The Red Wedding.

Chapter 1: The Red Wedding

The music was soft, elegant—a distant piano and the low hum of a cello echoing through the candlelit halls of Villa Belladonna. Chandeliers sparkled like captive stars above a sea of silken gowns, tailored tuxedos, and whispered secrets. Waiters floated like ghosts with silver trays, serving champagne and caviar to Naples’ most dangerous elite. It was the wedding of the year, and every smile was a mask.

Elena Moretti stood near the marble balcony, her red satin dress clinging like second skin. Her dark curls were pinned high, revealing the small stud in her left ear—a hidden mic. She looked like she belonged, but every nerve in her body knew better. This was enemy territory.

Her eyes scanned the crowd, cataloguing faces she recognized from Interpol's files: arms dealers, corrupt judges, and mafiosi who vanished from trial dockets like smoke. But she wasn't here for them.

She was here for him.

Alessandro De Luca.

Heir to the De Luca crime empire. Cold, intelligent, untouchable. The youngest son of the late Don Marco, he had taken over operations two years ago after a suspicious car crash claimed his father’s life. Since then, the De Luca name had only grown darker, richer, and more powerful.

And tonight, he was somewhere in this glittering masquerade.

A flash of movement. The crowd parted as he entered, like waves yielding to a storm. Alessandro was all sharp lines and deadly calm in a black velvet tuxedo. No mask, no smile. Just piercing steel-blue eyes and a presence that made the room hush.

Elena's breath caught. She had prepared for this moment, rehearsed it in her head a thousand times. But nothing had prepared her for him. Not like this.

He didn’t look like a monster.

He looked like temptation carved from stone.

Alessandro stopped to greet the bride and groom—minor figures, tokens of alliance between two smaller families. He offered a curt nod, barely feigning interest. Then, his eyes drifted across the room... and locked on hers.

Elena's stomach tightened.

He walked toward her.

Each step was deliberate, like a man who feared nothing and expected everything.

"You don’t belong here," he said, voice smooth, low.

Elena sipped her champagne slowly, feigning calm. "Neither do you."

A smirk touched his lips. "But I own the place."

He circled her like a lion, not touching but invading her space. She knew the scent of danger, and it was laced with his cologne.

"What are you really here for, Signorina...?"

"Valentina Rossi," she lied easily, using one of her aliases. "Fashion editor. Milan."

He chuckled. "You don't dress like you report on dresses. And you certainly don’t drink like one."

Elena tilted her head. "And you notice all that after just one glance?"

His eyes darkened, amused. "I notice everything."

Before she could reply, a scream ripped through the ballroom.

A gunshot.

Glass shattered. People screamed. The cellist dropped his bow.

A man collapsed near the buffet, blood blossoming on his white shirt like a rose. Panic spread fast, but Alessandro didn't move.

He looked at the body.

Then at her.

Elena’s heart pounded. She'd been so careful. She wasn't armed. She had no plan for this.

"Run," Alessandro said quietly. "If you're not with them... run."

But she couldn’t move. Because this wasn’t just a hit.

This was a message.

And she was now part of it.

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