Married to the Billionaire Mafia Don

"Thanks," Ivy said as she accepted the wrinkled dollar bills from the woman standing at the doorway.

"Do you need me to come over tomorrow?" she asked hopefully.

"I'll let you know," the woman said sourly before stepping back into her apartment and slamming the door shut.

"Weirdo," Ivy mumbled and walked away.

Ivy Wesley had learned three things the hard way: trust no one, smile only when necessary, and always sleep with one eye open.

She moved like a shadow through the cracked sidewalks of South Haven, the dim glow of the streetlamps casting her silhouette in uneven shapes against the graffitied brick walls. She folded the cash in her hand and shoved it into her coat. It was her payment for the half-day gig of babysitting. The mother hadn't smiled once and had paid her in crumpled fives as usual.

Ivy didn't mind. It was money, and money was freedom. At least, that's what she kept telling herself.

She tucked the money deep inside the pocket of her threadbare denim jacket and picked up her pace. Her boots - black, scuffed, and two sizes too big, crunched gravel as she crossed a narrow alley, the familiar smell of fried grease and garbage wafting from a nearby diner.

Home, if you could call it that, was two miles away in a trailer park. It was a shared apartment with peeling wallpaper, broken blinds, and a heater that made noise but didn't work. Her room was the size of a jail cell and painted in a color that tried to be beige but failed.

The wind cut through her jacket like a blade, making her shiver. She briefly considered stopping by Bobby's Deli for a cup of hot water. She knew the guy who worked the late shift, but her phone buzzed in her pocket.

Unknown Number.

Ivy paused under the awning of a closed tattoo parlor and answered without thinking.

"Yeah?"

A woman's voice, smooth and businesslike, responded. "Hi. Is this Ivy Wesley?"

Ivy's guard immediately went up. "Who's asking?"

"We got your contact from a freelance database. Are you available for short-term work?"

"I might be," Ivy responded guardedly. "What kind of work?"

"There's a private event tomorrow evening at an upscale venue. You'd be paid just for attending. It would only be three hours, and you'll be paid five hundred dollars cash."

Ivy blinked. "Say that again?"

"Five hundred," the voice repeated calmly. "Transportation will be provided. All you have to do is show up, follow instructions, and behave appropriately. It's an audition of sorts. You'll be evaluated with other candidates. No obligations unless you're selected."

"What kind of audition?" Ivy asked.

A pause.

"Let's just say... social compatibility is being tested," the woman said vaguely. "It's exclusive. Discretion is required."

Ivy glanced down the street, watching a man push a shopping cart full of empty cans. Her gut twisted. Sketchy didn't even begin to cover this, but then again, sketchy was her middle name. And five hundred dollars could do many things for her.

"Text me the address," she said finally.

The voice on the other end gave a short, satisfied hum. "You'll receive a package shortly. It will include your wardrobe, instructions, and a nondisclosure agreement. Sign it, show up, and be on time."

Then the line went dead.

---------------

The next day, the package arrived at noon in an unmarked black car. The driver didn't speak. He just handed Ivy a slim box and left without a word.

She took the box to the shared kitchen in the tiny house, ignoring the raised eyebrows of her two flat mates, whom she rarely communicated with.

Inside the box: a black cocktail dress, sleek and low-cut with a slit up the thigh. High heels that looked like they belonged to someone who didn't walk much. And a note.

Ivy opened it and read the content: "You've been selected for consideration. Be at the following address by 7:00 p.m. sharp. Be silent. Be seen. Not a word to anyone."

Underneath that, there was a second envelope, this one thinner, with a simple NDA. Ivy read it twice. It was legal, binding. It also didn't explain much. She signed it anyway.

By six, Ivy had squeezed herself into the dress and ran a flat iron through her shoulder-length auburn hair. She applied just enough makeup to look put together, but not so much that she looked like she was trying too hard.

