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"I have the delivery for my brother," I say, a smile curving my lips despite the agony radiating from my mutilated hand. "Ensure it reaches him personally."

"Yes, sir. Anything else?"

I glance once more at the photograph of Francesca Castellano, her defiant eyes staring back at me from the tablet screen.

I imagine those eyes widening in fear when she's brought to my safehouse. Imagine breaking that defiance, bending it to my will until fear transforms to need, resistance to surrender.

Nothing about her capture will be safe.

My cock stirs at the thought. It's been too long since I've had a worthy adversary in my bed. Too long since I've felt the sweet surrender of someone fighting their own desires.

"Tell our Volkov friends I accept their offering," I reply, anticipation threading through the pain. "The Castellano princess will make an excellent bride for the true Ravelli heir."

As Marco's footsteps fade, I watch the blood seep through my makeshift bandage, turning the white cloth red. Just like the Ravelli empire will run red before I'm finished. Just like my brother's perfect life will crumble beneath my hands.

Luca plays at being king, but he doesn't understand sacrifice.

I do. I always have.

And I've only just begun to show him what I'm willing to bleed for.

Chapter Two

Francesca

The Vienna night bleeds darkness around me as I stand on the balcony of the Palais Coburg, champagne flute dangling between my fingers.

Behind me, my cousin Alessandra's wedding reception pulses with wealth and corruption. Crystal chandeliers splinter through the night like scattered diamonds, the orchestra's gentle notes floating through the open doors.

The air around me is thick with roses, expensive perfume, and the distinct scent of power.

I bring the champagne to my lips, letting the bubbles sting my tongue before I swallow. It tastes like obligation.

This is what freedom looks like in my world. A €15,000 Valentino gown hugging my body, private jets waiting at my disposal, a Sorbonne education that men find impressively decorative.

Yes. It's all the trappings of choice without its substance.

My father's voice slithers into my ear before I sense his approach, his breath hot against my neck. "There you are, Francesca. The Bourbon delegation has been asking after you."

I don't turn, refusing him even that small victory. "I needed air."

Antonio Castellano moves beside me, immaculate in his custom fitted tuxedo. At fifty-eight, he still commands the room. My father has silver-streaked dark hair, aristocratic features carved from ambition, and the relaxed posture of a man who collects power like others collect art.

It makes you wonder where our family has gone wrong.

"You've had enough air," he says, voice pleasant while his eyes remain cold as a corpse. "The Bourbons control three ports we need for the Valencia shipments. Their youngest son hasn't taken his eyes off you all evening."

The implication slices through me as usual. Another business transaction disguised as courtship. Another man chosen for his family connections rather than any desire for me as a woman.

"I'm not interested." I drain my champagne, wishing it were something stronger. Something that might burn away the taste of being perpetually for sale.

"Your interest is irrelevant, young lady," my father replies, taking the empty glass from my hand. "Your presence is required.Now."

"Fine."

As he guides me with a hand against my lower back, I spot them again.

Two men in impeccable black suits standing near the terrace doors, observing me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle beneath the fine silk of my gown.