Chapter 1 The masked arrival

The Estarian Royal Palace shimmered like a jewel under the floodlights, its towering spires and gold-trimmed balconies glowing in the crisp night air. The annual Unity Gala had drawn dignitaries, nobles, and elites from every continent. And somewhere amid the glittering gowns and clinking glasses, a predator walked.

Alessia Moretti stepped from the limousine, her black silk gown whispering against her legs, her face hidden behind a silver Venetian mask. She didn't glance up at the cameras or the sea of reporters. Let them wonder who she was. She wasn't here to be seen. She was here to end a bloodline.

"Name, please?" the guard at the entrance asked, scanning her invitation.

"Alessia De Luca. Contessa of Verona," she replied smoothly, her Italian accent refined and sharp. The forged title matched the documentation perfectly. Her cover was airtight. Years of training led to this moment.

The guard nodded and let her pass through the velvet ropes. Inside, the palace opened like a dream. Crystal chandeliers, marble staircases, and waiters in white gloves carrying trays of champagne. A string quartet played something delicate and forgettable.

Her heels clicked softly against the marble floor as she moved through the crowd, her eyes scanning everything, security positions, camera angles and emergency exits. It wasn't just instinct. It was survival. And vengeance.

Ten years ago, the crown had ordered a covert crackdown on the Italian syndicates. Her father, Don Lorenzo Moretti, was framed for crimes he didn't commit, executed in a staged prison riot. The order came from the palace. The Vasari family.

And now, Prince Nikolai Vasari stood at the top of the grand staircase, dressed in a midnight black tuxedo, gold trim gleaming at his cuffs. He was giving a toast, his voice rich and accented, every syllable dripping royalty and charm.

Alessia took a flute of champagne and watched him closely.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and devastatingly handsome. The press called him Europe's most eligible bachelor. She called him a target.

"Enjoying the view?" a voice asked beside her.

She turned slowly, concealing her surprise. The man who had approached wore no mask. His dark hair was tousled, his jaw sharp, his eyes a piercing gray.

"I wasn't aware the view had introduced itself," she replied.

He smiled, offering his hand. "Prince Nikolai."

Her heart didn't skip a beat. Her training was too good for that.

She took his hand, letting her fingers linger. "Alessia De Luca. A pleasure, Your Highness."

His eyes searched her face, as though trying to read the truth beneath the mask. "Have we met before?"

"Not officially," she said, sipping her champagne.

"Pity. I would remember a woman like you."

Her lips curved into a practiced smile. She had rehearsed this scene a hundred times. She was in.

"Perhaps tonight will be memorable," she said.

He chuckled, and something unguarded flickered in his eyes. "I hope so."

As he led her onto the dance floor, Alessia allowed herself to be swept into the rhythm. Her body moved with his, every step calculated, every glance carefully delivered.

She wasn't just playing the part.

She was becoming it.

And if the prince fell in love with her along the way?

All the better.

Because love made men foolish.

And foolish men were easy to destroy.