She didn't own perfume, so she used coconut lotion from a free sample pack. The heels were foreign territory, but she could handle three hours. Probably.

At 6:30, the same black car rolled up. This time, the driver opened the door for her. Ivy slid inside without a word.

---------------

The mansion looked like something off the front of a luxury lifestyle magazine. Tuscan-inspired stonework, wrought-iron gates, and ivy curling around marble columns. Torches, actual torches, lined the driveway, and the air smelled faintly of citrus and sandalwood. Classical music floated through hidden speakers tucked behind flowering hedges.

Ivy stepped out of the car, clutching a small clutch purse with only her phone in it. Other women were arriving, each more glamorous than the last. Long legs, glossy hair, and designer dresses that screamed money.

Ivy didn't know whether to laugh or be impressed. They were ushered through arched double doors into a grand marble foyer. Crystal chandeliers sparkled above. A double staircase curved up into shadows. Everything gleamed like it had never been touched by human hands.

About thirty women stood in the room now. Ivy hovered near the back, watching. Some looked nervous. Others were already whispering to each other, comparing notes. A tall blonde in red heels was practicing her smile in a mirror.

Then a man appeared. Ivy assumed he was the butler. He had silver-streaked hair, a face that looked carved from stone, and a voice like silk.

"Ladies," he began, "thank you for coming. You've been selected for your appearance, poise, and potential compatibility. Tonight is not a job interview. This is an opportunity to change your life."

The room fell silent.

"You will be evaluated on grace, discretion, and how you carry yourself under pressure," the butler continued. "The gentleman hosting this evening is of considerable wealth and influence. Should he choose you, you will be offered marriage. Nothing less."

Ivy felt the words marriage and wealth knock together like billiard balls in her head. She didn't belong here. But she stayed.

"You'll each be interviewed. There will be no names exchanged tonight. Do not ask questions. Do not speak unless spoken to. If this is not for you, now is your time to leave."

A few women shuffled nervously. One, then two, turned and left through the front doors.

Ivy stood still. Not because she was convinced, but because she was curious. And desperate.

She hadn't come here to find love. She didn't believe in fairy tales. But five hundred dollars tonight, and maybe more after that, could get her out of this city. Maybe even out of this life.

A clipboard was passed around. Each woman signed her name. No questions. Ivy hesitated only a second before scribbling hers in black ink.

They were separated into smaller groups and led through various wings of the mansion. Ivy's group ended up in a candlelit salon where a man in a black suit offered champagne. She declined.

Instead, she scanned the room, noting details. Cameras, mirrors, and vases she could probably sell for thousands. There was money here - real money. Old money. Not just flashy cars and diamond watches.

"Miss Wesley," the butler reappeared, beckoning her toward a side door. "You're wanted in the west wing."

With her heart racing, Ivy followed him without a word.

Ivy followed the butler through a corridor lined with oil paintings, past doors that looked older than the building itself, until they reached a study with leather chairs and a roaring fireplace.

A single man sat inside, his back to her, facing the flames. He didn't turn around.

"Sit," the butler said.

Ivy did. The butler left and closed the door softly behind him. In the study, the silence stretched.

Then, finally, the man spoke. His voice was low, smooth, and controlled.

"You've lived in eight different cities in ten years. No record of parents. Multiple jobs. No formal education past high school."

Ivy stiffened.

"You're resourceful," he continued. "Unpredictable. And hard to trace."

He turned, and Ivy's breath caught.

The man was young. Early thirties, maybe. He had dark hair, perfectly cut. Olive skin, a sharp jaw, and eyes like obsidian - cold and unreadable.

Lorenzo Martinelli.

Ivy had never met him before, but she'd seen his face on gossip sites as few times. The billionaire no one ever saw in person. The untouchable, dangerous man with alleged Mafia ties. And now, apparently, interviewing potential wives like they were candidates for a crown.

"Why did you come?" he asked.

