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"Fuck,yes…" he growls, starting a rhythm that has me gasping against the tile.

Each thrust drives me forward, my breasts bouncing with the force of his possession. The sound of wet skin slapping against skin echoes off the marble walls, mixing with my desperate moans and his guttural grunts.

He takes me against the shower wall, hard and fast, his possession a physical reminder of where I stand in his world. But as I shatter around him, crying out his name, I realize my position has shifted.

I'm no longer merchandise. Not quite equal... but something far more dangerous to us both.

***

The Teatro dell'Opera di Roma glows like a golden dream against the night sky.

Lights illuminate its neoclassical façade, casting reflections off the gowns and jewels of Rome's elite as they ascend the marble steps.

Dante helps me from our car as we join the glittering crowd. My dress, a midnight-blue creation Dante has selected for me, draws appreciative glances that the man at my arm silences with cold stares.

"See, even they know you look magnificent," he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear.

"Who knew… I clean up well formerchandise," I reply, the barb softened by the smile I can't quite suppress.

"Formermerchandise," he corrects, guiding me up the steps.

The grand foyer sparkles with crystal chandeliers throwing reflective prisms across marble floors. Champagne flows freely, carried on silver trays by waitstaff navigating the social battlefield.

Dante secures drinks for us both, his eyes constantly scanning the room, assessing threats, identifying players. The ever-present vigilance of a man who knows his enemies are watching.

I sip the expensive champagne, its bubbles fizzing against my tongue. "Should we expect Nico tonight?"

"Unlikely," Dante replies, nodding acknowledgment to a well-known Italian politician across the room. "He prefers to remain invisible when possible."

"Smart man."

"Cautious man," Dante corrects.

I'm about to respond when a familiar profile catches my eye across the crowded foyer. My stomach drops and the glass in my hand freezes halfway to my lips, champagne suddenly bitter in my mouth.

No fucking way.

"Francesca?" Dante's voice penetrates the sudden rush of blood to my ears. "What is it?! Are you okay?"

I set down my glass, fingernails digging into my palm. "My father is here."

Dante follows my gaze to where Antonio Castellano stands in conversation with a group of well-dressed men. He looks exactly as I remember. Impeccably tailored tuxedo, silver-streaked hair, posture rigid with the pride that's guided his every decision.

Including the one to sell his only daughter.

"Did you know he would be here?" I ask, voice tight as I take a step back from Dante, looking him dead in the eye.

Dante's expression reveals nothing. "No."

"Dante, I swear to—"

He cuts me a glare that tells me everything I need to know. "Francesca! I didn't know he would be here. But I'm not surprised."

My blood runs molten as I watch him. The man who raised me to be the perfect mafia princess, only to discard me like a broken toy.

My fingers curl into fists at my sides. Every etiquette lesson, every carefully cultivated skill he demanded I perfect… languages, art history, classical music appreciation.

It was all just grooming me for the highest bidder. Not even a real marriage alliance. Just a trade for territory and protection.