*."
Aria forced her legs to move and Luca stepped aside, giving her a clear path. But his eyes followed her until she fully disappeared into the crowd.
She didn't dare look back again.
She didn't need to.
She could feel his stare like a physical touch between her shoulder blades.
***
Her father's private lounge was quieter, filled with muted gold lighting and heavy velvet curtains. Alessandro Ricci stood by the window, overlooking the dark river. His silhouette was rigid, his hand gripping a glass of whiskey too tightly.
"You left your table," he said without turning. His voice was calm. Too calm.
"I needed air," Aria replied, trying not to sound shaken.
He turned slowly.
His eyes were sharp, observant—nothing escaped him. "Air? Or trouble?"
Her stomach dropped.
He knows.
"Father—"
"Don't." He raised a hand. "I saw you speaking to him."
Aria swallowed hard. "It wasn't intentional."
"Nothing about the Valentinos is accidental," Alessandro said. "Their heir being here tonight is a message."
"A message to who?"
"To everyone." His gaze hardened. "They want to remind the city they still breathe."
Her pulse throbbed in her temples. "I didn't seek him out."
"No," he acknowledged. "But he sought you."
Aria's breath stopped.
"You caught his eye," Alessandro continued. "That alone is dangerous."
Aria clenched her fists. "I didn't do anything—"
"You don't have to," he said sharply. "You're a Ricci. And he is a Valentino. That alone is enough to start a war."
A chill raced down her spine.
Her father stepped closer and cupped her face gently—a rare softness in his touch. "I'm not angry with you, Aria. But you must understand the stakes. Men like Luca Valentino don't look without intent."
Her heart gave an involuntary thud.
Intent?
What kind?
Why her?
She didn't ask.
She didn't want to know.
"You will stay away from him," her father said. "No eye contact. No words. No proximity."
Aria nodded slowly.
But a part of her—small, rebellious, and irrational—wondered if it was already too late.
***
The gala continued, lights shimmering, music rising, laughter echoing. But Aria barely heard any of it. She danced with the sons of allies, smiled at politicians, responded politely to greetings.
But her mind drifted back to him—to the dangerous calm in his eyes, to the way he'd said "Didn't look where you were going," like he saw more than she wanted.
And every so often, she felt it again.
That stare.
She didn't have to search the room to know Luca Valentino was watching her from somewhere behind the crowd.
Watching.
Waiting.
Thinking.
As if their collision wasn't an accident at all.
As if it was the beginning of something neither of them was supposed to touch.
And when Aria finally gathered the courage to glance toward the far end of the ballroom—
He was there.
Standing alone by the balcony doors, one hand in his pocket, eyes locked on her like a silent vow.
Her breath left her body.
She forced herself to look away.
But the damage was done.
Something had shifted tonight.
Dangerously.
Irreversibly.
And deep down, Aria knew:
This wasn't the end of their first encounter.
It was only the beginning.
A beginning written in secrets.
In blood.
In fate.
And it would change everything.