Ivy met his gaze without blinking. "Curiosity. And five hundred bucks."

He smiled - barely. "Honest. That's rare," he said. "I like that."

Lorenzo stood, crossing the room with the confidence of someone used to having the world at his feet.

"I don't want someone who wants me," he said, stopping inches from her. "I want someone who can survive me."

Ivy literally felt the heat of the fire on her face. Her pulse thudded in her ears.

"You don't know me," she said quietly.

"No," he agreed. "But I will."

He turned away again.

"Your attendance fee will be handed to you once you step out of here. You'll be contacted tomorrow."

And just like that, the interview was over.

---------------

Outside, the wind had died down. Ivy stepped back into the black car, heart pounding. Her reward for participating in this crazy joke was already tucked inside her clutch. It looked like a fortune to her.

She didn't know what she'd just agreed to, but for the first time in years, the future didn't look empty. It looked dangerous, and she wasn't sure if that scared her... or thrilled her.

The next morning, Ivy stood at the gates of the Martinelli Estate, unsure if she should admire the towering wrought-iron design or be terrified of what waited beyond it. The sun had barely climbed above the horizon, casting long shadows on the gravel driveway.

Her sneakers crunched against it as she shifted nervously from foot to foot. This was unlike anything she'd ever signed up for - and she'd signed up for a lot of crazy gigs.

She'd received a text message at 5 a.m. from the unknown number, telling her to report back at the Martinelli Estate. A sharply dressed man stepped out from the security booth. His suit looked like it cost more than her entire closet.

"Name?" he asked without looking up from his clipboard.

"Ivy. Ivy Wesley."

He checked the list, nodded once, and pressed a button on the panel beside him. The gates opened with a slow, eerie groan.

"Proceed down the driveway," the man instructed Ivy gruffly. "The house is on the left. Do not stray from the path. Cameras are everywhere."

She offered a tight smile and walked through the gates, her heart hammering like a war drum.

The estate was massive. It was the kind of place that screamed old money, Mafia whispers, and generations of secrets. The mansion came into view; a blend of Italian villa and modern fortress, with marble pillars, fountains, and manicured gardens that looked too pristine to be real.

A line of women had already gathered near the front steps. All of them were dressed like they were attending a red carpet event: high heels, red lips, sleek hair. Ivy swallowed, suddenly very aware of her worn jeans and second-hand leather jacket. She was the only one who looked like she got there by bus.

"Who let the janitor in?" one of the girls snickered.

Ivy raised her eyebrows but said nothing. Let them laugh. They didn't know her story. She had survived too much to be intimidated by lipstick and stilettos.

Before she could find a spot to stand, the front door opened with a theatrical sweep. A man in his late thirties stepped out, flanked by two other assistants. He looked like a TV producer: slicked-back hair, expensive shoes, and a tablet in hand.

"Ladies!" he clapped his hands, voice booming. "Welcome to the Martinelli Estate. My name is Victor. I'll be leading today's... interview process."

"Interview?" one girl asked, adjusting her cleavage.

"Yes. Today is less of a party and more of an audition," Victor said. "You're not here to network. You're not here to model. As you were informed last night, you are here to possibly become the legal wife of Mr. Lorenzo Martinelli."

A ripple of murmurs ran through the group.

"Mr. Martinelli is the CEO of Martinelli Enterprises which runs a chain of luxury restaurants across the country and a winery that produces the finest wines and champagne known to mankind," Victor continues. "He is heir to a billion-dollar fortune - and yes, the rumors are true, he's that Martinelli."

Ivy swallowed hard but remained quiet. She couldn't help but wonder why a wealthy, handsome man like Lorenzo Martinelli had resorted to this extreme method of finding a wife.

"I knew it," a red-lipped girl whispered behind Ivy. "This is the Mafia guy audition."

Victor smirked. "Yes, yes. I can see the confusion. But rest assured - this is a legitimate arrangement. Mr. Martinelli is being required by family tradition to marry within the next thirty days. Rather than go through a typical courtship, he's decided to... speed things up."

