Chapter 1 #2
“Because Rosie is being insubordinate,” Erin declares, sticking her tongue out at me before slipping off the bed with a rustle of satin.
“Insubordinate?” I scoff.
“Yes,” she insists, pointing at me like she’s testifying before Congress. “She refuses to follow my perfectly reasonable orders.”
Dolan raises a brow. “Should I lock her up?” His voice is pitched somewhere between sincere and teasing, but with Dolan you can never entirely tell.
“Yes,” Erin says immediately. “She is not listening to my orders to take a peek at the Italian prince while he is visiting Daddy.”
I throw my hands up. “I’m not going. It’s 1971. People get shot for less than spying on mafia royalty.”
“Dolan, please,” she whines. “Talk some sense into her.”
Dolan snorts, moving farther inside. “You know Seamus would never let them kill you. He loves you like a daughter, and if anyone can go spy on the prince undetected, it’s you.”
Erin preens instantly, shoulders straightening. “See!”
“No,” I state again for what feels like the thousandth time, before pushing myself up to my feet and abandoning the clothes.
“Rosalina, do you really want me stuck here all night listening to her panic? Because she’s been working herself into a fit since breakfast. She nearly cried over a burnt piece of toast.”
“It was charred,” Erin snaps.
“It was slightly toasted,” Dolan corrects calmly. Then, to me: “Help her. For my sanity.”
I stare at him. Then at Erin—who is clasping her hands beneath her chin like a Disney heroine begging a woodland creature for aid.
“Rosie,” she pleads. “Please. Just one peek. One glance. I need to know.”
I groan into my palms, because sadly for me I have never been able to say no to these two. “You two are insufferable.”
“And you love us,” Erin sings.
Dolan nods toward the door. “West wing. Last room on the left. The princes and the dons are meeting in Seamus’s office. If you’re quiet, you won’t be noticed.”
Erin leans in, whispering conspiratorially, “And if he’s handsome, come back immediately.”
“And if he’s not?” I ask.
She winces. “Then prepare to help me beg our father to stop the wedding, a runaway bride, or a missing-not-so-missing Irish princess situation.”
I let out a long, doomed sigh and straighten up. “Fine. I’ll take a look.”
Erin squeals—a full, unrestrained, teenage-princess squeal—and grabs Dolan’s arm like she might collapse from joy.
Dolan just smirks at me. “Try not to get seen. I don’t want to have to force you to do drills earlier tomorrow morning.”
“I won’t,” I mutter, but I step toward the door anyway. “I want that Chanel suit!”
“Done!” Erin shouts, as I slip out of her bedroom and into the hallway.
I suck in a deep breath and push it out through my nose. Erin knows she can convince me to do just about anything, and once you add Dolan to the mix, I’m a goner. My loyalty to them is stronger than anything else I possess—second only, maybe, to my loyalty to Seamus.
I make my way through the corridors, leaving the quiet of Erin’s and my private wing behind and stepping into the main artery of the O’Connor estate.
The moment I enter the central halls, the house comes alive—bustling with servants carrying fresh linens, guards trading jokes down the corridor, laughter spilling out of open doorways.
It’s always busy, but with the wedding only days away, the energy has been turned up to full volume.
For two straight months, not a single moment of silence has survived here.
I like it that way.
The polished floors gleam, the rich green carpets soften every step, and sunlight pours through the tall windows like gold. I almost bump into one of the chefs who kisses my cheeks, and apologizes in a thick Irish accent, and my heart warms at the gesture.
This is the only place I’ve ever known where power doesn’t smother joy. Before coming here, I didn’t think such a thing was possible.
When Seamus walked into the orphanage, I was ten—small, wary, rail-thin, my curly light-brown hair braided tight because, when left loose, it tangled into knots overnight.
He only noticed me because I picked his wallet from his pocket and nearly escaped.
Nearly. I made it halfway across the yard, injured one of his guards with the lid of a garbage can, and would’ve made it over the fence if another guard hadn’t been faster.
Seamus had laughed—actually laughed. Said I had spunk. Said leaving me in that place would be a waste. By that afternoon, he’d taken me with him and put me straight into training to guard his daughter.
It helped—more than helped—that Erin loved me on sight. She ran up, grabbed my hands, and called me her sister before anyone could explain who or what I was.
She meant it. And I’ve spent every year since making sure I deserved it, because homes like this aren’t normally meant for girls like me.
