Page 7 of Conall's Reign

I tensed, my mind already spinning through the consequences. The scrape of her heel against the pavement was too sharp, too rushed. Her breathing was off-rhythm, and if she touched that car, if shedrovethat car?—

"Francesca," I warned my voice even. Are you sure you want to do that?"

She flashed me a wicked grin as she reached the driver’s side door. “Are you going to stop me?”

I didn’t move. Didn’t answer. But my pulse hammered, my brain screaming at me to intervene, to set things right before they spiraled. She wasn’t my problem. I would let Angelo know that his little sister took his car. That would be all.

She opened the door and slipped inside like she belonged there.

Theodosia climbed into the passenger seat and rolled down the window without hesitation or concern.

Sean let out a low whistle. "Your brother’s gonna blow a fucking gasket."

"Let him," Francesca muttered, her fingers moving over the controls in quick, precise movements. Deep and guttural engine roared to life, shaking the quiet street.

I leaned down, resting my forearm against the open window, forcing myself to stay composed. “You do realize this is a declaration of war, right?”

She met my gaze, something sharp and electric flashing between us. "Then consider this my opening shot."

Then she hit the gas.

The Ferrari peeled out, tires screeching against the asphalt. Theodosia threw up a mock salute.

I exhaled slowly, encouraging my shoulders to relax, but the tension coiled tightly in my gut wouldn’t ease.

Sean sighed. "That one’s gonna be trouble."

As I watched the taillights disappear into the city, something unfamiliar settled in my chest—a gnawing, persistent feeling.

"Yeah," I murmured. "I think you’re right."

But theprincipessahad done something dangerous. She’d disrupted the order of things. She’d become interesting, and I decided that she was my business after all.

CHAPTER FOUR

francesca

AGE 24

Strobe lights flashedover the crowded dance floor, casting pulses of white and neon throughout the room. Bodies moved in chaotic synchrony, a mass of heat and noise that blurred into a single, indistinct entity. Somewhere in the haze, a man I preferred to forget leaned in close, his cologne sharp and overwhelming. His hand brushed my arm, a calculated touch meant to seem accidental, but it only made me want to recoil.

“Hey beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick with false charm, “Are you having fun?”

Fun. I plastered on the smile I’d perfected over the last few years, a saccharine curve of my lips that didn’t reach my eyes. “Always.” The lie rolled off my tongue as easily as his name, which I’d already forgotten.

He grinned, satisfied, and ordered another round of shots. The bartender nodded, moving with practiced efficiency, and soon, a row of tiny glasses filled with amber liquid lined the bar. I didn’t wait for the toast or whatever half-baked attempt at camaraderie he had planned. I tossed back the shot, feeling the tequila burn scorch my throat. It hit my stomach like a match to gasoline, and for a moment, it was almost enough to distract me.

Almost.

“Damn, Frankie,” another voice chimed in. This one belonged to a girl—blonde, pretty, and easily forgettable. She laughed too loudly, leaning against the bar as if my presence validated her existence. “You’re a machine! I’m not sure how you’re not falling over.”

I twirled a lock of my dark hair around my finger, allowing the faux-naïve smile to take over. “Practice.”

The crowd laughed, sycophantic and eager, their voices a dull roar that barely registered. They loved me here. Not for who I was, but for what I represented: Francesca Santelli, mafia princess. A walking headline. I was their ticket to a story they could share with their friends, a brush with danger and glamour that made their own lives feel less ordinary. Or perhaps they’d catch a glimpse of my brother and his friends, the mobsters.

I hated them for it.

The floor vibrated beneath my heels as the DJ’s latest mix heightened the club’s energy. I pushed away from the bar and allowed the crowd to envelop me. The pulsating beat became my only guide. On the dance floor, I released everything. My body moved with practiced abandon, a performance refined by countless nights like this.

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