Chapter 11
Princess
I watch him dance with her. Watch as she runs her filthy hands down his back, as if they belong there. Like she has a claim to it. I swirl my drink, debating on what I’ll do with her body.
Maybe I’ll cut her throat.
Hmm. No. Too messy.
Shoot her?
Taking a sip of the wine, I mull over that thought. No. Too loud.
The final notes of the live orchestra play, signaling the dance’s end. Lucio stiffens, his shoulders as straight as razor blades, his back rigid. He knows I’m here. Watching him.
He turns around, looking, searching. But he won’t know it’s me; I’m engaged in a conversation with my brother’s fiancée.
“We should go out for some fresh air,” I suggest to Riko.
She nods. “Sure, let’s go.”
The night air is crisp as we step onto the terrace, the scent of roses and cool stone mixing with the faint remnants of perfume and wine. The hum of conversation drifts from the ballroom, muffled through the tall glass doors, but out here, it’s quieter. Isolated.
Perfect.
I exhale slowly, letting my shoulders relax, though my pulse still thrums with something dark and hungry.
Lucio’s inside. With her .
His hands on her. His breath brushing against her skin.
She may have his attention right now, but I’ll make sure she never has the chance to be in his presence again.
“So…” Riko says from beside me, sipping her wine. “How have you been, Princess?”
I smile, the kind that means nothing. “I’ve been as well as you’d expect, Riko.”
She hums, watching me carefully, but there’s no suspicion in her gaze.
Just curiosity. She and my brother have only been engaged for a month, and I know she had as much choice as my brother did with this engagement.
They both didn’t want this; their engagement is nothing more than a business transaction.
Riko is sharp—born in the Yakuza, she’s perceptive.
But not perceptive enough to know what’s coiling beneath my skin.
I rest my gloved hand on the terrace railing, tilting my head. “Are you excited for the wedding?”
She exhales, shifting beside me. “I should be.”
She isn’t.
“But?”
A small, knowing smile touches her lips. “But your brother is an impossible man.”
I chuckle softly, shaking my head. “That’s the understatement of the century.”
She laughs, taking another sip of wine before setting her glass down on the stone ledge. “It’s not him I’m worried about.”
I arch a brow. “Then what is it?”
She hesitates, gaze flicking toward the ballroom.
“The expectations. The pressure. The way people watch, waiting for a misstep. I’ve had to watch for that my entire life.
But with your brother, I can’t exactly control or tell him what to do and what not to do.
And in our world, infidelity is a dime a dozen. ”
That makes me pause. I know the feeling intimately.
I glance at her, really looking. Riko is composed, the picture of elegance, but there’s a thread of tension beneath it all.
I tap my nails against my glass. “I’m sure you’ve been told you’ll adjust. And learn to turn a blind eye.”
She nods, confirming my guess. “And what if I don’t?”
I give her a grim smile. “Then you’ll realize this world doesn’t make exceptions.”
She gives me a look. “That’s reassuring.”
I shrug, unbothered. “It’s the truth.”
Riko studies me for a moment, then shakes her head, laughing softly. “You’re a strange one, Princess.”
I smile, taking a sip of wine. Strange? No. Calculated? Always.
My mother appears beside us. “Hello, Riko.”
Riko bows her head, showing her “respect” for my mother. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
“Hello, Mrs. Gambi. How are you?”
Mother gives her a tight smile. “I have been well. Thank you. Your fiancé is looking for you. It’s time you two have a dance.”
Riko shoots me a stare that can only mean good luck before she scurries off to find my brother.
My mother turns to me. “You insisted on wearing this dress, yet you’re out here hiding from the others. Come on. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
I groan internally. That can only mean one thing. She wants me to meet some man that could end up being my fiancé. I have to tread carefully. We make our way back in, and the ballroom seems to have only gotten more crowded.
She loops her arm around mine and whispers, “Behave yourself. This is very important for our family.”
My gaze drifts over to where I know Lucio is standing. He’s by his sister-in-law, Valentina, laughing about something. Before I can avert my gaze, his eyes meet mine, and they narrow ever so slightly.
Fuck.
Shaking off the thought that I might have been caught, I smile at the man my mother is introducing me to. Daniel Morgan, son of Davis Morgan, a politician.
“Daniel, I want you to meet my daughter, Princess.”
