Capitolo 1
Lucrezia
I slip back into my bedroom, closing the door with a soft click. The search for my phone downstairs was successful. I'd left it on the kitchen counter after grabbing a bottle of water earlier. Now I flop onto my bed as I unlock my screen.
Instagram loads, and I scroll mindlessly through my feed. Models in designer clothes, celebrities at exclusive parties, artists showcasing their latest work. I pause at a post from a gallery in Milan featuring an emerging painter's exhibition. Their use of color makes something twist inside me—a feeling I quickly push away.
I close the app and toss my phone aside. The Venetian Rose gala starts in an hour, and Enzo will have a fit if I'm not ready on time. These casino events are part of the family business—the legitimate side, at least. My brothers insist I attend, claiming it's good for me to "get out more." What they really mean is they can keep an eye on me while I'm there.
With a sigh, I head to my bathroom and study my reflection. Dark circles under my eyes from another restless night. I open my makeup bag and get to work, applying foundation. The ritual is soothing. One of the few things that still feels normal.
Just another night pretending.
I line my eyes with smoky shadow, adding mascara that makes my lashes look thick and dark. A touch of blush brings color to my too-pale cheeks. Red lipstick comes last. Armor for the evening ahead.
My hair is next. I plug in my curling iron and wait for it to heat up. The dark waves fall past my shoulders, and I work section by section, creating loose curls that frame my face.
These casino galas are a strange mix of business and family politics. Sometimes I almost enjoy them. Other times, I can barely breathe through the fakeness of it all.
The worst are the rich kids who treat wealth like an accomplishment rather than the accident of birth or crime it usually is. All of them talking about their summer homes and private jets like collecting expensive things is a personality.
I almost laugh at the irony. Here I am, a Feretti, irritated by displays of wealth when our family mansion could house a small village. But there's a difference. My brothers never brag about money. They just have it. Power doesn't need to announce itself.
I check my reflection one final time. The woman staring back looks elegant, composed. No one would guess she wakes up screaming some nights. No one would know she hasn't picked up a paintbrush in two years. Well, I tried once, but I wasn't doing it for me then.
Perfect. The mask is in place.
I move to the walk-in closet, where tonight's dress hangs in its garment bag. Damiano had it delivered yesterday. Another "gift" I didn't ask for. My brothers also think expensive presents will somehow fix what happened. As if designer dresses could erase the nightmares.
I unzip the bag and can't help the small gasp that escapes me. The gown is undeniably beautiful. It's in a deep emerald green . The color reminds me of the expensive oil paints I used to special order from Italy. I run my fingers over the fabric, feeling its cool smoothness against my skin.
This isn't just any dress. It's Valentino, custom-made for tonight's event. The price tag would probably feed a family for months. I slip it off the hanger and step into it carefully, pulling it up over my hips. The bodice hugs my waist before flowing out in a subtle A-line to the floor. The neckline is modest but elegant—high enough to be appropriate, low enough to be fashionable.
When I turn to check the mirror, I hardly recognize myself. The dress fits perfectly, of course. Damiano would have made sure of that, probably asking if they have my measurements. And they do.
"You look like a proper Feretti," I whisper to my reflection, mimicking what Enzo will probably say when he sees me.
That's the point, isn't it? At the Venetian Rose, I'm not just Lucrezia. I'm a Feretti daughter, the princess of our criminal empire, the hostess who must smile and charm and make everyone feel welcome in our territory. The dress isn't for me. It's for the role I have to play.
I slip on the matching emerald heels and fasten the diamond earrings Enzo gave me for my last birthday.
The final touch is a thin diamond bracelet that once belonged to our mother. I rarely wear it, but tonight feels like an occasion that demands the full Feretti presentation. Our casino, our rules, our wealth on display.
I check the time. Thirty minutes until Enzo comes to escort me downstairs.
I sit carefully on the edge of my bed, mindful not to wrinkle the dress. The weight of the silk feels heavy against my skin, like the expectations that come with it. Tonight, I'll smile at the right people, laugh at the right jokes, and pretend I'm not counting the minutes until I can come back home and peel off this perfect facade.
The Venetian Rose isn't just a casino. It's a statement. Our family's crown jewel in Manhattan, a place where the elite come to play and pretend they're not rubbing shoulders with criminals. And I'm part of the illusion, the beautiful Feretti daughter who makes everyone forget that the chips they're betting were paid for with blood money.
I take a deep breath and stand up again, smoothing down the silk. The girl in the mirror looks like she belongs on a magazine cover.
Polished, perfect, untouchable.
If only they knew how touchable I'd been.
