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And then, just as I start to lean further into it, Dante pulls back.

"It's time to go," he says, moving towards the door. "At least with that kiss, I now know you understand who you belong to tonight."

"Always."

Le Masquerade Noirunfolds in a 17th-century château just outside Paris, its ancient stones illuminated by hundreds, maybe thousands, of flickering candles. Crystal chandeliers drip from vaulted ceilings while champagne fountains sparkle like liquid diamonds.

Beneath us, the marble floors gleam, polished by centuries of aristocratic balls and, more recently, by the carefully hidden footsteps of Europe's criminal elite.

Dante's hand rests possessively at my back as we descend the grand staircase, his touch both warning and anchor to anyone who looks our way. The glittering crowd parts before us, conversations falling to whispers as we make our entrance.

"Breathe," he murmurs against my ear, sensing my tension. "You were born for this."

He's right, though not in the way he intends.

These gatherings have been part of my life since childhood. My father parading me before potential allies, teaching me to smile while cataloging weaknesses, to charm while gathering secrets that benefit only us.

"Do you see them?" I ask quietly, my eyes scanning the crowd behind my mask.

"Not yet," Dante replies, his body subtly tensing beside mine. "But they're here. My brother would never miss this event."

A waiter offers champagne from a silver tray. Dante selects two flutes, handing one to me with an elegance that reminds me he wasn't always the brutal enforcer.

Once, he was a Ravelli prince being groomed alongside his brother.

Just like me.

"Mon petit démon ravissant," a French voice purrs from behind us. "Is it really you?"

We turn to face a silver-haired man in his sixties, expression hidden behind an elaborate golden mask. But I'd recognize those calculating eyes anywhere.

Jacques Beaumont. My father's oldest ally, and of course sometimes his biggest rival. At least during the late 90s European heroin trade.

"Monsieur Beaumont," I reply in perfect French, inclining my head. "Quel plaisir de vous revoir après tant d'années."

His eyes widen slightly at my fluency, then drift to Dante with renewed interest. "And now you stand with the dangerous Ravelli brother. Antonio did not mention this... development."

Dante's arm slides around my waist, a clear gesture of possession. "Monsieur Beaumont, I see the beautiful Francesca requires no introduction. But perhaps I do?"

"Oh non, Monsieur Ravelli. Your reputation precedes you." Beaumont's smile is almost as dark as the man who glares at him beside me. "Though I admit, I expected your brother tonight. With his expectant bride and their wonderful news."

I feel Dante's muscles tighten beneath his tuxedo. "My brother and I have different priorities currently."

Beaumont's gaze shifts between us. "So I see. The French shipping corridor grows interesting with two Ravelli wolves circling."

"There is only one true Ravelli heir who deserves such a delicate operational route," Dante replies, his tone deceptively light despite the deadly intent beneath. "The rest is merely temporary confusion."

Beaumont laughs softly. "Perhaps we should discuss this further over proper cognac later? The Bordeaux routes have become... problematic since your father's passing."

"My fiancé would be delighted," I interject before Dante can respond, placing my hand over his. "His interest in the current market of French territory is substantial."

Dante's eyes flick to mine, momentary surprise at my casual use of 'fiancé' quickly replaced by approval.

Beaumont nods, clearly reassessing the dynamics between us.

"Very well. The library, one hour?" he suggests, already backing away as another group approaches. "Bring your lovely bride-to-be. Her linguistic skills will prove beneficial."

As Beaumont disappears into the crowd, Dante turns to me with raised eyebrows. "Fiancé? You had to bring that word out already?"