Chapter 4

Alessia POV:

The Grand Oak loomed against the night sky, lit up like some perverse jewel. The moment I stepped from the car, I felt their eyes on me. Every guest, every soldier, every business partner. Tonight, I wasn't the Underboss's wife. I was the evening's entertainment. Prey for a room full of vultures.

Dante's hand was a vise at the small of my back, steering me into the glittering ballroom.

Elara was at its heart, holding a glass of champagne, a victorious smirk playing on her lips. Her eyes found mine across the room, and that smirk widened into something sharp and triumphant.

"Alessia! You came!" she called out, her voice dripping with false sweetness. The crowd parted as Dante propelled me toward her.

"What is this?" I asked, my voice a strained whisper only she and Dante could hear. "What is the point of all this sick theater?"

"Theater?" Elara's facade of innocence was flawless. "I don't know what you mean. We're celebrating my return."

"You're a liar," I said, the words sharp and clear.

That was my mistake. Or perhaps, my first true act of defiance. The mask didn't just drop; it shattered. Her face, so eerily like my own, twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred.

"You dare?" she hissed.

The sound of her hand cracking across my face echoed in the suddenly silent ballroom. My head snapped to the side, my cheek stinging with a white-hot fire. Gasps rippled through the crowd. I tasted blood.

I slowly turned my head back, my eyes locking on Dante. He stood there, his face a cold, impassive mask. He did nothing. He said nothing. His silence was a roar of approval.

Elara saw it too, and it emboldened her. A wild, crazed light entered her eyes.

"You think this pretty dress makes you one of us?" she screeched, her voice raw with a jealousy so profound it was pathological. "You are a doll, a substitute! A cheap copy!"

Her hands shot out, grabbing the silk neckline of my maternity gown. With a vicious, tearing sound that ripped through the silence, she tore the fabric downward. It shredded like paper, exposing my shoulder, my slip, the curve of my stomach. The beautiful gown, a gift from Dante, was now a ruin hanging off my body.

The crowd murmured, a mix of shock and sick, eager anticipation. I stood there, exposed and humiliated, my arms instinctively crossing over my belly to protect my son.

"Look at her," Elara spat, circling me like a shark. "Still trying to protect the little jackpot. But he's not an heir. He's just the price of admission to the main event."

She stopped in front of me, her eyes glittering. She turned to the room, to the leering faces of Enzo, of Frank, of all the men from the chat group.

"Gentlemen," she announced, her voice ringing with triumph. "The auction was just a formality. The real party starts now."

She pointed a long, manicured finger at me.

"She has disgraced me. She has ruined my homecoming. So, you will entertain me. You will take this substitute, right here, and you will show her what her real purpose has always been."

A terrifying, predatory energy filled the room. Enzo stepped forward, licking his lips, his eyes burning with a disgusting hunger. Frank and two other men began to circle, closing in, cutting off any hope of escape.

I backed away a step, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. My eyes found Dante one last time, a silent, desperate plea.

He just watched. His face was empty. He was a spectator at my execution.

Enzo was in front of me now, his foul breath washing over my face. He reached out, his thick fingers aiming for the torn strap of my dress.

"Time to pay the bill, little goose," he purred.

His hand was an inch from my bare skin. This was it. The end. There was no one coming. My father was too far away.

Just as his fingertips were about to make contact, the world exploded.

The grand double doors at the entrance of the ballroom were kicked open with a force that made the crystal chandeliers tremble. The wood splintered, the doors slamming against the walls with a deafening crash.

Framed in the doorway stood a man. He was older, with silver hair and a face carved from granite, wearing an impeccably tailored suit that couldn't hide the raw power in his frame. Behind him, a single, severe-looking man stood like a shadow.

He wasn't armed. He didn't need to be. His presence alone was a weapon.

His eyes, the same dark eyes I saw in my own reflection, swept across the room, taking in the scene with a chilling, predatory calm. He saw the leering circle of men, my torn dress, the bloody imprint of a hand on my cheek. The temperature in the room seemed to drop twenty degrees.

Dante and his men froze, stunned by the violent intrusion. Enzo's hand hovered in the air, forgotten.

The man's gaze finally settled on me, and for a fraction of a second, the icy fury in his eyes was replaced by a flicker of something raw and paternal. Then, that fury returned, magnified a hundredfold, as he turned his attention to the men surrounding me.

"Get your filthy hands away from my daughter," Don Vincenzo Moretti commanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that filled the entire ballroom.