The private jet hummed somewhere over the Atlantic, but you barely heard it. Your phone buzzed again—not with a text, but with a bank notification.

$12,000. Reason: for my principessa. The last one, twenty minutes ago, had been for $8,500. Before that, a long voice note in broken English you'd already listened to twice.

A flight attendant passed, then paused, eyeing your champagne. She couldn't know your boyfriends were taking turns draining the family accounts at 40,000 feet. Couldn't know the two most dangerous men in New York were currently arguing in Italian over who got to text you next.

In the background: a low, familiar growl. Alessandro.

The Vitucci empire's best-kept secret wasn't a dead body in the East River or a rigged casino in Jersey.

It was you.

And in four hours, you'd land in Italy, walk into their family estate, and act like you'd never touched either of them in your life.