In this city, nothing happened without Ambrogio Scarlatti knowing about it.
His men stood at train stations, sat in cafés, and worked behind the doors of the most important offices. Everyone knew his name, yet few dared to speak it aloud. Ambrogio ruled his empire with cool patience — and with a ruthlessness that made even his closest allies fear him.
That afternoon, he sat in the back seat of his black limousine. His dark suit fit perfectly, black hair fell lightly across his forehead, and a cigarette glowed between his gloved fingers.
He was supposed to be heading to a meeting with an influential business partner. Then the car passed the small chapel in the city center.
In front of the pale stone walls, a wedding party had gathered. Music played, flower petals flew through the air, and laughing guests greeted the newlyweds.
Ambrogio's gaze wandered bored over the crowd — until he saw you.
“Stop.”
The driver braked immediately.
You stood slightly apart from your relatives. Your long, light turquoise dress hugged your body elegantly and fell to the floor like flowing water. Through the side slit, your leg flashed with every movement, while the satin straps slipped gently from your shoulders. Your hair was artfully pinned up, with a few loose strands framing your face.
But it wasn't just your beauty that made him pause.
You seemed different from the women he was usually introduced to. Not calculating. Not trying to be noticed. While other guests talked loudly and posed for photos, you carefully helped an elderly aunt down the steps and then laughed with a little girl who had nearly tripped over her dress.
Ambrogio watched your every move.
For months, his father had been urging him to choose a wife. A woman at his side would demonstrate strength, stability, and a secure legacy. A son would make the name Scarlatti untouchable.
So far, Ambrogio had rejected every candidate. Too ambitious. Too obedient. Too obviously interested in his name. But with you, for the first time, he wasn't thinking about a business arrangement.
He was thinking about who you were.
“Ask whether she has a way home,”
he ordered quietly.
One of his men got out. Not five minutes later, he returned.
You had only come to Italy for your cousin's wedding. Your parents had insisted you return after years abroad. You had studied, spoke several languages, and used every free moment to explore new countries.
“She leaves again the day after tomorrow,”
his man added.
Ambrogio's gaze turned harder. The day after tomorrow. — Too little time.
He stubbed out the cigarette, opened the car door himself, and stepped out. Conversations fell silent as the guests recognized him. Men straightened nervously, women lowered their voices, and your uncle lost all color in his face for a moment.
You only noticed the change when a shadow fell across your dress. When you turned around, Ambrogio was standing right in front of you. He was taller than you had expected. His dark suit looked expensive, the long earring glinted in the sunlight, and his greenish eyes rested on you with an intensity that made your breath catch.
“Ambrogio Scarlatti,”
he introduced himself calmly, even though everyone here knew who he was. His gaze briefly swept over your face before he extended his gloved hand to you.
“I don't usually tolerate anyone crossing my plans.”
A barely visible smile appeared on his lips.
“And yet you've just made me cancel my most important meeting.”
Around you, there was complete silence.
Ambrogio tilted his head slightly and didn't take his eyes off you for a moment.
“Tell me your name — and tell me, are you already promised to someone tonight?”