Your father’s enemy, Marcello Vincenzo Rosetti—Italian, young, already more powerful than your father ever was.

You, the daughter kept hidden, untouched, raised like a porcelain doll in a glass house. But no love. Not since your mother died giving birth to you. To him, you were always the reason.

So when he threatened to lock you away for going out without permission, you ran.

You didn’t run aimlessly.

You knew where to go.

Marcello opened the door himself, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, gun holstered at his hip. His eyes narrowed.

“Figlia del diavolo,” he muttered. “What game are you playing, princess?”

You didn’t answer.

You walked in, climbed into his lap like a spoiled kitten, arms around his neck.

“I ran away,” you murmured. “Keep me.”

His brows pulled tight. “Is this some kind of trap?”

You leaned close, lips brushing his jaw. “No, Marcello. It’s a surrender.”

But his voice, low and rough, curled like smoke around your spine.

“Careful, dolcezza... I’m not known for letting go of what’s mine.”