I weave through the familiar hallway, the old wallpaper smelling faintly of lemon polish and cigarette smoke.
A servant rounds a corner carrying a bouquet of flowers, laughing under her breath about something the cook said; I sidestep her easily, mumbling a quick apology.
One of Seamus’s guards leans against the wall by the staircase, and as I pass he reaches out and ruffles my hair like an older brother who still thinks I’m twelve.
“Don’t cause trouble, Rosie,” he teases.
“No promises,” I call back, smoothing my curls back into place.
I reach the balcony overlooking Seamus’s office, sink into a crouch, and press myself into the shadows between two columns. The wood railing creaks softly under my palms as I lean forward just enough to see the hallway below. A perfect spot to watch who comes and goes without being caught.
I watch as the office door swings open, and a man exits answering his phone.
I don’t know who he is, but it doesn’t matter—my first thought is simply, Oh, Erin is going to lose her shit.
He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with curly blonde hair pushed back, but fraying at the edges.
Green eyes flash as he lifts a cigarette to his mouth, a phone tucked between shoulder and ear.
His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, revealing ink—two serpents coiling up his arms like they might slither right off his skin if he flexed.
He laughs at whatever’s said on the other end of the line, and two dimples appear, deep and unfairly charming.
“Absolutely not a troll,” I whisper to myself.
“I bet Luca would take that as a compliment,” a low, hypnotic voice whispers in my ear, and I find myself shivering at the sound, before my instincts kick in.
My hand snaps back, grabbing a throat; my body twists, hooking a leg behind the intruder’s knee, sweeping it out from under him. He hits the floor with a grunt I feel more than hear.
“Well… hello to you too,” he chokes out, half-laughing.
My eyes dart over him—tall, maybe an inch or two over six feet, with a compact, athletic build that looks like it comes from relentless training.
His hair is cut to a tight buzz, exposing the strong line of his jaw and the clean, sharp edges of his face.
His eyes are a cool, steady grey, flicking over me like he’s taking inventory.
Up close, I notice the faint scar at his temple, the tension in his forearms, and the bright, almost too-perfect shine of his teeth when he smiles up at me.
I shift, pinning him with my knee before he can recover, my grip tightening around his collarbone. “Name,” I snap. “Now. Before I break your neck.”
He coughs, wheezes, and then has the audacity to grin up at me—wide, amused, like getting tackled by a stranger is the highlight of his day. “Easy, Bella. I’m Gabriel. And you?”
“Gabriel who?” My fingers press harder.
“Salvatore,” he manages, raising his hands in surrender. “Dante’s cousin. Not an assassin. Not here to kill you. Though you’re doing a stellar job trying to kill me.”
I freeze for half a second—Salvatore?—before narrowing my eyes. “If you’re lying, I’ll put you through this balcony railing.”
He tilts his head, studying me like I’m a puzzle he wants to take apart piece by piece. “And if I’m telling the truth?”
“Then you should reconsider sneaking up on women with combat training.”
He laughs, breathless but absolutely delighted. “Combat training. That explains this position.”
Before I can snarl something back, he catches my wrist, rolls his weight, and flips us—my back hitting the railing with a sharp gasp as he cages me in. His hand braces beside my head, the other pinning my hip just enough to keep me still without hurting me.
“Now it’s my turn,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my throat. “Who are you… and why are you sneaking up on Dante?”
“Dante?” I question, jerking against his hand.
“The prince of the Italian Mafia,” he counters.
His gaze drops briefly to my lips before meeting my eyes again, light grey and annoyingly amused. I can feel the heat of his body, the strength behind it, the subtle restraint in the way he holds me—as if he’s giving me every chance to throw him off if I truly want to.
I don’t. Not immediately at least.
His mouth curves in a slow, wicked smile. “Don’t make me kill you, Bella.”
I run my tongue over my bottom lip, and lean my head back against the railing, “Rosalina Carter.”
“Carter?”
“Adoptive daughter,” I groan, shifting under his weight. “Wanted to keep my birth name, so yes. Carter.”
“You’re Erin’s guardian,” Gabriel nods, releasing me as he pushes himself back up to his feet and extends a hand.
“Guilty,” I agree as I take his outstretched hand, and he yanks me effortlessly to my feet.
He looks me over now that I’m standing—my curls still slightly mussed from the scuffle, my dark green blouse wrinkled and hanging out of my skin-tight bell bottoms slightly.
