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And yet, I still find her absolutelystunning.

"Sleep well?" I ask, dismissing Marco with a nod.

"Drugging your guests seems a uniquely Ravelli form of hospitality," she replies, voice cool as winter stone. "I assume that's standard procedure for all your... acquisitions?"

Defiant. Perfect.

I set aside the remote, rising to approach her with deliberate slowness. "No,princess.Only the special ones."

Her eyes flick to the paused funeral footage on the screen behind me, recognition dawning.

"Vito Ravelli's funeral," she says. "Your father."

I stop before her, close enough to see the pulse hammering in her throat. "You're well-informed."

"The death of Europe's most notorious crime lord makes news." Her gaze is unflinching. "But I see you weren't among the mourners."

My jaw tightens involuntarily. "I was… uninvited."

"And now you're making your move for the throne."

Understanding transforms her face. That bright intelligence that's brought her to my feet connecting fragments into the larger picture.

"That's why I'm here. I'm not just a bargaining chip. I'm a statement… aren't I?"

I circle her slowly, enjoying her stillness, the way she refuses to turn with me, to track me with her eyes, choosing instead to stare straight ahead as though I'm beneath her notice.

My gaze travels over her deliberately, a physical claim staked with just my eyes.

My captive has beautiful long, dark hair falling past her shoulders in waves. The kind of silky strands that beg for a man's fingers to twist within them, pull them back while they ram deep inside her.

Her skin is like polished marble, so pale it would show every mark, every bruise, every bite. She has full lips, painted by nature rather than cosmetics.

The nightgown, carefully selected by me, reveals a body made for sin.

Made forme.

She has heavy breasts that are straining against the smoothness of the silk, her nipples pointing into the gown. Still circling like a hawk with it's prey, I admire the wild curve of her hips, a waist so sexy it creates an hourglass figure that somehow time has forgotten.

A perfect acquisition.

"Last night was merely an introduction," I tell her, reaching out to unlock the handcuffs, watching as she rubs her wrists. "Today, we make it official."

She lifts her chin, clear defiance personified in that small gesture. "I've already told you… I won't wear your ring. I won't speak vows to you. Whatever arrangement you've made with my father and the Volkovs, I am not bound by it."

I laugh, watching her flinch almost imperceptibly at the sound. Her declaration sparks something primal in me.

"You already are." I reach for her face, wanting to feel that soft skin beneath my fingers. She jerks away, a reflexive rejection that ignites anger and arousal in equal measure. "I have told you already. We can make this easy or difficult, Francesca. The choice will always be yours, but the outcome remains the same."

Calculation flashes behind her eyes, strategic mind working through possibilities that don't exist.

She believes she has options. Choices. Power.

And I'll allow the illusion.

For now.

"Get dressed," I order, gesturing to the closet across the room. "Everything inside is your size. Be ready in thirty minutes."