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*Chapter One: The Invitation*
The letter arrived with no return address.
Just heavy, ivory paper—edges gold-foiled, the seal pressed deep in red wax with the unmistakable mark of the Rossi family: a serpent wrapped around a rose, fangs sunk into the petals.
Isabella stared at it too long before touching it.
She had seen that crest before.
On the news.
On crime files.
On caskets
On weapons.
On the chest of men who disappeared before sunrise.
She should have thrown it into the fire.
Instead, she broke the seal with shaking hands and read:
_"You are formally invited to the House of Rossi. Midnight. Come alone. The Don expects you."_
No name. No reason. Just demand.
Fernando Rossi.
The devil in a suit.
Powerful. Dangerous. Untouchable.
Her heart thundered. Not in fear, but something worse—*curiosity*.
She knew who Fernando Rossi was.
She wasn't just some random girl. She had secrets too.
A bloodline no one dared to whisper.
A past that was stitched with fire and ruin.
Now he wanted her?
The ghost in tailored suits.
The man who ruled the city's underworld with iron whispers and gold bullets.
Some called him Don.
Others called him Devil.
But no one ever said *no* to him and walked away breathing.
She knew better than to get involved.
And yet… she had been waiting for this.
They had crossed paths once—just a glance.
A funeral.
A whisper of a smile on his lips.
A gaze that followed her long after he turned away.
She'd never told anyone, but she felt it that night.
Like a match had been struck and dropped right into her blood.
Now this?
A letter.
An invitation.
A warning.
She stepped back from the mirror, slipping into her black dress—elegant, sharp, and dangerous.
No one in their right mind would walk into the house of a crime lord.
But Isabella wasn't exactly sane.
She wasn't afraid of monsters.
*She was raised by them.*
And if Fernando Rossi thought she would be just another pawn in his game…
He was about to learn what it meant to make a queen bleed.
Let the game begin
---
The car pulled up exactly at 11:59 p.m.
The car that arrived wasn't a car—it was a statement.
Matte black. Silent engine. Tinted windows like secrets that refused to be seen.
Isabella stood in the cold, arms crossed, pretending her heart wasn't racing.
The back door opened without a word.
She slid in.
No driver spoke.
No one looked back.
The ride was smooth, but her thoughts were chaos.
What if this was a mistake?
What if Fernando Rossi wasn't inviting her—he was warning her?
But it was too late. She had crossed a line the moment she opened that letter.
The estate was carved into the cliffs—stone gates taller than most buildings, with armed guards in suits that looked tailored for war.
The car rolled through without stopping.
The House of Rossi was not a house.
It was a fortress.
She sat with her hands folded tightly in her lap, heart hammering louder than the quiet engine. This wasn't a casual visit. You didn't get "invited" by Fernando Rossi. You were chosen. And once chosen, there was no backing out.
The route twisted away from the city, into the private shadows where power lived unseen. The Rossi estate emerged like a phantom—an ancient stone fortress perched on the cliffs, looking down on the world as if it owned it.
Which, in some ways, it did.
Iron gates creaked open before them, guarded by men with eyes like steel and expressions carved in stone. The car glided through like royalty returning home.
She wasn't royalty.
She was the girl who once served drinks behind a smoky bar to pay rent.
The doors opened before she could knock.
And there he was.
Fernando
Tall, composed, dressed in a black suit that looked tailored to his sins.
He didn't smile. He didn't move. He just watched her walk toward him like she was a secret he had waited years to open.
Her heels clicked against marble. The air was thick with wealth, with danger, with something unspoken between them.
He didn't smile.
He didn't blink.
He just looked at her like he had been waiting for this moment his entire life.
"Isabella," he said, voice low and sharp. "You came."
"You summoned," she replied. "Not like I had a choice."
A ghost of a smirk crossed his lips.
Everyone has a choice, Isabella," he said. "But only the bold walk into the lion's den willingly."
"You're calling yourself the lion now?" she shot back.
"I'm calling you brave," he said simply, stepping aside.
"What do you want from me?" she asked, straight to the point.
He took a step closer. Then another.
Until they were too close for comfort—and too far for escape.
"I wanted to see you again," he said quietly. "And now that you're here… I don't intend to let you go."
Her breath hitched.
This wasn't flirtation.
This wasn't a game.
This was a man who had ruled empires from the shadows…
And now he was looking at *her* like she was the empire he wanted next.
"You don't even know me," she whispered.
"I know enough," he murmured. "Enough to know I want you close. Where it's safe. Where no one touches what belongs to me."
She should've run.
But when his hand brushed hers, soft and unthreatening, her world tilted.
And for the first time in years, Isabella didn't feel afraid.
She felt *seen*.
She turned to face him, every inch of her body coiled tight.