Miguel was dead. Shot through the head three days ago. I should be mourning. Should be plotting escape. Should be doing anything except lying here remembering the way Dante's voice had dropped to gravel when he'd said my name.
Julietta.
Not Jules. Not princess—well, he called me that, but differently. Not like I was fragile or precious, the sarcastic way my father used it. Dante said it like I was something worth claiming.
I sat up and scrubbed my hands through my hair. The digital clock on the nightstand read 2:47 a.m. in glowing red numbers. Dinner had been hours ago—a tense, charged affair where Dante sat across from me and we'd barely spoken. Just looked at each other. Just breathed the same air and pretended we weren't both thinking about that moment in the bathroom doorway.
The moment he'd walked away.
Because you're not ready,he'd said.
Rage flared hot in my chest. How dare he tell me what I was ready for? How dare he touch me like that and then retreat behind some twisted sense of honor?
I threw back the covers and paced to the window. The city sprawled below, lights twinkling like fallen stars. Somewhere out there, my father was searching for me. Offering money for my return. Probably spinning the narrative to his associates—his daughter, kidnapped by enemies. His property, stolen. He wasn’t wrong, but… could Dante be right, too?
That's all I'd ever been to Lorenzo. A tool. A bargaining chip to cement his alliance with the Suarez cartel. And when that alliance no longer served him, I was expendable.
The thought settled like ice in my veins.
Dante had saved my life.
No—Dante had stolen me before my father could murder me.
The distinction mattered less than it should have.
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass and closed my eyes. A memory surfaced, unbidden.
Ten years old. The Bennett's pristine kitchen, all marble countertops and gleaming appliances. I'd asked my mother—the woman who raised me—why we never talked about where I came from. Why there were no baby pictures of me in the family albums.
"Julietta Grace Bennett." Her voice had been sharp enough to cut. "We do not ask questions we don't want answered."
"But I just want toknow—"
"You want to know nothing." She'd set down her coffee mug with deliberate precision. "Good girls don't pry. Good girls are grateful for what they have. Are you grateful, Julietta?"
The weight of her disapproval had crushed the curiosity right out of me. I'd nodded. Murmured the right words. Let myself be molded into the shape they needed.
Obedience equals survival.
That was the lesson. That was always the lesson.
I opened my eyes and stared at my reflection ghosted in the window glass–hours ago, Dante had typed in some kind of code, and sections of wall came down to reveal the city. But now I recognized myself–barely. Auburn hair tangled from hours of restless turning. Eyes shadowed. There was something else there now. Something that hadn't existed three days ago.
Fire.
I turned away from the window and paced the length of the room. My bare feet made no sound on the plush carpet. Everything in this space was designed for comfort, for containment. For keeping me docile and controlled.
But I wasn't docile anymore.
The memory of Miguel's blood had washed down the hotel shower drain, but it had left something behind. A stain on my soul, maybe. Or an awakening.
I'd stood in that ballroom and watched my fiancé die, and all I'd felt was... relief. Not horror. Not grief. Just a vast, echoing relief that I wouldn't have to marry him. Wouldn't have to let him touch me.Wouldn't have to smile and play the perfect cartel bride while dying inside.
What did that make me?
My adoptive parents had raised me to be quiet. Polished. Decorative. A daughter who reflected well on the Bennett name. Who asked no questions and caused no trouble. Who accepted her role with grace and gratitude.
Lorenzo had claimed me on my eighteenth birthday and immediately began grooming me for a different role. Mafia princess. Alliance builder. A living contract between criminal empires. Still decorative. Still silent. Still owned.
