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.
“Do you really?” His fingers dig into my thighs, in the same searing spot I asked him to stop. He hasn’t moved further up. He won’t, and god, how I wish he would. “Would you hate me still, once I fuck you senseless? Or will you beg to come back where you belong?”
“You can fuck me however you want.” I lean up, speaking into the edge of his neck until he stiffens. “And I’ll still walk out. You want to test me?”
“What are you doing, Aria?” he growls, finally skimming his fingers up, so very close to my core.
“I’m going to prove you wrong.” I bite into his neck, and he groans.
God, I should move away. We’re in public, surrounded by the most people.
But my body remembers him too well—every touch burned into me like a brand. He’s the fire I should never touch again, and yet I burn for him. Like poison I’d choose again and again.
“Touch me. Take what you want,” I bite out. “But when it’s over, I walk—and you don’t get to stop me.”
“Be careful what you wish for, Aria,” he hisses back in anger, his fingers now scaling up until they’re at the edge of my panties. He smiles against my throat, teeth grazing the sensitive spot below my ear that he knows drives me wild. “Hate me all you want. But admit that you miss this.”
“I miss proving you wrong,” I whisper. “I’m going to enjoy walking away when you’re done trying to seduce me back into your bed.”
His fingers find my entrance, circling slowly, teasing but not entering. I’m trembling now, torn between the desire to push myself over his fingers and the desire to beg him to continue.
“Say it,” he commands, his thumb brushing lightly over my clit, sending a jolt of pleasure through me that makes my knees weak. “Say you miss me.”
“No,” I gasp, defiant even as my body melts for him.
“Say you want me,” he commands.
His fingers stop moving, and I have to bite back a whimper of frustration. “Say it, Aria. Tell me you miss me, and I’ll give you what you need.”
I glare at him, hatred and desire twisting inside me, sharp and unbearable—something toxic, something intoxicating.
I want him. I hate him. I ache for him and despise him in the same breath. This is what loving a monster feels like—fire that doesn’t warm, only burns.
“Is that what this is about? Your wounded ego? You can’t stand that I walked away. That I chose blood and legacy over you.”
I take a breath that cuts going down.
“Fine. You want the truth? I want you. God help me, I want you.”
My voice breaks, but I don’t stop.
“I want your hands on me, your mouth, your body pinning mine down until I forget how to breathe. But don’t confuse that with missing you.”
I meet his eyes, unflinching.
“So yes, I want you. But I will never wish for you back.”
A lie. But one I’ve nailed to my lips like armor. I’ve admitted too much already.
His eyes darken, and just when I think I might break and say more, say what he needs to move forward, he slides two fingers deep inside me. I have to clamp my lips shut to keep from crying out, my body clenching around the sudden intrusion.
“This isn’t about my ego,” he says, his voice rough with an emotion I can’t name. “This is about reminding you that whatever game you think you’re playing, whatever throne you think you’re claiming, your body still belongs to me.”
He begins to move his fingers, curling them forward to press against that spot inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. His thumb circles my clit with devastating precision, and I have to grip his shoulders to remain standing.
“Fuck,” I gasp, trying to stay in control—but my hips respond, grinding into his hand.
“I thought you didn’t miss me,” he murmurs, his lips brushing mine in a phantom kiss. “You want me to make you come, right here, with half the city’s underworld twenty feet away. You want me to remind you what you’re missing by playing at being a queen instead of being my wife.”
His fingers increase their pace, and I’m helpless against the building pleasure. My nails dig into his shoulders, and I know I should push him away, walk away like I promised I would. But God help me, I need this release like I need air.
“That’s it,” Marco encourages as my breathing hitches, my inner walls beginning to flutter around his fingers. “Let go for me, Aria. Show me how much you hate me.”
“You can fight me in the streets, but here?” He strokes deeper. “You still surrender.”
When I think my legs might give out entirely, his other hand tangles in my hair, tugging just hard enough to send a shock of pleasure-pain down my spine. The mixture of sensations—his fingers inside me, his thumb on my clit, his grip in my hair—pushes me toward the edge.
“I still hate you,” I whisper, my voice breaking as the pressure builds to unbearable heights.
“I know,” he says, and there’s something like tenderness in his voice that hurts more than cruelty would. “Come for me anyway.”
The words nearly undo me, and I climb higher, closer to the edge of explosion.
“Why did you run from me, Aria? Was it really about the crown—or were you just terrified of how much you needed me?”
Marco whispers against my ear, thrusting deeper, his voice a breath against my skin, his mouth tracing fire along my jaw.
“Stay, and I’ll make you feel like a queen. My queen.”
He curls his fingers one last time, presses down on my clit, and I shatter. My orgasm rips through me with violent intensity, my body clenching rhythmically around his fingers as waves of pleasure crash over me. Only his body pressed against mine and his hand in my hair keep me upright as I tremble through the aftershocks.
Marco groans against my skin, satisfied. “There she is.”
I exhale sharply, my body still trembling.
“You think that changes anything?” I straighten my dress with trembling hands, fury burning through the lingering pleasure. “You think making me come means I’ll just forgive everything and crawl back to you?”
His smile fades, replaced by something harder, more intense. “I think it reminds us both of what’s real, Aria. Not these games you’re playing. What’s real is what’s between us.”
“What’s between us is over.” I lean in and whisper in his ear, “I ran because I would never let my child be raised by a monster.”
