Chapter 3 - The Engagement Party
Seventeen days before the wedding, the Alfieri estate was transformed into a glittering palace of glass, white roses, and dark intent.
Over three hundred guests flooded the ground floor—corrupt politicians, high-ranking syndicate lieutenants, corporate lawyers, and city officials, all dressed in black-tie attire, sipping hundred-dollar champagne while a string quartet played softly near the grand marble staircase.
Adeline stood in the shadows near the entrance of the ballroom, wearing her formal grey scrub uniform, her eyes scanning the crowd constantly.
Her heart had been beating in a state of continuous panic for forty-eight hours.
She had spent two days attempting to swap Nico’s night tablets with harmless sugar pills she had crushed and re-molded herself in her bathroom, but she knew it was a temporary fix. The trap was closing fast.
In the center of the room sat Nico.
He wore a tailored black tuxedo, his dark hair immaculately styled, his expression an unreadable mask of stoic authority. Beside him stood Camille, radiant in an off-the-shoulder emerald gown that shimmered under the crystal chandeliers.
To the untrained eye, it was a picture of high-society elegance—a powerful heir recovering from a tragic accident, supported by his devoted, beautiful fiancée.
To Adeline, it looked like a execution execution waiting for the executioner's signal.
She watched as Dominic approached Nico’s chair, carrying two glasses of scotch.
"To the future of the Alfieri name," Dominic announced loudly, raising his glass so the surrounding guests could hear. "To my brother, who remains the heart of this family, and to Camille, who brings us all together."
The crowd applauded politely.
Nico took the glass from his brother's hand, holding it near his chin. He didn't drink. His eyes swept across the room, catching Adeline standing near the marble archway.
For a brief fraction of a second, his gaze locked onto hers.
Adeline slowly, deliberately shook her head—a movement so subtle no one else in the room could possibly have noticed it.
Nico’s hand froze.
He lowered the glass to his lap without taking a single sip, setting it down on the small tray attached to his armrest.
Dominic’s smile faltered for a microsecond before he smoothed it over, leaning down to whisper something in Camille’s ear.
An hour later, the party began to wind down. The main body of guests filtered out toward the valet station in the driveway, leaving only thirty of the core family members and senior lieutenants scattered across the grand foyer and ballroom.
Nico was exhausted. The physical toll of sitting upright for three hours, coupled with the immense mental weight of navigating his family's treacherous internal politics, showed in the tight lines around his mouth.
He maneuvered his chair toward the central foyer, intending to head toward the elevator that led to his second-floor suite.
"Nico, wait," Camille’s voice rang out across the marble room.
She stepped in front of his chair, her cheeks flushed with wine, her eyes bright with a sharp, malicious edge.
"We haven't announced the venue change for the honeymoon," she said, her voice carrying across the quieted room. "I told the press coordinator we're taking the private jet to the Amalfi house immediately after the ceremony."
Nico looked up at her, his voice low and tired. "We agreed to stay in Chicago, Camille. My therapy schedule doesn't permit three weeks of international travel right now."
"Therapy?" Camille scoffed, letting out a light, tinkling laugh that sounded like breaking glass. "Nico, darling, let's be realistic for once. The doctors said the chances of any significant recovery are practically zero. Why are we delaying our life for an impossible fantasy?"
A sudden, deadly silence fell over the foyer.
The pianist in the ballroom stopped playing mid-measure.
Dominic stood near the bar, watching with his arms crossed over his chest. Marcus and his two security guards moved closer to the perimeter, their faces completely blank.
Nico’s jaw tightened. "My condition is my business, Camille. We discuss this in private."
"No," Camille said, her voice dropping into a hissed whisper that nevertheless echoed off the cold Carrara marble. "I am tired of waiting for a man who spends six hours a day playing soldier with a cheap nurse while my father’s company pours millions into keeping your shipping lines afloat!"
"Put your voice down," Nico said, his voice dropping into a register so dark, so heavy, that even the hardened syndicate lieutenants near the door shifted uncomfortably.
"Or what?" Camille sneered, taking a step closer, leaning over his chair. "What are you going to do, Nico? Stand up and stop me?"
The insult was so raw, so viciously precise, that several people in the room gasped softly.
Nico reached out, grabbing the leather armrest of his chair, his broad shoulders tensing as he attempted to force his body upward through sheer force of will. His right foot slipped on the smooth marble.
The heavy carbon-fiber wheelchair tipped sideways.
Nico fell hard onto his left side, his body slamming against the freezing Carrara stone floor with a sickening thud.
The room froze.
Nobody moved.
Three men who had taken bullets for him in the past stood paralyzed near the pillars.
His own brother, Dominic, merely took a slow sip of his drink.
Nico lay on the marble beside his overturned chair, one broad palm pressed against the cold floor, the other locked around the carved leg of a nearby console table, his knuckles white as he fought desperately to lift his chest off the stone.
He was thirty-four years old. He had survived three assassination attempts, built a multi-million-dollar logistics empire, and commanded the loyalty of hundreds of men.
And right now, he was lying on his own floor while thirty people watched him struggle like a wounded animal.
Camille stood over him.
Her jeweled hand rose into the air, her face twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated contempt.
“You embarrassed me,” she hissed.
Nico looked up at her, his cheek burning red from where it had struck the stone, but his eyes were dark, burning with a cold, terrifying light.
“Put your hand down.”
Camille laughed.
“What are you going to do if I don’t?”
CRASH.
A plastic medication tray hit the marble floor behind the archway, scattering a paper cup and two sealed syringes across the tiles.
Adeline Marsh moved before her brain could even register the danger.
She crossed the ten yards of open marble in three seconds flat, her inexpensive sneakers squeaking sharply against the polished stone.
She caught Camille’s jeweled wrist in mid-air, right as the descending blow reached inches from Nico’s face.
The entire room inhaled as one collective body.
Adeline stood between the fallen mafia boss and his high-society fiancée. She wore faded blue scrubs, her hair was falling out of its loose knot, and her fingers were locked around Camille’s wrist with a grip born of five years spent wrestling violent trauma patients in inner-city emergency rooms.
Her other arm extended protectively in front of Nico’s chest.
“You will not touch him again,” Adeline said.
Camille stared at her—not with immediate anger, but with absolute, total disbelief. It was the expression of an aristocrat realizing a piece of hallway furniture had suddenly reached out and grabbed her.
“Take your hand off me.”
“No.”
“You work for him!” Camille shrieked.
“I care for him,” Adeline replied, her voice ringing out across the dead-silent foyer like an iron bell.
Camille leaned closer, her eyes glittering with rage. “You work for this house because we allow you to!”
Adeline’s jaw tightened, her grip on Camille’s wrist tightening by a fraction of an inch until the high-society woman winced.
“And right now,” Adeline said, looking Camille straight in her eyes, “I’m the only person in this house acting like he’s human.”
Below them, still leaning against the console table, Nico lifted his head slowly.
The rage in his dark eyes didn't vanish, but something fundamental shifted inside them.
Not gratitude.
Recognition.
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Because in that single, terrifying second, a twenty-seven-year-old nurse earning twenty-five dollars an hour had done what every captain, soldier, and family member in his life had failed to do for eight long months.
She had seen him as a man worth protecting.
