Chapter 4 The first Crack
••Luciana••
The ride back from the Orlov estate is silent, except for the rhythmic hum of the tires and Father’s slow, measured breaths beside me. He’s in that dangerous kind of calm—the one that usually means his mind is already sealing deals behind closed doors I haven’t yet entered.
By the time we arrive home, my mind won’t let go of the meeting or of him.
Roman Orlov.
His voice, his stare, every sharp-edged word he threw at me keeps circling like an irritation I can’t scratch away.
If arrogance had an embodiment, it would surely take his form.
As soon as I step into my room, I kick off my heels, trying to shake off the tension and almost fall into the nearest chair. I’ve barely begun to free my hair from its constraints when the door bursts open.
“Back so soon from the wolves,” Antonio leans casually against the doorframe, a grin plastered on his face that’s just annoying enough. My little brother is four years my junior, yet he already seems to take pride in being my own personal nuisance.
“Let’s not call them wolves,” I mutter. “Wolves have charm.”
He pushes off the frame and strolls in as if summoned. Matteo trails behind him, quieter, sharper—his eyes always observing before his mouth follows.
“You assholes never ask for permission before storming into my room,” I shoot back.
“It’s my father’s house, sorella,” Antonio replies with a smirk that needs to be punched on a spiritual level. (Sister).
This piece of junk.
“So.” He tosses the apple he just stole from my desk into the air. “How did it go? Did Father finally come to terms with the Russians, or did you have to brave the cold just to keep the peace?”, Antonio asked.
“It was… productive,” I reply, which is code for unbearable.
“Ah. So that’s a no.” He takes a dramatic bite of the apple, crunch echoing like mock applause.
“Did you at least get to meet him?” Matteo asks. His voice is low, deliberate.
“Who?”
“The heir. Adrian Orlov. Everyone refers to him as the Gentleman Devil. I’ve heard he actually has the courtesy to say “please” and “thank you” before sending people to ruin.”
I snort. “No. He didn’t show up.”
“A pity,” Matteo says. “Because if he did, you would’ve remembered. He leaves an impression… and a trail.”
Before I can reply, Antonio perks up like a squirrel spotting chaos. “Hold up. If it wasn’t him, then who kept you looking like you swallowed a lemon?”
A slow heat crawls up my neck. Matteo catches it instantly.
“You met someone,” he says.
Of course he notices.
“Not met,” I correct sharply. “More like collided with. Verbally.”
Antonio’s grin widens. “Oh, this is getting good.”
I ignore the asshole and turn to Matteo. “Roman Orlov.”
Both brothers blink. Antonio drops the apple.
Matteo whistles under his breath. “The weapons strategist. The one they call the Silent Prince.
Antonio snaps his fingers. “Right, right. The emotionless one who looks like he was carved from an iceberg nobody asked for.”
“That’s the one,” I mutter.
“What happened?” Matteo presses.
“He challenged me.” The memory prickles again. His eyes. His voice. The way he dissected my words like he had every right. “I said something, he said something, and then it became… competitive.”
Antonio gasps in fake shock. “You? Competitive? No. Couldn’t be.”
I throw a pillow at his head.
Matteo leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Luci… Roman Orlov doesn’t argue for sport. If he engaged you, he was measuring you.”
“I’m not a piece of artillery,” I snap.
“No,” Matteo replies. “You’re far more dangerous. Which is exactly why he noticed you.”
Silence presses in for a heartbeat.
Antonio wiggles his brows. “So you pissed off a man who can end a small country. Proud of you, sorella. Truly.”
“I didn’t piss him off,” I say, though I’m not entirely sure. Maybe he just doesn't like me.
Matteo chuckles quietly. “Roman Orlov doesn’t like anything. So that already puts you at the top of his list.”
“What list?” I ask suspiciously.
“The list of people who’ll either become his enemy,” Matteo says, “or his problem.”
Terrific. My life needed more categories.
Antonio claps his hands dramatically. “Well! This is shaping up to be far more entertaining than I thought.”
“Get out,” I deadpan.
He salutes. “With pleasure.”
They exit together, Antonio munching loudly while Matteo throws one last knowing look over his shoulder, a look that says I should brace myself.
Once the door clicks shut, I collapse backward into the chair, realizing the truth I’ve been trying to ignore.
Roman Orlov wasn’t supposed to matter.
Yet he does.
—-
The Next Morning
Before I’ve even stepped into the dining room, the rich aroma of espresso and toasted bread envelops me. My father is already at the table, his newspaper neatly folded beside his coffee cup. His mood is unreadable—which is usually the worst sign of all.
Antonio is there too, devouring his breakfast like someone preparing for a marathon.
“Good morning,” I say with caution.
“Luciana,” my father acknowledges without raising his gaze. “Take a seat.”
That tone—the one that signals impending change, and not in a good way immediately puts me on edge. I sit down as Antonio glances between us, clearly suppressing a grin.
“The meeting with the Orlovs went smoothly,” my father starts. “They are agreeable. We've outlined the terms of the alliance.”
“I figured as much,” I replied. “Considering we're not currently engaged in war.”
His gaze sharpens, piercing as glass. “Don’t be flippant.”
I lower my head slightly. “I apologize.”
He places his cup down, interlocking his fingers.
“To strengthen this alliance, the Orlovs and I have arranged an engagement.”
My heart sinks. “An engagement?”
“Yes, between you and Adrian Orlov, their heir.”
The news feels heavy, like stones tumbling down my throat.
“You can’t be serious.” The words hung in the air as my stomach twisted. The meal that had smelled so inviting a moment ago suddenly turned heavy and unappealing.
“Absolutely. This union will fortify both families against the Las Vegas syndicate. You realize how crucial this is.”
I fixate on him, “You’re offering me up like I’m a diploma.”
“You are the diploma,” he responds calmly. “You’ve always known this day would come.”
I lean back, my heart racing. I did know, certainly. But knowing and hearing it are worlds apart.
Antonio, bless his unbothered soul, finally clears his throat.
“Sister, it might not be so bad,” he says.
“Adrian’s supposed to be... decent. For a mafia heir.”
I shoot him a critical look. “What does ‘decent’ even mean in our world?”
He shrugs. “He doesn’t kill unnecessarily. He’s polite. I don’t know, maybe he rescues stray dogs too.”
“Wonderful. I’ll be sure to thank him for his humanity on our wedding night.”
Father lets out a sharp breath, clearly over my sarcastic remarks.
“You'll meet him at the Winter Gala next week. Be prepared.”
I give a stiff nod, my throat feeling tight.
Once Father leaves, Antonio leans in with a playful smile.
“At least you’re marrying someone famous."
“So is the devil,” I replied under my breath.