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"I want to kill him." The words slip out before I can stop them.

Dante's hand tightens on my waist as my father turns on the spot, and for a moment I think he'll see me. My heart pounds but I refuse to look away.

"I need to speak with him," I decide, already moving forward.

Dante grips my arm, stopping me with an iron hold disguised as a lover's touch. "Not here, Francesca. Not publicly."

I meet his eyes. "I need this, Dante."

His hard gaze shifts to a look of recognition of the pain I can't quite hide. After a moment, he nods.

"In our box. Where privacy is assured." His voice drops lower. "I'll have Marco arrange it."

True to his word, by the time we ascend the grand staircase to the private boxes, Dante has orchestrated everything. Marco stands silent at the corridor's end. Vincent is positioned near the main entrance.

Antonio Castellano enters our box with the smooth confidence of a man accustomed to owning whatever space he occupies. His eyes find mine immediately, showing only the barest flicker of recognition.

"Francesca," he acknowledges, voice cool as a winter morning. "You look well."

I remain seated, refusing to stand for the man who traded me like livestock. "Father. How unexpected to find you in Rome."

His gaze shifts to Dante, who leans against the box's far wall, watching the exchange with predatory focus.

"Ravelli," my father says, the name holding neither respect nor fear.

"Castellano," Dante returns with equal coldness. "Surprising to see you venture from your fortress. Especially after our... business arrangement."

My father's jaw tightens at the deliberate reference to my sale. "Some matters require personal attention."

"Like checking on your merchandise?" I interject, unable to stop the bitterness from bleeding into my voice.

His attention returns to me, assessing rather than paternal. "I see your circumstances haven't improved your manners."

"And I see trading your daughter hasn't improved your soul," I counter. "Tell me, Father, did you at least secure a good price? Was I worth enough territory to justify erasing twenty-six years of pretending you cared?"

He sighs, the sound weary and somehow condescending. "Always so dramatic, Francesca. This wasn't personal. It was necessary for our family's survival."

"Our family?" I laugh, the sound hollow even to my own ears. "Don't you meanyour empire? Your legacy? Your fucking ego?!"

"Careful," he warns, glancing toward the doorway where other opera patrons pass. "You've always had a regrettable tendency toward emotional displays."

"And you've always had a talent for cruelty disguised as strategy," I reply, rising now to face him directly. "Was I always destined for sale, Father? Did you plan it from my birth?"

A shadow passes across his face, there and gone in an instant.

"The Volkovs threatened our southern territories," he explains, voice dropping lower. "The Ravellis offered protection in exchange for certain... concessions. If not you, it would have been your brother."

The mention of my brother almost shatters my heart. "You would have traded him too?"

"I would have done whatever necessary to preserve what I've built." He straightens, unapologetic. "But the Volkovs specified you. Something about keeping the bloodlines clean."

Each word carves deeper wounds than I thought possible after a lifetime of his emotional distance.

"Fuck you," I whisper, tears threatening despite my determination to show no weakness.

He almost flinches, instead, he looks down and adjusts his cufflinks.

"You were raised to understand our world, Francesca. Don't pretend shock at how the game is played."