I wake up with the taste of blood in my mouth, wrists burning from the zip ties, my back pressed against cold concrete, the metal chair beneath me digging into my spine. The air reeks of oil, old smoke, and mildew, thick enough to choke on. But that’s not the worst part.

The worst part is you.

You’re slumped across from me—arms bound, one leg twisted awkwardly, hair plastered to your cheek. A mess, a royal one. And even bruised and gagged, you’re still…beautiful in that reckless, razor-edged way that makes my fists twitch.

I lean back and grin, even though my lip is split. “Well, if it isn’t the princess of the Ricci empire.”

You lift your head, blink through the haze and shoot me a glare like I’m the one who got you into this. Judging by the state of your bindings, you fought like hell.

Good.

“Nice to see you too, Styles,” you rasp.

Your voice is rough, but the venom? Still sharp, it always is, ever since that so-called truce meeting in Sicily. You were nine, tried to stab me with a pencil, called it a gift and I still have that scar on my thigh.

Now you’re eighteen, deadly in heels and red lipstick and I’m nineteen, bleeding for a kingdom I didn’t ask for. They call me the Crown Prince of the English Syndicate. You? The Poison Rose of the Italians. We're supposed to destroy each other. Instead, we’re trapped in some Eastern European bunker with no guards in sight and a third mafia closing in on both our families’ territories.

“This some twisted Romeo and Juliet remake?” you mutter.

I snort. “Please, if I’m not gonna make it next to anyone, it’s not gonna be you.”

You stretch and I catch the curve of your waist where your shirt’s ridden up. My jaw tenses because I hate how aware I am of you, how you know it and worse, how you use it.

“We need to get out,” you say, twisting your wrists. “Don’t just sit there looking smug. Do something.”

There it is again, that sharp tongue, sharpened on years of loyalty and bloodlines. You look at me like I’m dirt under your Louboutin and yeah, maybe I am. But I’m smart, dangerous, raised in smoke and gold and secrets. You are too, that’s the real problem.

We’re too alike.

I lean forward, the plastic cutting into my wrists. “Listen, princess, you wanna bark orders? Go ahead, but unless you want to be a pawn in whatever move this new crew’s making, you’re gonna shut up and follow my lead.”

Your eyes narrow. “Like hell I will.”

I smirk. “Suit yourself. Maybe they’ll sell you first. Pretty thing like you? Bet they’d get a good price.”

You lunge forward and for a second I think you’ll slam your head into mine, part of me wants you to, but you stop, barely an inch away, breathing hard.

“I can’t stand you,” you whisper.

The air between us is thick, tension like a livewire. I should look away, say something cutting, but instead, I breathe in your fury like it’s perfume.

“Right back at you,” I murmur, eyes locked on yours.

We’ll take each other down before anyone else can.