"Fuck you, Baganov."
The blade slides across his throat in one clean motion.
Blood sprays across my shirt, hot and thick. His body jerks once, twice, then goes still. The chains creak as his weight settles, head lolling forward, crimson pooling beneath him.
I drop the knife. It clatters against the concrete.
"Clean this up," I tell Igor without looking at him. "Find out who's behind the counterfeit operation. And find out who's making moves on the Sartori alliance."
"Dmitri—"
"Now."
I walk out of the warehouse without looking back. The night air hits my face, cool against the blood drying on my skin. Viktor straightens when he sees me, his expression carefully neutral.
"Home," I say, climbing into the back seat.
As the car pulls away, I stare out the window at the Chicago skyline. My hands are steady. My breathing even.
But inside, something dark and primal unfurls in my chest.
Marriage alliance.
The best husband.
Someone else.
Vittoria Sartori belongs to me.
And whoever thinks they're going to claim her instead?
They're already dead.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Vittoria
Sleep doesn't come.
I lie in my bed, staring at the ceiling where glow-in-the-dark stars still cling from when I was twelve. Papà helped me stick them up there. Said every principessa needed her own galaxy.
Now the stars have faded to a sickly yellow-green, and Papà is dead, and I'm twenty-four years old being told I need to marry for the family.
I roll onto my side, pulling the blanket tighter. The silk feels wrong against my skin. Everything in this house is expensive and beautiful and suffocating.
The truth sits heavy in my chest: I knew this was coming.
I've known since I turned twenty and Mamma started dropping hints about "suitable matches" and "family obligations."
I tried to beat them to it. I really did.
Fabio was my first attempt. Twenty-three, Harvard-educated, family money older than the United States. His fatherran legitimate businesses that occasionally intersected with ours. Close enough to understand our world, far enough to feel safe.
Marco was... fine.
Handsome in that generic way that photographs well at charity galas. Polite. Wealthy.Boring as fuck.
The man couldn't make a decision to save his life. What restaurant, Tori? Whatever you want, Tori. What should I wear, Tori? I spent six months essentially dating a golden retriever in a Rolex.
