Chapter 10 Amelia
The morning air hits me the second the SUV pulls out of the base gates. Cool, crisp, a quiet warning of the day ahead. I sit rigid, hands folded over my bag where the black dress and heels are tucked away.
Father doesn’t speak. He never does unless necessary. The engine hums beneath us, and the tires crunch against the road in a steady rhythm. He’s focused, eyes fixed ahead, jaw set. I follow suit, staring out the window, pretending I don’t notice the tight set of his shoulders, the way he grips the steering wheel as if the world could bend under his hands.
We drive through familiar streets, the city slowly waking up around us. Cars honk, pedestrians rush past. The world carries on like it has no idea that inside this SUV, control itself is riding shotgun.
I glance at him. Not a word. Not a flicker of acknowledgment. That’s fine. I don’t need it.
“Are you planning to be late?” I ask finally, tone neutral, letting the sarcasm seep through anyway.
He doesn’t look at me. Doesn't even bother to respond.
Damn him.
The estate comes into view. Large gates, iron twisted into intricate designs, stone pillars that rise like sentinels. Everything polished, gleaming. Everything controlled. I adjust my posture automatically, boots hitting the driveway with precise clicks as we pull up.
Mother and Mike are already outside, waiting. Perfect timing. Mother stands tall, wearing beige slacks and a cream blouse. Hair in soft waves, pearl earrings glinting. She smiles. Too polite. Too calm. Everything about her screams rehearsed grace.
Mike is leaning against the car, arms crossed, the picture of casual arrogance. Blond hair tousled just enough to seem effortless. The kind of effortless that makes you want to punch him. He catches my eye and smirks.
“You’re early, sorella. Impressive.”
I pick up my bag. “I live to amaze.” My tone is light, but the sharpness is intentional.
Mike chuckles, obviously pleased with himself. “Still in your little uniform bubble, I see. Can’t take it off for five seconds?”
I turn to him slowly, eyes narrowed. “Five seconds? I doubt you’d survive five seconds if you tried.”
Mother clears her throat, a delicate sound, meant to pull the tension down. “Good morning, Amelia. Marco.” Her eyes flick to Father, then back to me. “Breakfast is ready.”
I nod. “Good morning, Mother.”
Father doesn’t acknowledge her. Typical. He opens the front door and we walk inside. The floors shine, reflecting our polished shoes back at us. The house smells faintly of coffee, baked bread, and the subtle tension that lingers in spaces where power lives.
The dining room is already set. Long mahogany table stretches the length of the room. Silverware aligned perfectly, wine glasses filled, plates at exact intervals. Chandelier gleams overhead, but it does nothing to soften the air. The room is rigid. Every object, every detail, screams control.
I sit across from Father, posture straight, back tight. Every motion precise. He glances at me once, a single assessment in his sharp blue eyes.
Mike plops down beside Mother, smirking. “You look thrilled to be here, sorella.”
I pick up my wine glass, swirling the liquid lazily. “Your observational skills never cease to amaze me, Mike.”
His smirk twitches. He leans back, clearly enjoying the jab. Mother sighs softly, a quiet attempt to smooth the edges. “Don’t start.”
Father cuts through the small theatrics with one glance. That blue-eyed stare that sees every crack in your armor. Every lie you try to hide behind.
I pick at the toast in front of me. Eggs, bacon, fruit arranged in perfect triangles. Everything looks edible, but it’s more about presentation than sustenance. Mother pours more coffee into the cups, careful not to spill.
“You’ve been at the base early,” Mother says softly, directing the comment at me. “Training?”
“Yes, Mother,” I reply evenly. “Morning drills. Routine.”
She tilts her head, eyes searching for a crack in my armor. “And tomorrow?”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“Tonight. The dinner.”
I swallow slowly, keeping my expression neutral. Mother doesn’t need my sarcasm or disdain, not here. I glance at Father. He looks at his plate, unreadable as ever.
“Of course,” I say finally. “I’m aware.”
Mike snorts. “Yeah, we all are. You think anyone misses an invite from Luca D’Angelo? That’s like a royal summons.”
I glare at him. “It’s only an invite. You act like it’s the second coming.”
Mother sips her coffee, calm as ever. “Amelia, you’ll be fine. Just—remember your manners.”
I force a polite nod. “Of course, Mother.”
Father clears his throat. “Enough chatter. Eat.”
The rest of breakfast continues like a ceremony. Words measured, pauses intentional. Nothing flows freely here. Every gesture, sip, and fork placement is observed. I glance at my black dress tucked into my bag, waiting for the evening, a reminder that tonight is not about me—it’s about the image we project.
