Chapter 3 THE FIRST CRACK

••Roman••

Power never looks the same from the front row as it does from the shadows.

I have always preferred the shadows.

They give a man room to breathe, to think, to calculate. Andrian handles the spotlight, the speeches, and the diplomacy. I handle the problems no one wants mentioned in boardrooms lined with marble.

Yet tonight, I sat in his stead. Not by my choice.

The heir's chair never fits me right, but Father doesn't care; to him, duty is duty, and I serve where I'm placed.

Still... I would have rather remained behind the scenes, exactly where I belong. Maneuvering numbers. Erasing threats. Moving pieces the world never sees.

That is my kingdom.

Not this long conference I just engaged in, filled with Sicilian perfume.

My gaze drifts from the balcony down to Father and Don Moretti. They are engaged in a hushed conversation beside the car. I couldn't quite catch what they were saying, but it was likely about the alliance.

Don Moretti is the boss of the Sicilian Mafia and the father of that formidable princess, Luciana.

The Valerio family still clings to the Las Vegas port like a dying wolf with one functioning fang.

Something I was far from convinced about is if we could take the time to strategize effectively, perhaps we could seize control of the Las Vegas port ourselves.

Just as I turned to head inside, my eyes fell upon her, the formidable Sicilian princess. I could only imagine how she perceives herself.

She stands near the marble fountain, coat draped across her shoulders like aristocracy itself bowed to her. The wind brushes her hair to one side.

Beautiful, yes.

She possesses an enchanting beauty, yet her utterances are quite the opposite.

Most people don't dare speak to me that way. Not under my father's roof. Not with that tone. But Luciana Moretti had looked me square in the eye-chin lifted, pulse steady, spirit blazing, and hurled those words at me like a dagger.

I don't know what irritated me more, the fact that she challenged me...

Or the fact that I found it interesting.

"Rian will arrive tomorrow, Roman. He just called me," Mildred's voice broke my reverie.

My thoughts flick instantly toward my sister. The softness in her voice stands out in a house built of iron.

"Oh, I see he prefers to call you first," I reply, not turning. My eyes narrow at the guards changing shifts below. "Unlike someone whose calls he should be returning."

Mildred's hand slips onto my shoulder, warm and annoyingly amused.

"Jealousy doesn't suit you, brother."

Her tone dances between teasing and warning.

Typical.

Mildred Orlov, just 18 years old. Our family's cherished princess... and our greatest headache.

People think Andrian and I are cold kings of different thrones. They aren't wrong. But Mildred?

She's the only one who makes our hearts race for reasons beyond mere calculations.

I finally turned my attention to her. Her grin is self-satisfied, and her eyes sparkle with mischief. If she weren't an Orlov, she'd have found herself in serious danger a dozen times by now, given the chaos she stirs up.

"You really should be in your room, considering you're still grounded," I tell her.

She merely tilts her head, unconvinced.

"She says that each time," I think to myself. "Just before she slips away unnoticed."

My jaw tightens as memories slice through the still air.

There was that one time she snuck out to a club with friends while we all believed she was sound asleep. She got wrapped up with some mysterious man; I can still picture that jerk's hand gripping her wrist. If it weren't for the maid who checked on her and discovered her absence, I'd not have arrived just in time to save her from becoming someone's trophy.

I shake off the disturbing thought.

"I don't need babysitters," she responds lightly.

"You and Andrian suffocate me."

"You call it suffocation."

I step past her. "I call it keeping you alive."

Her sigh follows me, dramatic enough to echo.

I ignore it, walking away.

--

The ride back from the Orlov estate is silent, except for the rhythmic hum of the tires and Father's slow, measured breaths beside me.

By the time we arrive home, my mind won't let go of the meeting...or of him.

Roman Orlov.

His voice, his stare, and every sharp-edged word he threw at me keep circling like an irritation I can't scratch away.

If arrogance had an embodiment, it would surely take his form.

As soon as I step into my room, I kick off my heels, trying to shake off the tension, and almost fall into the nearest chair. I've barely begun to free my hair from its constraints when the door bursts open.

"Back so soon from the wolves?" Antonio leans casually against the doorframe, a grin plastered on his face that's just annoying enough. My little brother is four years my junior, yet he already seems to take pride in being my own personal nuisance.

"Let's not call them wolves," I mutter. "Wolves have charm."

He pushes off the frame and strolls in as if summoned. Matteo trails behind him, quieter, sharper-his eyes always observing before his mouth follows.

"You assholes never ask for permission before storming into my room," I shoot back.

"It's my father's house, sister," Antonio replies with a smirk that needs to be punched on a spiritual level.

This piece of junk.

"So." He tosses the apple he just stole from my desk into the air. "How did it go? Did Father finally come to terms with the Russians, or did you have to brave the cold just to keep the peace?" Antonio asked.

"It was... productive," I reply, which is code for unbearable.

"Ah. So that's a no." He takes a dramatic bite of the apple, the crunch echoing like mock applause.

