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My finger hovers over the remote, pausing on Luca's face as he stands at the head of the casket, the perfect grieving son. Nico is beside him, properly solemn.

And then there's Bianca.

The whore my brother married, the civilian who somehow became his queen, standing there with her hand protectively over her stomach where the next Ravelli heir grows.

Something dark and twisted moves inside me.

Grief for the father who never thought I was good enough. Rage at the brother who was always the favorite. Bitterness that even in death, Vito Ravelli controlled the narrative.

Still, in his death, he's leaving me out, casting me as the villain, ensuring the throne has been passed smoothly to Luca.

I made my choice long ago.

If the throne wasn't freely given, it would be taken.

No matter the cost.

Movement on the other monitor draws my attention.

Francesca is finally stirring, pushing herself up from her sheets, dark hair tumbling around her shoulders as she blinks away the fog of sedation.

I smile.

Even disoriented, she carries herself with dignity. Her spine remains straight, every movement careful and deliberate, her big, beautiful eyes constantly searching for weakness, for escape. For opportunity.

The black silk nightgown clings to every curve of her body, the material thin enough to reveal shadow and suggestion beneath.

It rides up slightly as she moves, revealing the smooth skin of her thighs, a tantalizing glimpse of forbidden territory. My blood heats at the sight, a dark hunger igniting deep within.

I'd had my men dress her in it after the Volkovs delivered her right to my door.

It was a command made not out of modesty. I'm not that pathetic.

No.

It's simple. The princess's body belongs to me now. And I wanted this exact moment. Her awakening inmydomain, dressed inmyclothes, surrounded bymychoices,myrules,mypower.

She ismine.

And the sooner she accepts that, the easier my task will become.

She crosses to the bathroom, splashing water on her face, taming her hair into some semblance of control.

I expected tears. Hysteria, even. The typical response of privileged women suddenly stripped of choice.

Instead, she examines her surroundings, testing the windows, assessing sight lines, arranging her features into a mask of control.

When she returns to the bedroom, pacing with beautiful impatience, I decide it's time.

The game begins now. The pieces of my plan are finally moving into place.

I press the intercom button. "Bring Ms. Castellano to me."

Marco, my most trusted lieutenant, acknowledges the order with a gruff "Yes, sir."

Within minutes, he's escorting my captive into the living room, her wrists bound loosely before her with silver handcuffs that look more like jewelry than restraints.

She enters with her head high, golden eyes burning with an intensity that sends an unexpected surge of heat through me. The sedation has worn off completely, leaving nothing but sharp intelligence and focused hatred in her gaze.