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ARIA

I stand on the indoor balcony overlooking the grand ballroom with a glass of champagne in my hand.

Chiara refused to come tonight, but I won’t let that falter my plans.

I’m here to see, and more importantly, be seen.

There’s a sea of criminal aristocracy below where I stand: men and women who trade in blood and secrets.

They don’t know yet whether to scorn me, bow to me, or fear me.

Good.

Let them wonder.

My gown’s emerald silk is light against my skin, and the high slit reveals just enough leg to make the old guard uncomfortable.

I am Aria DeLuca, risen from the ashes of my slaughtered family, and tonight, I claim my birthright in the open for the first time.

Ettore stands beside me, his unruly waves tamed for the occasion, his loyal presence a shield against the glances thrown our way. In two weeks, he’s become my closest advisor, teaching me the intricate dance of power that my father once mastered.

On my other side, his wife, Mirabella, surveys the view alongside me.

She’s the epitome of elegance, dressed like the belle of the ball, with her hair swept to one side, diamonds glittering down her neck, and a body crafted by the gods themselves.

She hasn’t said much to me tonight, but I feel her approval—or at least, her curiosity.

A woman watching another woman step into her inheritance.

“They’re whispering about the warehouse,” he murmurs, nodding toward a cluster of men whose hushed conversation doesn’t quite reach us. “Salvatore Bianchi’s people are scrambling. Word is he’s furious but doesn’t know how to act next.”

I allow myself a small smile, satisfaction blooming warm in my chest. “Fine. Let him stumble.”

The damage we inflicted was calculated. My first act as the resurrected heir to the DeLuca throne. Strategically, the weapons we acquired will serve us well in the war to come. But the true victory was in the message itself, delivered directly to Marco’s hands.

This is only the beginning.

I wonder if he sleeps at night, knowing I’m out here, moving pieces on a board he thought he controlled. I wonder if he feels me coming for him, closing the distance between predator and prey.

“The Russo family has arrived,” Ettore notes, touching my elbow lightly. “Elio is old-guard, respected. Your father trusted him. His support would send a powerful message.”

I nod, preparing to descend the grand staircase. This gala—ostensibly a charity event for the children’s hospital, but in reality a neutral meeting ground for the city’s criminal elite—is my formal debut.

The whispers about the DeLuca twins have grown too loud to ignore. Tonight, I transform whispers into shouts.

As I place my foot on the first step, the crowd below shifts like a startled school of fish, parting for a late arrival.

My heart stutters to a stop, then kickstarts at double speed.

Marco.

He stands in the entrance, immaculate in a black tuxedo that hugs his broad shoulders like a second skin.

His hair, usually falling across his forehead in those casual waves that my fingers once loved to tangle in, is slicked back, emphasizing the sharp angles of his face.

But it’s his eyes that capture me—green as poison, scanning the room until they lock on mine.

“Aria?” Ettore’s voice seems distant, underwater. “Are you all right?”

I can’t answer. Can’t breathe. I can’t look away from the man who betrayed me—who buried the truth about my family’s slaughter while pulling me into his arms, into his bed, like he hadn’t already destroyed me.

My knuckles whiten around the banister, the cool metal grounding me.

He shouldn’t be here.

This event is hosted by the Castellano family—neutral territory, yes, but not Bianchi allies.

Yet no one moves to stop him as he strides through the crowd with the confidence of a man who owns every room he enters.

He’s coming straight for me.

“Ettore,” I say, steady. “Can you give us a moment? He won’t try anything here.”

I see the protest forming on his lips, but I silence it with a look. He hesitates, then steps back with a curt nod, melting into the shadows but keeping me in sight.

Marco climbs the stairs toward me. Conversations hush as heads turn to watch this unexpected confrontation.

I lift my chin, refusing to retreat even as every instinct screams at me to run.

“Aria,” his voice is so low that only I can hear. “You look beautiful.”

“What are you doing here?” I demand, proud of how cold I sound when inside, I’m burning from how he looks at me.

His lips curve into that half-smile that once made my heart flutter. Now it makes my blood boil. “I was invited. The Castellanos and I have business arrangements that transcend family loyalties.”

“How convenient for you.”

“Dance with me.” It’s not a request.

I laugh, the sound brittle as ice cracking. “You must be joking.”

His hand finds the small of my back, the heat of his palm searing through the thin silk of my gown.