Ivy's jaw clenched. Yes, she needed money, but she didn't expect to end up on an episode of The Bachelor: Mafia Edition. Why on earth did she come back here?

Even before the question finished forming in her head, Ivy knew the answer. She'd come back here for more. Much more than five hundred dollars.

"You'll be interviewed individually," Victor continued. "You'll get a chance to speak with the man himself - briefly - and if you're selected, there will be a final round with the family."

"Is this even legal?" someone asked.

Victor's grin widened. "Perfectly. All participants will sign another NDA at the end of this exercise. If chosen, you'll sign a prenup and marriage contract. Payment is generous. Dismissal is discreet. Now... if any of you would prefer to leave, the gate is still open."

Ivy glanced around. Three girls immediately stepped out of line and left. Another rolled her eyes and walked off, muttering about rich people and their crazy games.

Ivy stayed. She wasn't here for love. She wasn't even here for adventure. She was here because she needed a way out. A future. Maybe even a second chance.

She lifted her chin and muttered, "Let's do this."

---------------

Inside, the mansion was even more opulent than she'd imagined; massive chandeliers, floors so polished she could see her reflection, and walls lined with classic paintings that looked centuries old.

A line of chairs had been arranged in the grand salon, and the women were called in one by one for their interviews.

Ivy waited. She eavesdropped as the others returned; some looking smug, others confused. One girl was even crying.

"Next, Ivy Wesley," called an assistant with icy blonde hair and perfectly sculpted brows.

Ivy stood up, shook out her jacket, and followed the woman through a set of carved wooden doors into a smaller room: an office with a glass desk, leather chairs, and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the estate.

Victor sat behind the desk. Beside him was another woman, a curvy blonde, with a clipboard and a steely expression.

"This is Chloe," Victor said. "She's Mr. Martinelli's personal assistant."

Ivy nodded. "Nice to meet you."

Chloe said nothing, just assessed her with cool green eyes.

"Tell us about yourself, Ivy," Victor began.

Ivy forced a smile. "What do you want to know? I'm twenty-five. I grew up in Michigan. Left home at sixteen. Been doing odd jobs ever since."

"Why did you leave home?" Chloe asked sharply.

Ivy paused. "It wasn't safe," she said finally.

Chloe exchanged a glance with Victor.

Ivy folded her arms. "Look, I'm not here to give you a sob story. I'm just trying to get out of a life that's been stuck in survival mode. I'm not afraid of rich people, secrets, or drama. I know how to blend in, keep quiet, and hold my own."

Victor raised his eyebrows. "That... was unexpectedly honest."

Ivy shrugged. "What's the point of lying? You'll dig it all up in a background check anyway."

Chloe's lips curled into a smile. "Interesting."

Victor leaned forward. "One more question. If you're chosen, this marriage will come with expectations - public appearances, discretion, and loyalty. You won't be free to come and go as you please. Can you handle that?"

Ivy thought of the moldy apartment she shared with two chain-smoking roommates. She thought of the job she lost last week because the diner went out of business. She thought of her mother's silence. Her stepfather's hands. The bruises no one saw.

She looked Victor in the eye and said, "I've handled worse."

Chloe stood. "Thank you, Chloe. You'll be notified shortly."

---------------

Hours passed. Most of the women were gone. Only four remained, including Ivy. She was sitting in the corner, sipping a glass of champagne someone had handed her, when Victor returned, smiling like he'd just won a game.

"Ladies," he announced, "Mr. Martinelli has made his decision."

A tense silence filled the room.

He turned to Ivy and said, "Congratulations."

Her mouth fell open. "Wait... what?"

"You've been selected," Victor confirmed.

The other women gasped. One of them scoffed. "Her? Seriously?"

Victor ignored them. "You'll be escorted to a guest suite. Tomorrow, you'll be briefed by the legal team. The wedding will take place within the next five days."