He gives me a polite smile. “Your mother did mention that you’re beautiful, but she didn’t say that you’re enthralling.”
Daniel Morgan stands tall before me, all effortless confidence and carefully measured charm.
He’s undeniably handsome—sculpted features, dark brown hair slicked back with precision, a strong jawline accentuated by just the right amount of shadow.
His hazel eyes gleam with something unreadable, shifting between gold and brown beneath the ballroom’s dim chandeliers.
He carries himself like a man accustomed to power: polished, poised, predictable.
And yet completely uninteresting.
I force a smile, keeping my expression light and airy, just as my mother expects. “That’s very kind of you to say, Mr. Morgan.”
His lips quirk. “Daniel, please. No need for formalities between us.”
Between us.
I resist the urge to scoff. He speaks as if there will be a future where he matters to me.
Instead, I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, tilting my head just enough to let him think I’m interested. “Then you must call me Princess.”
A subtle smirk plays on his lips, like he thinks he’s won something.
Before I can excuse myself, he extends a hand. “Would you do me the honor of dancing with me?”
I hesitate—not because I care to dance with him, but because I know my mother is watching. I can feel her gaze, sharp and expectant.
So I do what is expected of me. I place my gloved hand in his.
The orchestra shifts into another waltz as Daniel leads me to the dance floor, his grip firm, but not forceful. Practiced. The way he moves suggests years of lessons. Formal training. The kind of upbringing that demands perfection in every motion.
I let him guide me and twirl me like I’m something delicate.
I hate it.
He speaks, but I only half-listen. Something about his father’s connections, his time in Paris, the upcoming elections. I nod at the appropriate moments and smile just enough to be polite, but my mind is elsewhere.
With someone else.
My eyes flick across the room, searching, scanning.
Lucio.
I spot him near the bar, standing with Dana. They’re talking, laughing—something private, something shared.
A sharp spike of jealousy cuts through me, searing hot and violent. My steps falter.
Daniel notices, his brow furrowing slightly. “Everything alright?”
I recover quickly, flashing him an apologetic smile. “Of course. Just a little distracted.”
He chuckles, as if he understands. “I get it. These events can be overwhelming.”
That’s not it. But I let him believe what he wants.
I let him spin me again, his palm resting at the small of my back, but my eyes stay locked on Lucio. Waiting. Watching.
Then, as if he feels my stare, he moves. Lucio hands his date his glass, murmuring something before stepping away. He weaves through the ballroom with slow, purposeful strides, his shoulders tense, his expression unreadable.
He’s heading toward the balcony. To smoke, most likely.
I exhale, my chest tightening. Now is my chance.
Daniel slows our steps, looking at me with mild curiosity. “Would you like some champagne after this?”
I smile—soft, sweet, deceptive.
“That sounds lovely,” I lie just as the final notes of the waltz play.
But my body is already shifting, already angling toward the exit. Toward Lucio.
Before Daniel can say anything else, I step away from his grasp, offering him one last polite smile. “If you’ll excuse me, I need some fresh air.”
I don’t wait for his response. I glide off the dance floor, weaving through the guests, following the path Lucio just took. Because I know one thing for certain: wherever he goes, I follow.
The night air is crisp, biting against my skin the moment I step onto the balcony.
But it’s not the cold that consumes me. It’s him.
Lucio leans against the stone railing, a cigarette between his fingers, his broad shoulders relaxed, yet coiled with tension.
His white dress shirt is unbuttoned at the top, his tattoos peeking through, his sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the sinewy strength of his forearms and the sprawling ink that covers most of his arms.
He doesn’t look at me right away. He takes a slow drag, the orange ember flaring in the dim light, smoke curling lazily around his sharp, angular features.
Then he shifts his gaze to me. And holds it.
His stare is unforgiving, unyielding, the weight of it pressing against my skin like a brand. He exhales slowly, watching me through hooded eyes, the tension between us thick and dangerous.
“You smoke?” he asks, his voice rough, deep, edged with something unreadable.
I pause, briefly caught off-guard, before tilting my head slightly. “Not usually.”
He holds out his cigarette, two fingers pinching the filter, his gaze never breaking from mine. “Want one?”
I hesitate— not because I don’t want it, but because I don’t know what this means. Then I step forward, taking it from his fingers, the warmth of his touch lingering against the paper. My hand doesn’t shake, but my pulse pounds.
