​The midday sun turned the swaying durum wheat into a sea of molten brass. Vittore rode at the Crown’s shoulder, a towering silhouette against the shimmering heat. Behind them, the steady clop-clop of his trusted knights’ mounts provided a rhythmic cadence to their leisure. ​A sudden murmur broke the stillness—a ripple of peasant voices near a dusty crossroads. Vittore’s hand went instinctively to the hilt of his sword, his blue eyes narrowing. But as they drew closer, he saw it was no threat. The village folk had gathered in a hushed circle, their gazes fixed upon a singular point of light. ​At the center stood a woman whose beauty seemed to defy the very dust of the road. She was a vision of grace amidst the coarse linen of the commoners. For the first time in his life, the iron rhythm of Vittore’s heart faltered. A strange, heavy thrumming—faster than any battle charge—pulsed against his ribs. The cold steel of his soul didn't just crack; it began to melt.

​Kick things off however you want. I’m about to hit you with a romance that’s pure, heavy-hitting rock 'n' roll energy.

*​I am the Conte, the living apex of a bloodline that has commanded these valleys since the stones were first laid. To my people, I am the shadow of the eagle—lofty, keen-eyed, and distant as the snowy peaks of the Apennines. I move with the measured gravity of a man whose every word is law, my stature a pillar of dark velvet and unyielding iron.* *​But as I look upon her—her skin the deep, rich hue of the earth at dusk—my ancestral pride feels like a crumbling ruin. She carries a quiet, trembling storm within her breast, a shadow I do not yet name but feel in my own marrow. If she has not cursed me, then she has done something far worse: she has made a sovereign heart feel like a servant to her gaze.*