𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈. Twisted little test

⋄ ⋄ ⋄

The cold feeling of the vial tucked between my breasts, deep in my neckline, is both terrifying and comforting. It’s a high-stakes gamble, but I have no choice. Cesare didn’t leave me one.

When I knock on the door to his quarters—a place I’ve never been before, and never even imagined being summoned to—I feel a bead of sweat slide down my neck. His voice, hoarse and slightly muffled, saying “Come in” from the other side, makes me hold my breath.

For a second, I hesitate.

But only for a second.

On the next heartbeat, I turn the doorknob and slowly open the door, taking in the scent of his cologne that’s stronger here, almost alive, like something waiting to swallow me whole.

Still, I step inside, holding my breath and walking toward Cesare, who’s leaning against the edge of his desk.

My footsteps are muffled by the Persian rug covering the room — a study, or maybe a personal library, surrounded by artwork. It might seem impersonal, just one of many rooms where twisted laws and agreements are discussed and lives are ruined, if not for his scent in the air and the subtle signs of his presence: a half-empty glass of whiskey left on the desk, and the bedroom just a few confident steps away.

It’s dangerous to be here.

Every cell in my body is screaming at me to leave, to run, to push past that door and never look back. But instead, I walk toward him, stopping right in front of Cesare, who’s watching me intently, blinking slowly, almost as if he’s admiring the dress he chose for me. But I know this isn’t about clothes—it’s about control. He likes that I’m following his orders, dancing to his rhythm.

He likes that I don’t have another choice.

“I assume Franco already explained how our little arrangement is going to work,” Cesare says, lazily almost, in a tone I’m not used to hearing from him. Less rigid, more... intimate.

Maybe it’s the grandfather clock inching toward midnight, the house's quiet, or his hair—usually slicked back with gel, but now also damp from a recent shower.

This is definitely dangerous.

“Why do I need a weapon, Cesare?” I step forward once more, then stop. I don’t dare get any closer. Even from here, I can see signs of black ink creeping up his back to his shoulders. The way he leans slightly forward, his large, rough hands resting on the desk beside him, makes him look even more like a predator.

And I hate feeling like prey.

“You’ll need one from now on,” he says simply.

“I’m not stupid enough to point a weapon at the Sottocapo of the Società, Cesare,” I snap through clenched teeth, my chest and stomach growing colder by the second. “I’m not falling for your trap.”

Cesare laughs—low, hoarse, and for a moment, I dare to think it actually sounds good.

“I’m not baiting you, Madonna—I’m testing you.” He pauses, looking at me again, possibly wondering where I’ve hidden a weapon. Or, who knows, the dagger.

“I’m tired of your tests,” I mutter, still through clenched teeth, crossing my arms as if that could protect me or maybe distract him from the fact that there’s a vial between my breasts. Too late. His eyes are already burning right there.

“What a shame. I’m not done yet.” Cesare lowers his voice, returning to his usual commanding tone. “So you’d better find the right moment to use the weapon you chose, Marina, because if you don’t do it before sunrise, I’ll lock you in this mansion, and you won’t leave until I tattoo your back myself.”

“Fine, Cesare.” My eyes narrow slightly. “Don’t blame me if I do.”

Cesare gestures with a lazy flick of his hand: “Sit.”

I take a deep breath and comply, settling into the chair directly across from him. My hips brush lightly against his knees, and a shiver runs down my spine despite myself. Shit, I curse silently, closing my eyes for a second before exhaling to regain composure and sitting upright.

“Straight, Marina.”

I instantly straighten my back and glare at him furiously.

Cesare turns slightly, grabbing a folder from behind him and offering it to me. I eye it with suspicion, noticing more than I’d like the veins bulging along his large, steady hands, disappearing into the rolled-up sleeve of his now-wrinkled black shirt—

I snatch the folder quickly, forcing my eyes away from Cesare and down to the first page of ENZO BIANCHI's DOSSIER. But the first thing I see is his photo.

Honestly, this man looks like a Greek god. Blonde, with golden hair and eyes so pale blue they seem glacial. The rumors about his coldness don’t surprise me; I imagine just one look from him could freeze a man’s soul. His jaw—square, sharp, outlined by a darker blonde beard—feels like an invitation my finger, for some reason, can’t seem to resist.

I trace the photo slowly, probably taken when he was distracted, but from a good enough angle to make him unmistakable—

Cesare grabs my wrist, creating just enough space between Enzo Bianchi and the tip of my finger. His hand is steady, and there’s no rush or violence in the gesture. Yet, the control is total. He doesn’t need to tighten his grip... just holding me is enough to take control again.

I lift my eyes, filled with a question I don’t dare speak, and try to pull my arm back slowly. But he doesn’t let go.

“You’re meant to seduce him,” Cesare’s voice drops to many, many octaves. “Not be seduced.”

My gaze hardens, but I stay silent, holding it for a long moment until finally he releases my wrist. I look back at the meticulously compiled information—a dossier so detailed that, for a moment, I wonder if Cesare truly needs me to get close to Enzo.

Born in Milan on March 12, 1990. Thirty years old, just two months shy of thirty-one. Six feet four. 230.4 pounds— I choke. How can that be so exact?

The second of three sons of Alessandro Bianchi, president of the Fratellanza Bianca, an apparently respectable and fair institution that advises the government, but everyone knows that if you lose their support, you’re done.

Unlike the Romanos, who control their empire through a legitimate billionaire focus on the port, shipping, logistics, and real estate in the South, the Bianchis are... cleaner. They operate under the facade of a prestigious private institution promoting technical excellence and public ethics in post-war Italian reconstruction.

Their members present themselves as consultants, jurists, engineers, and scholars—men who speak slowly, wear discreet suits, carry old family names, and wield silent, absolute power. Projects die without their approval, funding disappears... reputations collapsing with just one unfavorable opinion.

They say that in Sicily, the Romanos rule the ships.

But up north, if the Bianchis don’t want it, not even a gondola floats.

That’s why they have always been a thorn in the family’s side, creating obstacles that make both the legitimate and illegitimate parts of our business more difficult. There’s a long history of rivalry, with generations of capos and presidents clashing—and sometimes going to war.

Fortunately, because of the peace agreement made twenty years ago between Cesare and Enzo’s fathers, no blood has been spilled since then. At least, not until Angelo’s death, believed to be caused by the Bianchi. Though it was never confirmed.

And now, Cesare himself is asking me to risk that very alliance, to get close to Enzo and uncover his secrets.

I lift my eyes, curiosity flickering.

“Why do you want me to do this, Cesare?” I ask, unable to bite my tongue. “What’s going on that’s so serious you’d risk breaking the peace pact like this?”