4. Chapter Two
Chapter Two
Francesca
The Vienna night bleeds darkness around me as I stand on the balcony of the Palais Coburg, champagne flute dangling between my fingers.
Behind me, my cousin Alessandra's wedding reception pulses with wealth and corruption. Crystal chandeliers splinter through the night like scattered diamonds, the orchestra's gentle notes floating through the open doors.
The air around me is thick with roses, expensive perfume, and the distinct scent of power.
I bring the champagne to my lips, letting the bubbles sting my tongue before I swallow. It tastes like obligation.
This is what freedom looks like in my world. A €15,000 Valentino gown hugging my body, private jets waiting at my disposal, a Sorbonne education that men find impressively decorative.
Yes. It's all the trappings of choice without its substance.
My father's voice slithers into my ear before I sense his approach, his breath hot against my neck. "There you are, Francesca. The Bourbon delegation has been asking after you."
I don't turn, refusing him even that small victory. "I needed air."
Antonio Castellano moves beside me, immaculate in his custom fitted tuxedo. At fifty-eight, he still commands the room. My father has silver-streaked dark hair, aristocratic features carved from ambition, and the relaxed posture of a man who collects power like others collect art.
It makes you wonder where our family has gone wrong.
"You've had enough air," he says, voice pleasant while his eyes remain cold as a corpse. "The Bourbons control three ports we need for the Valencia shipments. Their youngest son hasn't taken his eyes off you all evening."
The implication slices through me as usual. Another business transaction disguised as courtship. Another man chosen for his family connections rather than any desire for me as a woman.
"I'm not interested." I drain my champagne, wishing it were something stronger. Something that might burn away the taste of being perpetually for sale.
"Your interest is irrelevant, young lady," my father replies, taking the empty glass from my hand. "Your presence is required. Now. "
"Fine."
As he guides me with a hand against my lower back, I spot them again.
Two men in impeccable black suits standing near the terrace doors, observing me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle beneath the fine silk of my gown.
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, ever my 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 perfect Castellano 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 hangs on 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.
At midnight precisely, I return to the hotel. The service entrance allows me back inside unnoticed. I change quickly in a storage closet, becoming Francesca Castellano again—the obedient daughter, the potential bride, the mafia princess with perfect posture and a hollow where her future should be.
I return to my suite at the Hotel Imperial feeling emptied yet composed.
The room surrounds me as I kick off my heels, reaching behind to unzip my gown, feeling the cool air kiss my bare spine.
Then, a tiny sound… so subtle I almost dismiss it… makes my blood freeze.
The suite's darkness suddenly feels heavy. Occupied.
I never get the chance to scream.
A gloved hand clamps over my mouth, leather against my lips, while another injects something cold into my neck. My limbs turn to water almost instantly, consciousness wavering as I'm lifted effortlessly against a hard male chest.
"She's secured," a voice says in accented English. "Moving to extraction point."
My body won't respond, but my mind races frantically behind the chemical haze. This isn't a random kidnapping. The sharp movements, the professional tone, the careful handling—this is planned. Sanctioned.
Father .
The thought cuts through the fog like a blade. Had he noticed my absence? Is this punishment for my small rebellion?
No. This feels different. Bigger. The Volkov men watching me all day.
As they carry me through service corridors, my head lolling against muscled shoulders, I catch fragmented images: the flash of an emergency exit sign, the cold night air raising goosebumps on my exposed skin, the black SUV waiting with its engine purring.
"Careful with the merchandise," someone orders as I'm secured in the vehicle, my body arranged like an expensive doll. "He will kill you if she's marked."
Merchandise .
The word scorches through my fading consciousness like acid.
In my world, people become possessions, bargaining chips, assets to leverage. I've watched my father trade loyalty for territory, blood for influence, women for advantage.
Now it seems I've become another commodity in his portfolio.
I struggle to stay conscious, to memorize the route of the vehicle, to find something, anything, that might help me later.
But the drug pulls me under, deeper and more suffocating.
I surface briefly during a transfer. Strong arms moving me again, the scent of expensive cologne and male skin as I'm carried.
A voice mentioning London.
Another needle prick, another descent into blackness.
The last sensation I register is a man's voice close to my ear, accent Italian, words like dark velvet: "Sleep well, princess. You'll need your strength."
Darkness claims me completely.
***
I wake to silence and silk sheets against naked skin.
For one disoriented moment, I think I'm back in my Vienna hotel room.
But the quality of light is wrong. It's filtered through what must be blackout curtains, turning the unfamiliar room into a dreary shadowy gray. The bed beneath me is massive, sheets slipping against my body like a lover's touch.
This isn't a cell, but unmistakably a prison.
My body feels heavy, thoughts sluggish. Whatever they injected me with lingers in my system like poisoned honey. I force myself to breathe deeply, to focus past the chemical haze.