4

"What?..." I say in disbelief.

"You heard me, Bianca. Immediately. A public, high-profile wedding. It tells the world that an attack on a Rossi is an attack on a Falcone. It gives me legal rights to your family’s assets the moment Julian is dead. And it ensures you can never betray me."

I step back, horrified.

"Married? Marco, my father is barely cold! I just escaped a man who used a wedding to destroy me! I am not giving myself to another controller."

Marco shrugs, turning his back on me as he walks back to his desk.

"Then walk out that door, Bianca. Go back to the streets. Let’s see how long you survive before Julian’s men find you and finish the job. You came to me because I am ruthless. This is my price."

I freeze.

The image of my father’s lifeless eyes flashes in my mind. I remember the sound of Julian’s laugh.

If I walk out, I die, and they win. They get to live in my house, spend my money, and laugh at my grave. My hands clench into fists.

My dignity is a luxury I can no longer afford.

"Fine," I choke out, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. "We marry. But the moment Julian is dead and the empire is split, we get a divorce."

Marco turns around, his face a mask of cold satisfaction. He steps toward me, reaching out to grip my chin, forcing me to look up at him. His touch is ownership, pure and simple.

"There are no divorces in the Falcone family, Bianca," he whispers, his thumb brushing harshly over my jawline. "You wanted a devil to fight your monsters. Well, you got one. Welcome to the family, wife."

~~~

The black town car glides through the towering iron gates of the Falcone estate, the tires crunching softly against the gravel driveway.

I look out the window, my chest tightening. The estate is a fortress. Manicured lawns stretch endlessly on either side. Stone gargoyles perch atop ancient fountains, watching like silent sentinels, while armed guards patrol the perimeter.

It's breathtaking.

And suffocating. A beautiful prison wrapped in luxury.

The driver circles around and opens my door without a word.

I step out slowly, clutching the oversized suit jacket Marco had given me to conceal my torn, bloodstained clothes.

The expensive fabric hangs awkwardly from my frame, but it's better than arriving dressed like a hunted animal.

Waiting at the top of the grand marble steps is a woman who looks like she was carved from ice.

Francesca Falcone.

She stands with perfect military posture, every inch the untouchable matriarch. Her dark hair pulled back into a flawless chignon, ropes of luminous pearls rest elegantly against her tailored black designer dress.

Her eyes, the same cold, piercing gray as Marco’s, scan me from head to toe, and the disgust in her gaze is instant and lethal.

As I reach the top of the stairs, she doesn't offer a hand. Instead, she steps into my personal space, her voice dropping to a low, icy whisper that only I can hear.

"Don't mistake my son's interest for kindness," Francesca warns, her eyes boring into mine. "You are damaged goods, Bianca Rossi. A fugitive. A woman with nothing left to bargain except desperation."

Each word lands like the edge of a blade.

"Marco thinks with his wallet, but I think with my blood. If you become a liability... if you so much as think about using my son... he'll put a bullet in your head before you even realize he's pulled the trigger."

A faint, humorless smile touches her lips, the threat settling between us like frost.

Before I can process what just happened, she steps back, her expression melting into a mask of polite graciousness.

It’s the kind of fake warmth I grew up around in the Rossi upper circles. I know this game.

"Welcome to our home, Bianca, dear," Francesca says, her voice dripping with practiced sympathy. "We were so terribly grieved to hear about your father's... tragic passing."

She gestures gracefully toward the towering front doors. "Come inside. You must be exhausted."

I swallow the lump of rage in my throat, forcing myself to play the part of the fragile, grateful orphan.

"Thank you, Mrs. Falcone. Your kindness means everything to me right now."

Two quiet maids immediately guide me up the massive winding staircase after that, leading me to a sprawling bedroom overlooking the gardens.

"Mr. Falcone ordered a temporary wardrobe for you, ma'am," one of the maids says, laying a simple lavender day dress on the plush velvet bed. "Your permanent closets will be fully stocked by this evening."

"Thank you," I whisper.

The maids bow their heads politely before slipping out, the heavy oak doors clicking shut behind them.

The moment I'm alone, my legs give out.

I collapse against the wall, my body finally surrendering to the exhaustion I've been holding at bay.

Slowly, I peel off my ruined clothes. The fabric sticks to my skin, stiff with dried blood, rainwater, and mud.

I carry them into the adjoining marble bathroom and turn the water as hot as I can bear. Steam quickly fills the room as I lower myself into the deep soaking tub.

For two days, I've been running, sleeping and hiding in the shadows, covered in the dirt of the streets and the blood of my father.

As the hot water turns muddy brown, I finally let the tears fall in silence. I can't afford to cry out loud anymore. Tears slip down my cheeks, disappearing into the bathwater.

By the time I step out, my skin is raw and my eyes ache, but at least I no longer smell like death.

I dry off and slip into the lavender dress. It fits, but it's noticeably loose around my waist and chest, a cruel reminder of everything the last forty-eight hours have stolen from me.

I smooth the fabric down, take a deep breath to steady my racing heart, and head downstairs to find my new family I've just bargained my future to.

…~...

I find Francesca sitting in the grand living room, sipping tea.

Sitting next to her on the velvet sofa is a striking blonde girl wrapped in expensive silk, every inch of her radiating wealth and privilege. Diamond earrings catch the afternoon light as her perfectly manicured nails tap idly against the side of a crystal glass.

The moment I step into the room, her eyes snap to mine. They sweep over me from head to toe.

Cold. Judging. Disdainful.

A slow, mocking sneer curls across her glossy lips, making it clear that, just like Francesca, she has no intention of welcoming me into the Falcone family.

"So, that’s the fugitive princess," she says, eyes fixed on my outfit, and laughs sharply. "I see you’re wearing my dress. Though it looks completely deflated on you. Darling, you have absolutely no hips. With a body that gaunt, I highly doubt you’ll ever be able to bear Marco a child."

Blood rushes to my ears. I am tired, grieving, and broken, but I am still a Rossi. I open my mouth, ready to tear into the blonde girl with every ounce of venom I have left.

"Listen to me, you little—"

"Enough," Francesca snaps, her voice cutting through the room like a whip.

I freeze, thinking she is defending me. But Francesca’s cold gray eyes lock onto me, not the blonde.

Francesca stands up slowly, adjusting her pearls. "Rule number one in this house, Bianca: you do not talk back. You are a guest by mercy, not by right. You will learn to be a proper lady under this roof."

She walks toward me, her heels clicking ominously on the marble floor. She stops just inches from me, looking down at my loose dress.

"Then again," she says with a dismissive shrug, "I suppose I shouldn't expect manners from you. Your father was clearly far too busy running his illegal empire as a single father to teach you any."

The mention of my father hits me like a punch to the chest.

My dad. The man who loved me without condition. Who protected me. Who died right in front of me barely two days ago.

The ache I'd been fighting so desperately to contain tears open.

A sob escapes from my throat before I can stop it.

I can't do this.

Not right now.

I turn on my heel and sprint back up the stairs, ignoring the blonde girl's cruel laughter echoing behind me.

By the time I reach my room, my vision is blurred with tears.

I slam the bedroom door behind me, stumble to the bed, and collapse onto it.

My fingers clutch helplessly at the pillows as the sobs tear through me.

And for the first time since escaping the Rossi estate, the crushing reality of my ruined life crashes over me.