Mike leans over, whispering just loud enough for me to hear. “Don’t worry, sorella. You’ll look stunning. Even if you hate it.”
I roll my eyes. “Thanks for the pep talk, golden child. Really motivating.”
Mother smiles faintly, eyes flicking between the two of us. “Enjoy your meal.”
I focus on my plate. Chew slowly. Swallow. Keep the sharp words from spilling. Keep the irritation tucked in. This is the calm before the storm.
Father stands, signaling the end of the ritual. “We leave an hour before the event starts. Amelia, make sure you’re ready.”
I nod. “Yes, sir.”
Mike yawns, stretches. “Can I go back to bed now?”
Father ignores him. Mother gathers her notes from the table. I pack my bag silently, fingers brushing over the silk of the black dress.
I glance at my reflection in the polished silverware. Amelia Russo. Military captain. Daughter of General Marco Russo. Tonight, the one element of chaos in a perfectly controlled room.
We leave the dining room together, walking down the marble hallway. Boots click, heels click, polite conversation flows between Mother and Father. I’m quiet, observing, calculating.
The limo waits at the curb, black paint shining like liquid obsidian under the morning sun.
Father holds the door open, the leather gloves sliding off his hands with a faint snap. “Amelia.”
I step in, heels clicking on the polished floor. Mother follows gracefully, smooth and practiced, pearls catching the light with each movement. Mike flops in beside her, his legs stretched out, sprawled like he owns the world. I slide across the seat, keeping my posture rigid, the black dress tucked neatly, my bag at my feet.
The door shuts behind us. The engine hums. Tires crunch against the gravel as the driver pulls away, taking us through the city streets. The wind lifts a strand of hair across my face. I push it back, mind elsewhere.
We drive in silence. Mother arranges her gloves in her lap. Mike taps his fingers against the seat. Father’s eyes are fixed forward, jaw tight. He doesn’t say a word, as usual.
I glance at him. “Do you ever just relax?” I ask, voice low, more to myself than anyone.
He doesn't respond.
Mother sighs softly. “Amelia, tonight is about appearances. Remember your manners.”
I nod. “Of course, Mother. I wouldn’t want to embarrass the family.”
Mike snorts. “You’ve embarrassed yourself enough, sorella. Might as well enjoy the evening.”
I shoot him a look. He grins. Some things never change.
The limo glides into the grand driveway of the Palazzo di Verona. The gates rise like sentinels, ornate ironwork glinting in the light. Marble steps lead up to the entrance. Crystal chandeliers shine from the balcony above, catching the morning sun and scattering it across the grand columns. I can’t help but let my eyes linger, despite myself. It’s impressive. Too impressive for my taste.
Father leans back in the seat. “Behave. Mind your manners. You’re representing the Russo family tonight.”
I bite back a sarcastic retort. “Yes, sir. Representing the Russo family by blending into a crowd of pompous billionaires. Got it.”
Mother smiles, lips pressed together. “Amelia, it’s not the time for sarcasm.”
I shrug. “When is it ever the time?”
The driver opens the door. We step out. The air smells faintly of roses and expensive perfume. The steps are wide, the entrance towering. I feel small, like a shadow against the grandeur.
Father guides Mother inside. Mike saunters beside them, smirking, already half-lost in the crowd. I follow, heels clicking against the marble floor. The echo is loud, almost mocking.
Inside, the Palazzo is even more spectacular. Crystal chandeliers drip light like frozen waterfalls. Gold accents gleam, casting long reflections across the polished marble floors. Velvet drapes hang from the tall windows, deep red and regal. The walls are adorned with gilded mirrors and paintings that watch you as you pass. The scent of perfume and power is almost overwhelming.
I walk in slowly, taking it all in. Despite myself, I feel a flicker of awe. This place is a cage built from elegance, wealth, and control. And I am inside it.
Father leans close. “Stay close. Behave.”
I nod. “Yes, sir.”
Mother greets acquaintances with practiced smiles and nods. Father shakes hands, firm grip, cold eyes. Mike vanishes, probably already in a group that will entertain him better than the family ever could.
I stand alone for a moment, scanning the crowd. Polished men in tailored suits, women in glittering gowns, laughing and talking as if the world belongs to them. And in a way, it does.
A deep breath. That’s all I need. I move toward the snack section, a table covered with delicate pastries, fruits arranged like jewels, champagne flutes waiting to be filled. I pick up a canapé, trying to steady my hands.
Now that I’m here, I don’t feel confident. Not at all. My plan to confront Luca seems absurd. I want to leave, run back to the military base where things make sense, where I can breathe without pretending.
