Prologue — The Mask of a Servant

Bela

MILAN’S elite nightlife belonged to a world of absolute excess.

The nightclub where I worked sat hidden behind thick velvet curtains and private membership lists that cost more than my entire life.

Inside, gold chandeliers cast soft light over men in tailored suits and women wearing diamond necklaces.

To the rich guests, I was not a person. I was a function in a black apron—a nameless girl bringing crystal glasses and wiping down polished tables.

That was fine by me.

Functions were invisible. Functions did not get remembered, and functions did not get hunted.

I smoothed down the front of my work skirt, keeping my chin low as I walked past the high VIP booths.

Let the elite mock me. Let the drunken mobsters think I was just a broke, insignificant waitress struggling to pay rent.

As long as the world saw a quiet servant girl instead of Belarina Dela Costa—the last surviving heir to the Southern territories—my family’s blood remained breathing.

I turned past the grand marble bar, carrying a silver tray loaded with fresh champagne flutes.

A tall man in a flawlessly tailored charcoal suit stood near the edge of the VIP lounge, talking softly to an international diplomat. He held a glass of dark scotch, his posture relaxed, powerful, and dripping with generational wealth.

As I walked past his table, my foot caught slightly on the plush carpet.

The silver tray tilted. A single crystal glass started to slide toward the edge.

Before the glass could hit the floorboards, a warm, broad hand reached out, catching the base of the crystal with effortless, lightning-fast grace.

I froze, stopping in my tracks.

I looked up, my dark brown eyes meeting a pair of deep, striking brown eyes.

The man was breathtakingly handsome. He possessed sharp, aristocratic features, clean dark hair, and an air of quiet, genuine chivalry that felt entirely alien to this dark club.

Signor Vance.

I recognized his face instantly from high-society news outlets—the billionaire shipping magnate from Geneva.

Vance set the crystal glass back onto my silver tray. His warm fingers briefly brushed against mine, sending an unexpected, electric jolt of heat humming straight up my arm.

“Careful, signorina,” he murmured.

“Thank you... Signor Vance,” I whispered, my voice trembling slightly under the weight of his gaze.

He offered a slow, breathtaking smile, his thumb gently caressing the rim of his scotch glass before he stepped back, letting me pass.

The brief, intense pull between us hung in the air like a phantom flame, leaving my skin tingling as I walked toward the back lounge.

Five minutes later, the peaceful illusion shattered.

“Hey,” a loud, bored voice called out from table four. “You. Burgundy hair.”

I ignored it, keeping my pace steady, but a heavy hand shot out, grabbing my wrist with violent force.

I was yanked backward, my hip slamming into the edge of a leather booth. Three drunken men with expensive watches laughed loudly as the center man yanked me down toward his lap.

“I said stop, sweetheart,” the man sneered, his hot, alcohol-laced breath hitting my cheek as his large hand slid up my thigh, groping hard through my thin skirt.

“Let go of me!” I spat, fighting against his heavy grip.

“Stop being difficult,” he chuckled, reaching inside my blouse to squeeze my breast. “Girls like you come to places like this just to get fucked by rich men—”

“Remove your hand.”

A low, lethal baritone cut through the lounge like a velvet blade.

The loud music seemed to die instantly. The surrounding guests went dead silent, stepping back into the shadows as Sebastian Ricaforte walked into the room.

He didn't scan the lounge. His massive frame occupied the space with terrifying authority.

He wore a dark suit, his dark hair pushed back, his bloodshot eyes fixed flatly on the hand gripping my chest.

“No…” I whispered, my eyes widening in shock as I stared at him in disbelief. “Seb…”

Seven years ago, our fathers had bound us together in a syndicate blood marriage to unite the Dela Costa and Ricaforte power over Milan.

A year ago, I had faked my death in a burning car to escape the mob war that slaughtered my family.

Now, the boy who held my paper ring was standing three feet away.

“I said,” Seb rasped, his voice dropping into a deadly tone that made the air freeze in my lungs, “let go of her.”

The man holding me didn't listen. Drunk on alcohol and entitlement, his grip only tightened around my wrist, digging his fingers in harder.

“Mind your own business, pal,” he sneered, pulling me back against his chest. “Find your own—”

In a flash of pure, violent motion, Seb reached into his jacket, pulled out a heavy black pistol, and aimed it straight between the man's eyes.

The click of the hammer cocking back echoed loudly in the quiet lounge.

Panic snapped the man sober.

He shoved me violently away from him, sending me stumbling into the side of the leather booth. His hand scrambled frantically toward his own coat to draw his sidearm, but his friend grabbed his wrist in horror, leaning in to whisper frantically in his ear.

“Don't! That's Sebastian Ricaforte—the Don of Milan!”

The man’s face drained of all color in a single heartbeat.

Terror took over, and he scrambled backward, knocking over glasses and chairs as he tried to flee toward the exit.

A deafening shot shattered the air.

The man let out a high-pitched scream, collapsing onto his knees as the bullet tore straight through his right hand—the same hand that had just grope my body.

Seb didn't even blink, the smoking barrel still raised as his bloodshot eyes tracked the bleeding man crawling away into the hallway.

“That's for touching what's mine,” Seb growled low into the dark room.

He lowered the gun to his side and stepped directly into my space.

He didn't look at the fleeing men. His dark eyes locked onto mine, burning with a wild, volatile mixture of raw grief, violent possessiveness, and lethal obsession.

“You,” Seb whispered rasply.

My throat tightened, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Sebastian.”

Seb took another step forward, his large, calloused hand reaching out to grab my wrist in a crushing grip, yanking my body straight against his broad chest.

“You are supposed to be dead, Belarina,” he growled low in my ear, his dark eyes flashing with unhinged fire as his thumb dug into my pulse. “You faked your death, and now I find you serving drinks in a cheap bar?”

“Let go of me, Seb,” I whispered, my body traitorously reacting to his dark, familiar heat.

“Never again,” Seb rasped into my skin, his mouth brushing against my jawline as he pulled me toward the private alley exit. “You are quitting this job tonight.”

“No!” I said between my teeth. “Just let me be, Seb—”

“You’re pushing my patience, Bela,” he said. “You are coming with me, and you will be my sex slave.”