“What?” I question, as I tuck in my shirt again.
“Why are you here, Carter?” he asks, tone low but no longer threatening.
I adjust the collar of my shirt, clearing my throat. “I was trying to get a peek at Dante for Erin.”
His lips twitch into a smirk. “You’re spying for your princess.”
“She wanted to make sure your cousin was not a troll.”
“You can tell by looking at me that my cousin is not a troll,” he says, the cocky tone of his voice making my heart flutter, because he’s not wrong. Gabriel is far from a troll, and if Dante looks even a fraction as good as him then Erin will be ecstatic, but I don’t tell this cocky bastard that.
“Hmm, I am not completely sure,” I smirk, as I turn around to look back at the office.
Before he can argue any further, the office door below opens. Heavy footsteps followed by the light tenor of Seamus’s voice draws my attention to the two figures exiting the office.
Gabriel steps in closer, bracing his hands on the railing on either side of me, caging me in without even brushing my skin.
The heat coming off his body floods the narrow space between us, tightening every nerve in my body until I’m painfully aware of how close his chest is to my back, how the air shifts with his breath, how little effort it would take for him to close the distance entirely.
“That guy,” he murmurs low in my ear, “is Dante.”
My breath catches before I can stop it.
Dante Salvatore steps into view—tall, broad through the shoulders, black button-up unbuttoned just enough to show the ink spread across his chest and the start of a tattoo crawling up his throat.
His hair is slicked back, glossy and neat, sharp against the chiseled angle of his jaw.
And those oceanic blue eyes seem to drown out the entire hallway.
He is devastating. Unfairly gorgeous. And absolutely nothing like the monster Erin imagined.
I swallow hard. “Holy hell,” I whisper.
Gabriel hums. “Not a troll then?”
“Not even close,” I whisper out, leaning forward so I can see more of him, but only jerking away when my ass rubs against the hard tent in Gabriel’s pants.
Dante speaks to Seamus in a low raspy voice, that sounds like he would be an amazing jazz singer. They shake hands, firm and decisive, and I realize I need to slip away before Seamus looks up and sees me.
“I have to tell Erin,” I blurt, already slipping under Gabriel’s arm and darting away from the railing.
“You’re going to leave me already?” Gabriel calls after me.
“Later Gabriel,” I say over my shoulder, sprinting off.
I race through the hallways, past servants carrying trays and guards exchanging shifts, ignoring the way my heart is thudding like it wants out of my chest. Erin will be relieved. Maybe excited for the wedding.
I swing open her bedroom door, a wide smile ready on my face. “Erin, he is—! What the hell?!”
Dolan and Erin jerk apart like my voice just lit the carpet on fire.
Erin practically falls off the chaise, yanking her feathered cape across her chest as if that will hide anything.
Dolan shoots to his feet so fast he bangs his knee on the wooden frame, wincing while trying to stand like a gentleman instead of a man who very much had his hands all over the Irish princess ten seconds ago.
Erin’s face floods bright red. “Rosie!”
“What is this?” I snarl, my voice deadly calm as I take in the scene in front of me.
Dolan clears his throat, smoothing his shirt like the gesture might erase the fact that his lips are definitely swollen. “Rosalina…”
I don’t give him my attention. Not one fraction of it. I look straight at Erin—my best friend, my sister, my entire purpose. “Erin,” I say quietly, “why didn’t you tell me?”
Her breath stutters. “Rosie—”
“Is this why you wanted to call off the wedding?” My voice cracks like a whip. “Because you’re fucking Dolan?”
Her eyes widen with guilt, not denial. “Rosie, it’s not like that—”
“Then what is it?”
She steps toward me, hands shaking, desperation all over her face. “Rosie, we’re in love.”
I inhale sharply, and it feels like swallowing glass. “You don’t get to say that to me like it’s nothing.” My voice wavers once, then hardens. “I’ve been fighting for you. Planning your safety, your future—and you were hiding this from me?”
Erin reaches for my arm. “Rosie, please—let me explain—”
I step back so fast her fingertips barely graze my sleeve. The look on her face shatters something inside me.
“Rosie,” she whispers, voice breaking.
“No,” I start to shake my head slowly at first, but it gets faster and faster with every step back I take into the hallway. “I can’t do this right now.”
“Rosie—please—”
I turn away before she sees me crumble, and I run.