Ivy could barely breathe. This was real. She was marrying a billionaire. A man with rumored Mafia ties. A man she'd only met once!

Before she could ask another question, Chloe appeared beside her.

"This way," she said coolly.

-------------

The guest suite was three times larger than Ivy' entire apartment. The bed was king-sized, and the sheets were Egyptian cotton. A robe had been laid out.

There was even a basket of luxury bath products with a handwritten note: "Welcome to the family - temporarily or otherwise. Make yourself comfortable."

Ivy collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. What the hell had she gotten herself into?

She barely had time to process before the door opened again.

"Mr. Martinelli will see you now," Chloe said from the doorway.

Ivy sat up, her heart pounding. "Now?"

Chloe nodded. "It's a courtesy. He prefers to meet his wife before the wedding."

No kidding, Ivy thought.

She followed Chloe through the mansion, down a corridor lined with family portraits: men in tuxedos, women in gowns, faces with sharp features and cold eyes. They passed stone-faced sculptures that stared as if judging Ivy's every step.

She'd grown up in places where broken windows were normal, and cops didn't show up unless someone died. Here? The silence had its own wealth.

Chloe stopped at a set of double doors and said, "He's waiting."

Ivy hesitated, then stepped inside.

Lorenzo Martinelli was seated behind a mahogany desk. He stood when he saw her, buttoning his suit jacket. He was taller than she remembered, with broad shoulders, a square jaw, and dark eyes that glistened in the warm light.

"You are Ivy, right?" he said.

"And you're the guy who just made the biggest mistake of his life," she replied, trying to mask her nerves with sarcasm.

He smiled faintly. "I find your honesty refreshing."

Ivy walked toward him, trying not to let her legs shake. "Why me?"

"You didn't pretend to be perfect," Lorenzo answered frankly. "You've lived a tough life. You didn't ask stupid questions. And I've always preferred someone with bite."

"Good," Ivy said. "Because I bite."

Lorenzo's smile deepened.

Ivy crossed her arms and asked, "So you're just out here proposing marriage to strangers like it's a business transaction?"

"Because it is," Lorenzo responded promptly. "This isn't about love, Ivy. It's about leverage. Appearances. Strategy."

"And you picked me because...?" She asked dubiously.

"You're smart," Lorenzo said simply. "The others aren't. You? You looked me in the eye and spoke boldly. That kind of nerve isn't easy to find."

Ivy's mouth felt dry. "That's not a compliment. That's a warning."

"It's both," Lorenzo assured her.

He moved toward the window, hands in his pockets, and said, "My world isn't safe. It's sharp corners and sealed doors. But it's also power. Money. Security."

Ivy watched him. "You're telling me all this like I don't already know the rumors," she said.

Lorenzo faced her again and said, "Rumors are smoke. I'm fire."

There it was again - that glimmer of danger beneath the polish. She should've turned and walked out. Instead, Ivy stepped closer.

"Why me?" she asked again. "Why not someone from your world?"

"Because someone from my world knows too much," Lorenzo answered candidly. "But you? You're new. A wildcard."

"And what's in it for me?" Ivy wanted to know.

Lorenzo looked at her then, really looked. "More money than you've ever touched in your life, a reputable status in society, useful connections. And best of all, protection."

Ivy laughed, short and nervous. "Are you trying to buy me?"

"I'm offering you an exit," Lorenzo said. "From whatever corner of the city you've been surviving in. A clean slate. A chance to rebrand yourself and choose a future that's far better than anything you've imagined."

Her stomach twisted. Ivy was both enticed and terrified. Lorenzo's offer sounded too good to be true.

He watched her reaction and smiled slightly. "I don't make offers twice."

Ivy swallowed hard, her mind a whirlwind. She thoughtfully considered what Lorenzo was offering her. Wealth, a marriage of convenience, a new social status. It was indeed a mind-blowing offer. What did she have to lose?

