3

Two days later…

~~~

The train car smells like wet coats and cheap tobacco.

I press my forehead against the cold, smudged window, watching the rain wash over the neon signs of a city I no longer belong to.

I am shivering. My once-expensive silk blouse hangs in tatters, ripped at the shoulder and stained with dried mud and blood, mine and my father's.

My bare feet are tucked under the seat, wrapped in a discarded newspaper. It's the only thing shielding the deep cuts carved into my soles.

I have exactly thirty-four dollars in my pocket—cash I begged from a terrified gas station clerk in exchange for my diamond earrings.

The headline on the folded paper beside me screams the lie to the world.

ROSSI EMPIRE COLLAPSES: HEIRESS FLEES AFTER BRUTAL MURDER-SUICIDE.

Julian wants me back desperately. For the past two days, every newspaper and news channel has painted me as a monster. Television screens and front pages nationwide plaster my face.

Yet somehow, no one has recognized me.

Maybe it's the huge swollen bump on my forehead from when I fell over the metal gate at the Rossi estate. Maybe it's the grime caked on my skin after days spent sleeping in subway stations and beneath bridges.

Or maybe no one expects the infamous Bianca Rossi to look this broken.

I have no allies left.

The police answer to Julian now.

The men who once swore loyalty to my father are either dead... or they've already sold their loyalty to the highest bidder.

There is only one man powerful enough not to fear Julian's new power. A man who has been waiting for the Rossi empire to crack so he can claim the pieces for himself.

Marco Falcone.

My father's greatest rival.

The most dangerous man in the business world.

He is also the only person who might be willing to help me.

…~...

Two hours later, I am standing in the towering, glass-and-steel lobby of Falcone Enterprises.

The air conditioning is freezing, making my body tremble uncontrollably. Polished marble floors gleam beneath my filthy bare feet, each step drawing curious glances.

The security guards look at me like I am a stray dog that wandered in off the street.

"I need to see Marco," I tell the receptionist. My voice is raspy, raw from starvation, exhaustion, and two days of barely speaking.

She doesn't even bother looking up from her computer.

"Mr. Falcone doesn't take unscheduled appointments. Especially not from..." Her fingers continue gliding across the keyboard. Then her eyes flick briefly to my muddy, bare ankles. "Street people. Leave, or I'm calling security."

Disdain settles across her face.

I lean over her desk, slamming my palms onto the polished marble with a loud crack.

"Tell him Bianca Rossi is here," I say, each word deliberate. "Tell him I am offering him the keys to the Rossi kingdom on a silver platter. If you turn me away, he will fire you by lunchtime."

The name works like a spell.

The receptionist pales. For the first time, she really looks at me, eyes wide as recognition flashes in her eyes, then types something rapidly into her phone.

The silence stretches painfully.

One minute.

Then another vibration.

She stares at the screen before slowly lifting her gaze to mine.

"F-floor fifty," she stammers. "The private elevator."

~

The top floor of the Falcone tower is dead silent. Dark walnut panels line the walls, absorbing what little light filters through the room.

The muted glow overhead casts long shadows across the black marble floor, making the entire office feel more like a throne room than a workplace from the oppressive aura in the air.

I find Marco's office; he sits behind a massive black desk.

He doesn't look up when the doors open. His attention remains fixed on the tablet in his hands as if I don't exist.

Thirty-two.

Dangerously handsome.

The kind of man who could pass for old money royalty if not for the ruthless reputation that follows him. Sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and perfectly groomed dark hair frame a face almost too flawless to trust.

He wears a three-piece suit that probably costs more than the train I just rode.

"You look pathetic, Bianca," Marco says, his voice a smooth, deep baritone that sends a chill down my spine.

He finally sets the tablet down, his piercing gray eyes locking onto mine. "The papers say you shot your father and ran."

"You know my father," I say, my voice steadying as I walk into the room, refusing to let him see me tremble. "He was a lot of things, but he loved me. I didn't kill him. Julian did."

Marco leans back in his leather chair, steepling his fingers.

"Julian. The golden-boy fiancé. I always knew he was a snake. I just didn't think he had the teeth to bite the hand that fed him. Why are you here?"

"I want him dead," I say flatly. "I want Elena dead. I want my house back, my name cleared, and Julian's head on a spike."

"And why should I care about your little revenge fantasy?" Marco asks, a cruel, amused smile touching his lips. "The Rossi empire is in chaos. In three months, I can buy your family's assets for pennies on the dollar without lifting a finger."

This arrogant man.

"You can try," I counter, stepping closer to his desk. "But Julian is smart. He’s already consolidating power. If he secures the shipping ports, he’ll cut your supply lines. You’ll be fighting him for years. Or... you can help me crush him now."

Marco raises an eyebrow.

"And what are you offering in exchange for my army, Bianca? You have nothing. You are a fugitive."

"I am the legal heir," I say, leaning over his desk, my hands against the edge, staring directly into his cold eyes. "Help me take it back. Provide the guns, the men, and the legal power to destroy Julian. The moment the Rossi empire is back in my hands, I will sign fifty percent of it over to you. Permanently."

The room goes dead silent.

The offer is staggering. Half of the Rossi Empire. It would make Marco Falcone the undisputed king of the entire coast.

Marco doesn't blink.

He studies my face, looking at the dried blood on my collar and the fierce, burning hatred in my eyes. He sees that the spoiled princess is gone.

All that's left is a woman fueled by grief... and an all-consuming hunger for vengeance.

"Fifty percent," Marco muses, tapping his chin. "A very generous offer. It appeals to my business sense."

A small breath of relief escapes my lips. "Then we have a deal?"

"Not so fast," Marco says, rising from his chair. He walks around the desk, standing so close I can smell his expensive cologne. He towers over me, a dominant, suffocating presence. "Fifty percent is a number on a piece of paper, Bianca. Papers can be contested. Contracts can be broken by clever lawyers. If I am going to war for you, I need a guarantee that cannot be undone."

"What do you want?" I ask, my heart beginning to thud against my ribs.

"Control," Marco whispers, his gaze dropping to my lips before rising back to my eyes. "I want complete security for my investment. You want the Falcone name to protect you? You want my men to bleed for you? Then you belong to me."

"I don't understand."

"We get married," Marco states coldly.

"What?..."