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The knowledge sits like acid in my veins: my father, the great Vito Ravelli, felled by a hotel maid. Not even granted the dignity of dying at the hands of a worthy opponent.

"And my brother accepts this? A woman's interference?" I keep my voice level despite the rage boiling beneath.

"He more than accepts it. It would appear he celebrates it." Vladimir pauses. "She's carrying his child. Visibly now."

"I have eyes, you dumb fuck," I snap. "I can see that for myself."

"Then you understand why the Volkovs are... interested in your proposal. A child with such a bloodline—"

"No." I cut him off, surprising myself with the vehemence behind the words. "The child is off-limits. This is between my brother and me. The baby is innocent and will remain so."

Vladimir hums with surprise on the end of the line. "Interesting principles for a man of your... reputation, Mr. Ravelli."

"Don't mistake my principles for kindness. I am not weak," I respond, jaw tight. "I'm precise. There's a difference."

This is the core of what my father never understood, what Luca still doesn't see.

My violence isn't chaos. It's art. It's language. It's the purest form of the absolute control I crave so much.

"Of course." His tone shifts to business. "So… about our arrangement. We've prepared the package as discussed."

An encrypted notification pings on my tablet. I open it to find a folder of photographs. A woman with raven hair and eyes like broken amber. Skin like porcelain, a mouth made for both cruelty and submission. The woman is beautiful, yes… but it's the fight in her gaze that catches my attention.

"The Castellano princess," Vladimir continues. "Currently in Vienna, attending her cousin's wedding. Our people are in position to claim her, as per your request, sir. She can be delivered within 24 hours."

I study her face, committing each angle to memory. Another pawn. Another innocent caught in our bloody game.

She's just one more piece in my intricate game. A game I've been playing since Vito first looked me in the eyes and told me I wasn't worthy.

For years, I've been building alliances with the Fukuda boys from Japan, making deals with the Iranian syndicate, securing territories in Naples that even Luca doesn't know about.

My captive princesses father has been broken. And now she belongs to me.

But it's never been about the women themselves—not my mother's death, not Bianca's capture, and not this princess.

It's about power. It's about proving that I can play this game better than anyone else in our bloodline ever has.

Another flash of memory cuts through me—my mother's hand on my cheek, her voice soft but urgent:Sometimes monsters are made, not born, Dante. Remember that.

"Miss Castellano is to be untouched," I say, voice dropping to a register that makes even hardened killers tremble. "Do you understand, Vladimir?"

"Mr. Ravelli, I assure you our men are professionals—"

"Bull shit. I'm fucking warning you, Vladimir, if she arrives with so much as a bruise I didn't authorize, I'll return the favor tenfold on the men responsible." I trace the woman's face on the screen. "She's not merchandise. She's leverage. And she's mine."

I end the call before he can respond, setting the phone aside as I continue studying the Castellano woman. Francesca, according to the file Vladimir has sent. Twenty-six. Educated at the Sorbonne. Her father's favorite and only daughter.

The perfect bride for the true Ravelli heir.

When Marco returns to the room, I'm still staring at her image, something I refuse to name stirring beneath my interest.

"Sir… judging by that look we are to complete the final preparations? For the penthouse?"

"Yes." I lean back in my chair, envisioning the space.

My private sanctuary. The cage I'm preparing for my little mafia princess.

"The master suite needs specific modifications," I tell him, each word dragging as months of planning finally begins. "Remove the existing bed. Replace it with the custom frame from Milan… the one with the reinforced posts."