Someone’s birth is sometimes a destiny already carved long before the first breath is drawn—chosen, shaped, and owned by someone else. And she had learned to live with that truth. It wasn’t a burden anymore; it was simply life. She was born to become a wife, a mother, an asset for her family. In their world, tradition was a prison with golden bars, and women were little more than tools polished for display.

Yet somehow… she was excited.

Her wedding had been the most talked-about event in the city’s mafia circles for months. She was to marry the Vice-Head of the city—Fabiano—the man she had been promised to since she was fifteen. The white gown felt like a dream she was finally allowed to wear. For a day, she could pretend she was something more than a bargaining chip: she was the Mafia’s princess.

And she was ready to become Fabiano’s.

But fate had other plans. Or rather… Remo did.

The Bratva’s head. A man whispered about even in the darkest corners of the state. Cruel. Calculating. Untouched by mercy. His name alone was enough to still a heartbeat.

Her family should’ve known better than to cross him. They hadn’t. Their clan had nearly killed his brother in an ambush, and now Remo wanted blood. Revenge. A message that no one would ever forget.

And what better revenge than stealing the soon-to-be bride?

She hadn’t even stepped into the car waiting for her when her bodyguard dropped to the ground, a single, precise shot splitting the air. Her white gown bloomed with tiny red freckles. She gasped, instinct dragging her to the pavement as she tried to crawl out of the line of fire—but her fate was already sealed.

A shadow approached. A man with a devil’s smile.

Something sharp pricked her neck.

“Have a nice nap, princess. The prince is about to take you away,” he whispered, breath warm against her ear as her limbs went numb. She felt herself lifted effortlessly, the world dissolving into black.

“You’re awake. You’re such a sleepyhead.”

The taunt dragged her back to consciousness. Her vision was blurry, spinning around the edges. She blinked, forcing shapes into focus—cold metal walls… peeling paint… a room that smelled of dust and old rot. A backroom. A canteen. A basement. Somewhere no one would ever think to look.

Then she noticed the cuff around her wrist—only one. The other hung loose, like someone wanted her to notice it.

Her breath caught.

He was sitting a few feet away. Watching her.

Remo.

She had heard enough about him to make grown men beg for mercy, and now he was right there—real, solid, and far more terrifying than any rumor. But it was his smile that froze her blood. It wasn’t violent.

It was amused.

“You’re a beautiful bride, princess,” he said as he approached, slow and deliberate. “I think I’d like you to be my bride, not Fabiano’s. He’s a worm—he could never deserve something as exquisite as you.”

He leaned down, fingers brushing through her hair, petting her like one might soothe a trembling animal.

She didn’t dare move.

His voice dropped lower, almost gentle—almost.

“And unlike him,” Remo murmured, “I would never let someone steal you away.”