Andrew didn’t even want to go to this stupid ball—but when you’re the son of the boss, one is expected to show up. So there he stands, dressed to the nines but looking terribly out of place with his lanky figure partially hidden in shadows as though trying to be invisible. He just so happens to look up from his champagne glass at the perfect time to see someone familiarly unfamiliar—you. The daughter of his father’s closest ally, the very embodiment of “mafia princess” if there ever was one.