“It’s a formal event, not a damn funeral.”
The voice is deep, smooth, a razor of sarcasm cutting through the haze of my thoughts. I whirl around, only to bump into a hard chest. I stumble back, letting out a sharp breath, clutching my arm.
Rubbing my forehead, I look up.
He’s standing there. Luca D’Angelo. Alive. Real. I knew it in theory, but seeing him here, in the flesh, standing directly in front of me, is different. Terrifyingly different.
Tall. Way too tall. 6’4. Dark hair, short and neat, framing a face that could be carved from stone. Eyes icy blue, sharp, piercing. Olive-toned skin with a faint tan, hinting at time spent outdoors, away from boardrooms and banquets. Lean, powerful frame. Muscles coiled under a suit that fits him like it was made for his body alone. Chiseled jawline. Small scar above his right eyebrow that makes him even more dangerous. Every inch of him screams control, precision, power.
I step back instinctively, my hand brushing against the edge of the table for balance. My heart is hammering in my chest.
“You seem tense.” His voice is low, amused, sharp. “Should I be worried?”
I straighten, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “You’re incredibly cocky.”
He smirks. A half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I could say the same about you.”
I bite back the urge to roll my eyes. “You insult a girl before you even get to know her.”
“I know enough.” His tone is casual, like he’s announcing a fact, not engaging in a conversation. “And your expression is priceless.”
I inhale, trying to steady the anger bubbling in my chest. He has no right to get under my skin. None.
I glance at the crowd, everyone moving, laughing, drinking, pretending everything is effortless. And here I am, cornered by the man who sent the invitation. The man who dared to think he had a claim on my attention before I even agreed to show up.
“You think you can intimidate me?” I ask, voice steady, controlled. Sarcasm drips like venom.
He laughs softly. “Intimidate? No. Intrigue, maybe. Fascinate, possibly. Entertain? Absolutely.”
I stare, mind racing. Why did I let him do this? Why am I standing here, feeling flustered, rattled, out of place in this gilded cage?
“You’re impossible,” I say finally. “And infuriating.”
He tilts his head, studying me. “I like that in a woman.”
I grip my canapé, pretending to nibble it as a shield. “I highly doubt you know the meaning of respect.”
“I know plenty,” he says smoothly. “I just don’t waste it on people who bore me.”
I swallow, anger twisting with something I can’t name. His presence, his words, the way he carries himself—everything about him is a challenge. A puzzle I never asked to solve.
“Keep talking,” I snap. “See where it gets you.”
He steps closer, so close I can feel the faint warmth radiating from him. “Careful, Captain Russo. You might find me more than just a nuisance.”
I bite back a sharp retort, forcing a small smile. “I doubt that. I’m used to nuisances.”
He laughs again, low, amused, not mocking but confident in a way that irritates me. “Good. I like a challenge.”
I glance around. Father and Mother are speaking with other guests. Mike has disappeared into the crowd. And here I am, standing alone with Luca D’Angelo.
My hands tighten around the canapé. My knuckles whiten. My mind races through escape routes, witty comebacks, and ways to remind him that he doesn’t own the night.
But the truth?
I’m hooked.
Damn him.
I let out a soft huff, gripping the edge of the snack table like it’s my anchor.
“You know,” Luca says, voice low, smooth, deliberately slow, “I didn’t expect you to actually show up.”
I glance up. His icy blue eyes are fixed on me, sharp and calculating, piercing through my carefully constructed walls.
“And why exactly should I care what you expect?” I snap, voice louder than I intend, drawing a few curious glances from nearby guests. I straighten, heels clicking on the marble. “I’m here because I have to be. Not because I wanted to entertain your boredom.”
He smirks, leaning back slightly, one hand brushing against the polished table like he owns it. “Boredom is overrated. I prefer to be… interested.”
I raise an eyebrow, matching his smirk with my own, though my stomach twists. “Interested in insulting women? Sounds like a dangerous hobby.”
“Dangerous is subjective,” he says smoothly. “I like living on the edge. Seeing reactions like yours—” His gaze drifts down, appraising, just long enough to make me flush. “—keeps things… exciting.”
I stiffen, crossing my arms. “Exciting, huh? You’re full of yourself.”
“And you?” His tone sharpens slightly, a warning hidden under the charm. “You come here, dressed like you're going to a freaking funeral, standing alone, radiating arrogance. Tell me, Captain Russo—do you always enjoy being underestimated?”
I tilt my chin, refusing to look away. “ I am bit dressed like I'm going to a funeral and no. I hate it. But I don’t waste my time impressing men who think a suit and a bank account make them untouchable.”