"Did you at least get to meet him?" Matteo asks. His voice is low and deliberate.

"Who?"

"The heir. Adrian Orlov. Everyone refers to him as the Gentleman Devil. I've heard he actually has the courtesy to say "please" and "thank you" before sending people to ruin."

I snort. "No. He didn't show up."

"A pity," Matteo says. "Because if he did, you would've remembered. He leaves an impression... and a trail."

Before I can reply, Antonio perks up like a squirrel spotting chaos. "Hold up. If it wasn't him, then who kept you looking like you swallowed a lemon?"

A slow heat crawls up my neck. Matteo catches it instantly.

"You met someone," he says.

Of course he notices.

"Not met," I corrected sharply. "More like collided with, verbally."

Antonio's grin widens. "Oh, this is getting good."

I ignore the asshole and turn to Matteo. "Roman Orlov."

Both brothers blink. Antonio drops the apple.

Matteo whistles under his breath. "The weapons strategist. The one they call the Silent Prince.

Antonio snaps his fingers. "Right, right. The emotionless one who looks like he was carved from an iceberg nobody asked for."

"That's the one," I mutter.

"What happened?" Matteo presses.

"He challenged me." The memory prickles again. His eyes. His voice. The way he dissected my words like he had every right. "I said something, he said something, and then it became... competitive."

Antonio gasps in fake shock. "You? Competitive? No. Couldn't be."

I throw a pillow at his head.

Matteo leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. "Luci... Roman Orlov doesn't argue for sport. If he engaged you, he was measuring you."

"I'm not a piece of artillery," I snapped.

"No," Matteo replies. "You're far more dangerous. Which is exactly why he noticed you."

Silence presses in for a heartbeat.

Antonio wiggles his brows. "So you pissed off a man who can end a small country. Proud of you, sister. Truly."

"I didn't piss him off," I say, "though I'm not entirely sure. Maybe he just doesn't like me."

Matteo chuckles quietly. "Roman Orlov doesn't like anything. So that already puts you at the top of his list."

"What list?" I ask suspiciously.

"The list of people who'll either become his enemy," Matteo says, "or his problem."

Terrific. My life needed more categories.

Antonio claps his hands dramatically. "Well! This is shaping up to be far more entertaining than I thought."

"Get out," I deadpan.

He salutes. "With pleasure."

They exit together, Antonio munching loudly while Matteo throws one last knowing look over his shoulder, a look that says I should brace myself.

Once the door clicks shut, I collapse backward into the chair, realizing the truth I've been trying to ignore.

Roman Orlov wasn't supposed to matter.

Yet he does.

-----

The Next Morning

Before I've even stepped into the dining room, the rich aroma of espresso and toasted bread envelops me. My father is already at the table, his newspaper neatly folded beside his coffee cup. His mood is unreadable-which is usually the worst sign of all.

Antonio is there too, devouring his breakfast like someone preparing for a marathon.

"Good morning," I say with caution.

"Luciana," my father acknowledges without raising his gaze. "Take a seat."

That tone-the one that signals impending change, and not in a good way-immediately puts me on edge. I sit down as Antonio glances between us, clearly suppressing a grin.

"The meeting with the Orlovs went smoothly," my father starts. "They are... agreeable. We've outlined the terms of the alliance."

"I figured as much," I replied. "Considering we're not currently engaged in war."

His gaze sharpens, piercing as glass. "Don't be flippant."

I lower my head slightly. "I apologize."

He places his cup down, interlocking his fingers.

"To strengthen this alliance, the Orlovs and I have arranged an engagement."

My heart sinks. "An engagement?"

"Yes, between you and Adrian Orlov, their heir."

The news feels heavy, like stones tumbling down my throat.

"You can't be serious." The words hung in the air as my stomach twisted. The meal that had smelled so inviting a moment ago suddenly turned heavy and unappealing.

"Absolutely. This union will fortify both families against the Las Vegas syndicate. You realize how crucial this is."

I fixate on him, speechless. "You're offering me up like I'm a diploma."

"You are the diploma," he responds calmly. "You've always known this day would come."

I lean back, my heart racing. I did know, certainly. But knowing and hearing it are worlds apart.

Antonio, bless his unbothered soul, finally clears his throat.

"Sis, it might not be so bad," he says. "Adrian's supposed to be... decent. For a mafia heir."

I shoot him a critical look. "What does 'decent' even mean in our world?"

He shrugs. "He doesn't kill unnecessarily. He's polite. He helps his men. I don't know; maybe he rescues stray dogs too."

"Wonderful. I'll be sure to thank him for his humanity on our wedding night."

Father lets out a sharp breath, clearly over my sarcastic remarks.

"You'll meet him at the Winter Gala next week. Be prepared."

I give a stiff nod, my throat feeling tight.

Once Father leaves, Antonio leans in with a playful smile.

"At least you're marrying someone famous."

"So is the devil," I replied under my breath.