"What happens if I say yes?" She asked cautiously.

"We get married next week," Lorenzo said smoothly. "You move in. You follow the rules. You smile when the cameras are on. And do your best to get along with my family."

"And if I say no?" Ivy asked hesitantly.

Lorenzo shrugged. "You leave with a fancy coffee and a story no one will believe."

Ivy stared at him, weighing the madness. This wasn't a rom-com; this was real. Crazy, risky, and tempting.

Finally, she exhaled. "Alright. I'll think about it."

Lorenzo nodded. "You have twenty-four hours," he said coolly.

Ivy turned to leave but paused at the door. "One more thing, Mr. Martinelli."

He cocked his head.

"If I do this... I'm not playing dumb. I want terms, protection, boundaries," she said.

Lorenzo's mouth curved, just slightly. "Of course. I wouldn't expect anything less, Mrs. Martinelli," he replied.

Ivy did not hesitate. She spun around and hurried out of the office before her knees gave out.

The cathedral loomed ahead, regal and ancient, nestled on a manicured hill at the far end of the Martinelli family estate. Its ivory stone walls were kissed by creeping ivy, and stained-glass windows glimmered like hidden jewels under the morning sun.

The air held a crisp stillness, like the world itself was holding its breath for what was about to unfold.

Ivy stood just inside the arched wooden doors, her fingers trembling slightly as they clutched the delicate lace veil attached to the elegant ivory gown she'd been dressed in. The dress, selected by one of Lorenzo's personal stylists, fit her like a glove, its bodice snug and flattering, the mermaid silhouette cascading around her legs in waves of silk and lace.

"Ready, signorina?" Victor asked softly, his voice carrying the same calm professionalism she'd come to expect from him.

Dressed in a tailored gray suit, he looked more like a groomsman than an assistant. Yet, his watchful gaze never missed a thing.

Ivy swallowed, then nodded.

"As ready as I'll ever be," she said bravely.

Victor gave a small smile and stepped aside. The massive doors opened with a low creak, revealing the grand interior of the cathedral.

The pews were filled sparsely with family and associates, most of whom Ivy had not been introduced to. Yet she could feel their stares, a thousand judgments laced in silken suits and expensive perfume.

She began her walk down the aisle, accompanied by the swell of a single violin. There were no bridesmaids or flower girls. This was not a traditional wedding. It was business. A transaction sealed with vows and a signature. Still, Ivy held her head high.

At the altar stood Lorenzo, immaculate in a black tuxedo, his dark hair slicked back, his expression unreadable. He looked like something out of a fashion editorial: handsome, poised, and distant. He didn't smile when he saw her, but neither did he frown. Ivy decided to take that as a win.

As she approached, a priest in crimson vestments motioned her into place beside Lorenzo. The ceremony began immediately. Latin prayers echoed beneath the high ceilings, the scent of incense thick in the air. Ivy barely heard the words. Her mind flitted between panic and disbelief.

You're marrying a man you barely know, Ivy thought to herself. You're marrying into the Mafia. This is your life now.

When it was time for the vows, Lorenzo's voice was steady and cold.

"I, Lorenzo Antonio Martinelli, take you, Ivy Giselle Wesley, to be my wife. To honor and protect, as long as we both shall live."

Ivy hesitated for a breath before responding.

"I, Ivy Giselle Wesley, take you, Lorenzo Antonio Martinelli, to be my husband. To stand by you, through better or worse, till death do us part."

The priest blessed the rings, and with mechanical precision, they exchanged them. When he announced them husband and wife, Lorenzo leaned in and pressed a polite kiss to her cheek. No lips. No warmth. Just duty.

The guests applauded, soft and controlled. It felt more like the closing of a business merger than the beginning of a marriage.