"You're wearing all black," he mutters dryly.
"I love black!" I snap.
"Uh-huh.
I swallow hard, gripping the canapé tighter. He's getting under my skin and he’s too close. Too imposing. His presence demands attention, even when I refuse to give it. I want to leave, to retreat back to the safety of my military world, where rules are clear and threats are measured.
But something about him… something about the way he stands there, calm, controlled, unflinching—it makes it impossible to step away.
“Are you always this infuriating?” I ask, voice sharper than I meant.
“Only when the situation calls for it,” he replies, tilting his head, eyes glinting with amusement. “And you, Amelia, seem very good at calling for it.”
I freeze for a fraction of a second. He knows my name. He said it like he owns it. Like he’s tested it on his tongue before.
I step back, trying to regain control. “I suggest you stop flattering yourself. I don’t care what you think.”
“I don’t flatter myself,” he says, stepping closer, closing the space between us. “I just state facts. You, Captain Russo, are far more interesting than I anticipated. And trust me, I always know what I anticipate.”
My jaw tightens. My hands ball into fists. I want to push him away. I want to storm off and forget this ever happened. But I can’t. I’m rooted to the spot, caught in a storm I didn’t choose to step into.
“You should leave,” I hiss, voice low, dangerous. “You’ll regret staying.”
He leans so close now I can feel his breath, the faint scent of expensive cologne and something darker, more primal. “Leave my own party?" He pretends to be shocked. "Also, I don’t regret anything,” he says. “And I don’t leave situations that interest me. Not willingly.”
I blink, trying to think of something—anything—to counter him. Words escape me. They always do with him. He has this way of taking control without even touching me.
“You’re arrogant,” I manage finally. “Cocky. Insufferable. You think money and power give you the right to talk to people this way.”
He smirks, one corner of his lips curling. “And you, Amelia, think your uniform and medals make you untouchable. But here we are, face to face, neither of us backing down. Intriguing, isn’t it?”
I glare. My stomach tightens. I hate the effect he has on me. Hate it. But… the thrill of standing my ground keeps me rooted, refusing to run.
“I’m not here for a game,” I say, voice low, dangerous. “I’m here because I have to be. Remember that.”
“Noted,” he says smoothly, one eyebrow lifting. “But you should know… I enjoy games. And tonight? This is going to be very interesting.”
I step back, lifting my chin, refusing to let him see the flicker of uncertainty in my chest. “Interesting is overrated. And dangerous is unprofessional.”
He laughs again, low, dark, teasing. “You think I’m dangerous? That’s cute. But believe me, Amelia, I don’t need to be dangerous to make you… react.”
I swallow. Heat creeps into my cheeks, and I hate it. I’m supposed to be untouchable here. Untouchable to people like him. Untouchable to Luca D’Angelo, of all people.
But the truth?
I feel every inch of his presence. Every word cuts through my carefully constructed armor. Every smirk, every glance, every deliberate step closer makes my blood hum.
“I don’t react to idiots,” I say finally, trying to reclaim control, trying to force my voice to carry authority, to push him back with words.
He tilts his head, watching me. “You do. You’re reacting now. And it’s delicious.”
I grip the edge of the table so hard I think my nails might break the polished wood. “You’re impossible.”
“And you,” he says, voice dropping to a near whisper, “are fascinating. And stubborn. And angry. And I like it.”
I step back, trying to distance myself from him. Trying to find the safety of a wall, a pillar, anything. But the world seems smaller somehow. The crowd blurs. The chandeliers flicker. And all I can see is him.
“You’re insufferable,” I snap.
“I know,” he says, voice smooth, confident, almost predatory. “And you—” His eyes lock with mine. “You’re about to find out exactly how dangerous someone like me can be.”
My heart hammers. My mind spins. My fists tighten. And I realize, with a pang of frustration and something darker I refuse to name, that I’m hooked.
The thought makes me angry. More angry than I’ve been in a long time. Because this man… this infuriating, arrogant, ruthless man… has already found a way to get under my skin without touching me.
I square my shoulders. “Don’t think this means anything,” I say, voice sharp. “You’ll find I’m not easy. Not for anyone. Least of all for you.”
He smirks, nodding slowly, as if congratulating me. “I like a challenge, Amelia. And I intend to win this one.”
I step away finally, moving toward the edge of the room, telling myself it’s just a room. Just an event. Nothing more. But the pull of his presence lingers, like a shadow at my back.
I glance over my shoulder. He’s watching. Calm. Confident. Dangerous. And I hate that my heart skips.
I hate him.
And yet… I want him.