The Valenti estate awakened long before dawn.
Silk curtains swept open in synchronized motion. Crystal chandeliers flickered to life one by one. Servants moved like ghosts through the marble halls, their heads bowed, their footsteps soundless.
Today was not an ordinary morning.
Today marked the most anticipated, feared, and politically dangerous event of the year:
The selection of the Valenti bride.
It wasn't a celebration.It wasn't romantic.It wasn't even voluntary.
It was politics dressed in diamonds.
A ritual older than the family itself—where daughters of powerful households were paraded like offerings, and alliances were forged not in love, but in leverage.
And at the center of it all stood the man every syndicate whispered about with a mix of awe and fear:
Lorenzo Valenti.
Six-foot-three, broad shouldered, a silhouette carved in quiet dominance. His suit—black, tailored, unforgiving—sat on him like armor. His cufflinks gleamed like polished blades. Every movement he made was too controlled… too precise… like someone who had learned long ago that the smallest slip meant death.
Lorenzo Valenti did not speak unless necessary.
He did not repeat himself.
He did not need to.
Silence was his deadliest weapon.
Every woman working in the estate lowered her gaze when he passed. Not from admiration—but survival instinct. The Valenti household was strict, suffocating, built on rules older than the men enforcing them. Women here were decorations or bargaining chips.
Lorenzo wasn't responsible for that cruelty.
But he didn't stop it either.
The balance of power in this house was fragile—one wrong step, one wrong opinion, and a man disappeared by morning. Lorenzo played the game because he had no other choice.
He was the heir.The next Don.The next king in a kingdom built on shadows.
Publicly, he was the CEO of Valenti Global, a corporate empire spanning twelve countries. In reality, he rarely touched corporate paperwork. Meetings, press, documents—those were for men who needed power.
Lorenzo handled the real empire.
Bribes.Arms routes.Money laundering.Quiet eliminations.Rearrangements of power that never made the news.
His life was a chessboard, and he always thought three moves ahead.
Mistakes were luxuries he couldn't afford.Hesitation was a death sentence.
Lorenzo entered his office at exactly six in the morning. He shrugged off his coat and handed it to Marco—his secretary, assistant, and terrified shadow. Marco stood waiting with a tablet in shaking hands. His left eyelid twitched nervously; he hadn't slept in days.
"The preparations for tonight are finished, sir," Marco reported. "Guest list finalized. All major syndicates are sending representatives."
Lorenzo adjusted his tie—smooth, sharp, without a hint of wasted motion. "And the Dragunov family?"
Marco hesitated.
A dangerous mistake.
Lorenzo's eyes lifted slowly—cold, sharp, aware in a way that made sweat bead at Marco's temples.
"Explain."
Marco swallowed. "There was a funeral three days ago, sir. Boris Dragunov. Some reports say natural causes. Others—"
"Murder," Lorenzo finished quietly.
Marco nodded. "We don't expect the Dragunovs to attend the gala."
Lorenzo paused.
Most people had feared Boris Dragunov. Admired him from afar. Avoided provoking him.
Lorenzo had respected him.
Once, silently, from the shadows, he had attended the man's funeral—no greeting, no handshake, no official acknowledgment. Just a nod of respect between two predators who understood the weight of silence.
Because Boris Dragunov was not a friend.Not an enemy.Not even an ally.
He was a force.
A storm that existed whether people liked it or not.
"A shame," Lorenzo murmured. "I never met his granddaughter."
Marco blinked. "You… knew he had one?"
"I saw her name in a report once." Lorenzo's voice lowered, almost thoughtful. "And the way he spoke of her…"
He fastened his watch, the metal catching the morning light.
"…the way a dying man protects his last treasure."
Marco shifted awkwardly. "We don't know if they will send anyone tonight."
"Shame," Lorenzo repeated quietly.
He didn't know her.Didn't know her face.Didn't know that she carried a secret darker than any Valenti.Didn't know she'd been framed.Didn't know someone had killed the only man who ever protected her.Didn't know she was being forced into the bride selection like a pawn in someone else's gamble.
He didn't know that somewhere across the city, she was preparing to walk straight into the lion's den he inhabited.
But something in his instincts—deep, animal, older than logic—told him her absence would be… significant.
Not to the politics.Not to the alliances.
To him.
Lorenzo pushed the thought away.
Sentiment was a weakness.Weakness got men killed.
"Prepare the car," Lorenzo said, voice clipped back to steel. "I need to speak with the board in the east wing."
"Yes, sir."
Marco practically ran out of the room.
Left alone, Lorenzo approached the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office. The entire Valenti estate sprawled below him like a meticulously crafted machine.
Servants were polishing marble floors until they gleamed like water. Staff arranged fresh roses, dining tables, centerpieces made of silver and crystal. The grand ballroom glowed under dozens of chandeliers.
Soon, families would arrive in expensive cars.Girls in silk gowns would be ushered inside.They would smile, bow, and pretend to flirt with him.Not because they wanted to.
Because their fathers told them to.
Because marrying Lorenzo Valenti meant safety, power, and survival in a world that chewed up the weak.
A world he ruled.
He exhaled slowly.
He didn't want any of this.
Not the alliances.Not the politics.Not the parade of strangers asked to become his wife.
But tradition demanded an heir.The syndicates demanded unity.His father demanded obedience.
And so the selection would happen.
Even if Lorenzo's heart remained untouched.Uninterested.Untethered.
For now.
"Sir?" Marco called from the hallway.
Lorenzo turned.
"The car is ready."
He nodded once, expression unreadable.
Then he stepped out of his office—not as a man preparing to choose a bride, but as the heir of an empire unaware that fate had already set something unstoppable in motion.
Across the city, a woman with a rose-shaped target on her back was being forced into his world.
And when they finally collided…
Neither of them would walk away unchanged.