I bring it to my lips, inhaling carefully. The smoke burns immediately, hot and acrid, coating my throat like fire. I cough, nearly choking, my eyes stinging as I struggle for breath.
Lucio lets out a low, rough chuckle. “You’ve never smoked before, have you?”
I clear my throat, glaring at him, even as my voice comes out raw. “Never.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Figured.”
He takes the cigarette from me, bringing it back to his lips and inhaling deeply. Before I can react, he exhales a slow, deliberate stream of smoke right into my face.
I freeze, inhaling it instinctively. The scent of tobacco, whiskey, and him fills my lungs, clinging to my skin.
I don’t cough this time.
I don’t look away.
His lips curl slightly, amused. “What’s your name?”
I wet my lips, watching the way his gaze tracks the movement.
“Princess,” I answer, my voice smooth, effortless.
His head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing as if he’s deciding whether to believe me.
“Fitting,” he mutters, rolling the cigarette between his fingers.
And then movement catches my eye. Below us, in the courtyard just beyond the garden, is his date. Dana. With another man. I recognize him instantly: some rich British heir, something Sterling.
She’s leaning in, her hands on his chest, whispering something, her lips dangerously close. Too close. Then she kisses him.
I flick my gaze toward Lucio, but he’s already watching me.
Not his date. Not the scene unfolding below. Me.
His jaw tenses, his fingers flexing around the cigarette, his shoulders rigid. He doesn’t move. Not when the man pushes her off, shaking his head, his voice sharp even from a distance. Not when she stumbles, humiliated, watching as the man disappears into the crowd.
Lucio just stands there. Silent. Unmoving.
Finally, he speaks. “Huh.”
I raise a brow, shifting slightly against the cold stone railing. “That’s all you have to say?”
He takes another drag, exhaling slowly—this time not in my face. “It’s not unexpected.”
I study him, searching for a crack, a tell, a reaction. But there’s nothing.
No anger. No possessiveness. Just calm, unnerving indifference.
“She’s not yours, then,” I muse, watching him carefully.
Lucio’s lips twitch, but there’s no humor in it. “She was never mine.” He pauses. “You think that if she was mine, I’d let him walk out of here on his own two feet?”
Something tightens in my chest, sharp and ugly. I don’t ask if he knows. Because I know he doesn’t care. And it makes me hate her even more.
We lapse into silence, the sound of the ball drifting up from inside, distant and irrelevant.
Then he turns to me. And suddenly, the air shifts.
“Princess.”
I freeze. Not because of my name, but because of how he says it. Like he’s testing it on his tongue, trying to see if it fits.
If I fit.
His eyes narrow slightly, studying me too closely, like he’s looking for something just beneath the surface. “Have we met before?”
My breath catches, but my face remains a mask.
“Of course,” I say smoothly. “Our families run in the same circles.”
His gaze doesn’t waver.
“No,” he murmurs. “Not like that.”
My heart slams against my ribs.
Does he know? Does he see me? The real me?
I tilt my head, feigning confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
Lucio watches me for a beat too long. Then he exhales slowly, his expression unreadable.
“Never mind,” he mutters, flicking the cigarette over the railing. “Forget I said anything.”
I smile, soft and harmless, as if I haven’t been thinking of how to kill for him tonight.
“Alright,” I say, my voice smooth, controlled.
I won’t forget. And neither will he.
Just as I turn slightly, prepared to slip away, his voice catches me again—low, smooth, edged with something unmistakable.
“You know…” he muses, his lips curling around the words like smoke and sin. “If you keep looking at me like that, I might start thinking you want me.”
The words slip between us like a blade—sharp, dangerous, taunting.
I exhale softly, rolling my shoulders back. Calm. Poised. Dangerous in my own way.
“And if I do?” I murmur, my voice like silk, watching his reaction carefully.
Lucio smirks—slow, lazy, knowing. He steps closer, just enough that I can smell the smoke and whiskey on his breath, the warmth radiating from him despite the chill.
“Then that…” he says, his voice dropping into something low and dark. “…would be very, very bad for you, Princess.”
His gaze drags over every inch of me, slow and deliberate, as if he’s drinking me in. Then his eyes flick back to my face.
“But I bet you like bad things.”
The corner of my lips twitch, and I take a slow step back, a measured retreat.
Because he’s right. And he has no idea just how bad I am.