“Everyone is watching, Aria,” he murmurs, his breath stirring the small curls at my temple.

“They’re waiting to see if the DeLuca princess runs from the Bianchi wolf.

Is that the message you want to send on your grand debut? ”

I hate him. I hate that he’s right. But nothing infuriates me more than the way my body still yearns for him, despite everything.

I loathe the power he still has over me. The way my body forgets everything my mind remembers.

“One dance,” I concede, the words sharp as razor wire. “Then you leave.”

He guides me down the remaining stairs, his hand never leaving my back, and I feel every eye in the room following us. The orchestra’s waltz seems to swell as we reach the dance floor, and Marco turns me to face him, one hand capturing mine, the other settling at my waist.

We move together with the practiced ease of a couple who have learned each other’s bodies intimately. I hate how natural it feels, how my body remembers the steps even as my mind rebels.

“You’ve been busy,” he says, guiding me through a turn. “Setting fires. Stealing weapons. Playing at being a queen.”

“Not playing,” I correct him, my fingernails digging into his shoulder just enough to tear at the cloth. “Becoming.”

His jaw tightens, the only sign that I’ve touched a nerve. “Do you have any idea what you’ve started? The forces you’re messing with? This isn’t a game, Aria.”

“No,” I agree, “it’s justice. Long overdue.”

He pulls me closer, our bodies pressed together from chest to thigh, his heat enveloping me. “Is that what you tell yourself to justify killing six of my men?”

“Your father murdered my entire family,” I hiss, the words like venom on my tongue. “He butchered them like animals. And you protected him, Marco. You chose him.”

Pain flickers across his face, so raw it almost seems genuine. “I tried to protect you. Both of you. I’ve been keeping my father from finding you for weeks.”

“How noble,” I spit. “Should I be grateful that the son of my family’s killer didn’t immediately hand me over to be executed? That he merely lied to me while fucking me in the same house where my parents’ murder was planned?”

His hand tightens on my waist, hard enough to bruise. “Don’t,” he warns, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that once sent delicious shivers down my spine. “Don’t reduce what was between us to fucking. You know it was more.”

“I know nothing about you,” I counter, trying to ignore the heat spreading through my lower belly. “I never did.”

He guides me toward the edge of the dance floor, into the shadow of a marble column.

“You know exactly who I am. You know how I make you feel—especially when I’m this close. And that’s what terrifies you, isn’t it?”

I try to pull away as the music ends, but his grip is iron, unyielding. “Let me go, Marco.”

Instead, he backs me against the column, his body caging mine. We’re partially hidden from the main floor here, but still visible enough that any violent outburst would cause a scene. Clever bastard.

“You don’t belong in this world,” he says, his voice softening to a caress that brushes against my skin like velvet. “Not the way you’re trying to enter it. You think these people respect you? They’re using you, Aria. You’re a tool—a figurehead they can rally behind to challenge my father’s power.”

“As opposed to being your tool?” I laugh, but it comes out breathless as his hand slides to my hip, fingers tracing the slit in my gown. “At least I know where I stand with them.”

His fingers find bare skin, and despite my rage, despite my hatred, my body gives me away with a shiver.

“Do you?” he asks, his lips brushing my ear. “Do you really think Ettore Greco cares about you? Or is he settling old scores using your name as his banner?”

I move to push him away, but when my palms meet the solid wall of his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath expensive wool, I stall.

“You want me, don’t you?” he whispers against my ear.

“Never,” I hiss, even though I feel myself weaken, long for him. “And you don’t know anything about Ettore.”

“I know everything about everyone in this room,” Marco counters, tracing the curve of my thigh beneath my dress. “Including the fact that three of your new ‘allies’ still pay my father protection money.”

I hate how easily he plants seeds of doubt, how skillfully he wields information as a weapon. “Stop it,” I whisper, but my body arches into his touch, seeking more.

He stops.

“You know where you belong,” he whispers. “Doesn’t matter how far you run—you’ll always end up right here.” His voice is a hypnotic murmur as his fingers stay etched into my skin where I told him to stop. God, I want him to drift higher, to find the edge of my lace underwear.

“You belong with me,” he says, dipping his head until I feel his nose brush against my cheek as he whispers right into my ear. “In my bed. Under me. Around me. You know it. Your body knows it.”

“I hate you,” I manage to whisper, even as my hips roll against his crotch, seeking more contact.