Chapter 4 - The House of RicciThe Ricci estate sat perched on a sheer cliff overlooking the Gulf of Naples, an imposing fortress of pale stone, wrought-iron gates, and sprawling terraced lemon groves. Inside, the villa was a breathtaking blend of Renaissance history and modern luxury—marble floors, towering arched ceilings, and walls lined with priceless oil paintings that rivaled the finest museums in Europe.
We stood in the grand foyer beneath a magnificent crystal chandelier.
Caterina Ricci—Dante’s mother—walked slowly toward us, her heels clicking rhythmically against the cool marble. She stopped two feet away, her dark, piercing eyes sweeping over me from head to toe, taking in my travel-worn jeans, white blouse, and the heavy leather sketchbook clutched in my hands.
"You look exhausted," Caterina said, her tone devoid of warmth, though there was a curious spark of appraisal in her eyes. "And entirely unpolished for a Ricci bride."
"Mother," Dante warned, his voice low and dangerous.
"Peace, Dante," Caterina waved a dismissive hand, never breaking eye contact with me. "I am merely stating a fact. A woman who walks into our house looking like a frightened stray cat is going to need a great deal of instruction if she expects to survive the summer gala."
I straightened my posture, lifting my chin to meet her gaze head-on. The fear that had paralyzed me on the airplane began to curdle into something sharper—anger.
"I didn't ask to be brought here, Mrs. Ricci," I said, my voice steady and clear in the cavernous foyer. "And I certainly didn't ask to be dressed up like a trophy bride for your family's protection racket. If you have a problem with my lack of polish, take it up with your son, who decided kidnapping was an acceptable alternative to a formal introduction."
A profound, suffocating silence fell over the foyer. The two security guards by the door visibly stiffened.
For three agonizing seconds, Caterina Ricci stared at me. Then, slowly, the corners of her mouth twitched upward into a sharp, approving smile.
"Ah," Caterina murmured, turning her gaze toward her son. "She has a spine, Dante. Unlike the last candidate your uncle tried to push on us. Perhaps there is hope for you yet."
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Dante let out a slow exhale, a faint smile touching his lips. "I told you, Mother. She isn't easily intimidated."
"Good," Caterina snapped, turning back to me with a brisk wave of her hand. "Because tonight, you sleep in the master wing. Tomorrow morning at dawn, the tailors arrive for your wedding fitting. And you, Sophia—" she pointed a manicured finger at the sketchbook in my arms"—will bring that ledger to my study after breakfast. It’s time we decode what your father left behind before Viktor Moretti realizes you have it."
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