After the ceremony, Victor led Ivy into a small room at the back of the cathedral where a marriage certificate lay waiting on a heavy mahogany desk. Lorenzo was already there, signing the final document with an engraved fountain pen.

He handed the pen to Ivy without a word. She took it and signed her name with careful strokes: Ivy Wesley-Martinelli.

"Congratulations," Victor said as he collected the papers. "It's official."

Ivy managed a nod, though her stomach twisted into knots. She turned to Lorenzo and asked, "So... now what?"

He looked at her, eyes cool and unreadable. "Now we face my family."

---------------

Lorenzo had disappeared with Victor to take a phone call shortly after the wedding photos. She was left to navigate her way to the formal sitting room, where the rest of the Martinelli family waited to welcome the new bride.

Or judge her.

"This way, signora," one of the housekeepers said in a thick Italian accent, motioning down a corridor lined with oil paintings of Martinelli ancestors who all looked equally intimidating.

Ivy straightened the hem of her cream dress and followed, silently rehearsing her smile. She stepped into the grand salon, an elegant room drenched in warm golds and rich mahogany, the kind of place where secrets whispered against velvet cushions.

Olivia Martinelli sat in a throne-like chair at the center of the room, her silver-streaked hair pulled back tightly. Her hawk-like eyes took in Ivy's every move.

"So," Olivia began, her voice as crisp as the wine that bore her family name, "this is the woman my son married."

Beside her, Isabella and Giulia lounged like cats preparing to pounce. Isabella wore a forest green gown that clashed intentionally with Brenda's understated cream ensemble, while Giulia twirled a piece of her bleach-blonde hair between long, manicured fingers, a smirk tugging at her lips.

"Welcome to the family," Giulia drawled.

"Thank you," Ivy said, forcing warmth into her voice. "It's an honor to be here."

Olivia didn't respond immediately. Her eyes narrowed, studying Ivy as if she were a fine wine that hadn't been properly aged.

"Where are your people, Ivy?" Olivia asked, the words laced with subtle condescension.

Ivy's smile tightened. "I came alone. I don't have any family who could attend."

"How convenient," Isabella murmured, lifting a crystal flute to her lips.

"Some people are better off without the weight of the past," Ivy said evenly, locking eyes with her new mother-in-law.

Olivia leaned back, clearly intrigued. "You're not intimidated easily. That's good. This family devours the weak."

"I've had worse than a cold welcome and prettier women throwing shade," Ivy replied, earning a quiet snort from Giulia, who didn't expect the bride to have a bite.

Just then, Lorenzo entered the room with Victor trailing behind him. His eyes scanned the gathering and landed on Ivy, softening slightly. "Hope I didn't miss the warm welcome."

Olivia stood. "A word, Lorenzo," she said crisply.

He nodded, placing a hand gently on Ivy's lower back before following his mother into a side room. The door shut behind them with an ominous click.

Giulia moved closer to Ivy, still smiling sweetly. "Do you know how many women tried to marry my brother?"

"Enough to host your own reality show, I imagine," Ivy replied, deadpan.

Isabella snorted, and for a brief second, the tension cracked. But Giulia quickly recovered.

"You won't last," she threatened.

"Maybe not, but I'll enjoy the ride," Ivy replied boldly.

The door opened again, and Olivia swept out, her expression unreadable. Lorenzo followed, his features carefully composed.

"We're having dinner in the east dining room," Olivia announced for Ivy's benefit. "Let's see how well you handle a proper Martinelli family meal."

The family dining hall was a cavernous space inside the main mansion. Crystal chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings. A long oak table stretched across the room, already set with gold-rimmed china and shining silverware. Servants in white jackets stood silently at intervals.

Dinner was a symphony of passive aggression. Between the veal medallions and the tiramisu, Olivia made several pointed remarks about loyalty, legacy, and the importance of knowing one's place. Ivy responded with grace and veiled wit, never letting her guard down.

It was a game of mental chess, and she was beginning to understand just how high the stakes were.