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Those men are not wedding guests. I've been in this dark world long enough to know they're something more. Something colder. Something far more dangerous.

"Father… those men," I murmur, tilting my head slightly. "The ones by the doorway. They've been watching me since the ceremony."

He doesn't even glance in their direction. "They are Volkov representatives. Nothing for you to concern yourself with."

My heart quickens. The Volkovs. Russian crime lords with a reputation for particular brutality, even in our blood-soaked world.

"Oh really? Please explain why they've been following me all day then."

Father's fingers dig harder against my spine, the pressure a warning to learn my place. "You have an overactive imagination, Francesca. You always have. An unfortunate trait in a Castellano woman."

I bite my tongue until I taste copper. My education at the Sorbonne, my fluency in four languages, my carefully cultivated social connections… it's all meant to serve the family dynasty.

And never,evermy own desires.

"Besides," he continues, steering me toward the ballroom's glittering heart, "you should be focused on enchanting the Bourbon boy. He's fascinated by your dissertation on medieval Italian banking families. Apparently, you made quite an impression at the Geneva conference."

Of course. My academic achievements. Why are they only valuable when they can be leveraged for an alliance, for territory, or for power?

I plaster on the smile that's been perfected since childhood, the one that curves my lips while leaving my eyes cold as winter marble. "Lead the way, Father."

Hours later, my face aches from false smiles.

I've danced with the Bourbon heir, discussed shipping regulations with ancient crime lords who patted my ass under the guise of gentlemanly guidance, and played the perfectCastellano princess while calculating exactly how much pressure it would take to drive a stiletto heel through a human eye.

All while the Volkov men maintained their quiet surveillance, their gazes following me with predatory focus.

The women's powder room is a temporary sanctuary of gold-veined marble and flattering lighting when I finally get a chance to sneak away.

I brace my hands against the counter, finally alone.

The mirror reflects a stranger in midnight-blue silk. Dark hair swept into an elegant chignon, my amber eyes sharp with intelligence and banked rage.

I look exactly like what I am: a well-bred, well-educated mafia princess. A beautiful commodity with a market value calculated in territories and alliances rather than euros.

My phone buzzes with a text from my brother.You looked ready to commit multiple homicides with that dessert fork. You OK?

Something loosens in my chest. Antonio Jr.—named for our father but nothing like him—is the only person who truly sees me.

Contemplating which one deserves it most, I reply.

Father wins that contest every time. Hang in there, Frannie. I've created a diversion for you. Check the service corridor by the kitchens.

I slide my phone back into my clutch, heart lifting despite the weight of my circumstances.

Though he's three years younger than me, Antonio has always been my protector, finding escape routes from social obligations since we were children hiding from our father's business associates.

I slip from the reception, navigating the corridors like a ghost until I find the service entrance. A hotel staff uniform hangson a hook with a note in my brother's handwriting:Return by midnight or turn into a pumpkin.

Fifteen minutes later, I'm walking through Vienna's historic center in a hotel staff uniform, breathing night air that tastes like stolen freedom against my tongue.

It might be childish. But this small rebellion has become necessary to preserve what remains of my sanity.

The Hofburg Palace rises before me, illuminated against the night sky like a golden promise. I wander through near-empty streets, allowing myself to imagine a different life. One where my body isn't currency, where my mind serves my own ambitions rather than family strategy.

Where I'm more than a beautiful chess piece on my father's blood-stained board.

But even temporary freedom has its expiration date.