The Garden

I'm not supposed to be here.

The Bianchi annual charity gala is in full swing three floors up, crystal chandeliers, champagne flutes, my father holding court like the king he believes himself to be. I should be there, smiling, performing, being the perfect daughter everyone expects.

Instead, I'm in the garden.

The October air is sharp against my bare shoulders. My designer gown wasn't made for midnight escapes, but I've gotten good at working around restrictions.

Three years of practice.

Three years since my father announced my engagement to Marco Russo. Three years of being fitted for a life I never chose. Three years of learning to slip away when no one's watching.

Tonight, though, someone is watching.

I feel it before I see him. A presence in the shadows, too still to be accidental. My training kicks in: assess the threat, stay calm, find the exits.

"You shouldn't be here."

My voice holds steady, somehow. I face the darkness where he's hiding.

The man who steps forward isn't what I expected.

He's tall, over six feet, with close-cropped dark hair and a face built for silence, hard and closed. Gray eyes catch the moonlight as he studies me with an intensity that should be terrifying.

It isn't.

"Neither should you," he says. "But here we are."

His voice is low, rough. Not the polished tones of the men upstairs. Something rawer.

"This is private property." I keep my chin lifted. "My father's property."

"I know whose property it is."

The way he says it makes my spine straighten. Not with fear. With recognition.

"You're a Falcone."

It's not a question. I've been raised to identify enemies on sight, and the Falcones are our oldest, most dangerous enemies. I should run. Should scream for guards.

Instead, I stand my ground.

"Adriano Falcone." He inclines his head slightly. "And you're Francesca Bianchi. The capo's daughter. The untouchable princess."

"Untouchable by my choice." The words slip out before I can stop them.

His brows shifted a fraction. Interest, maybe. Or amusement.

"Interesting choice of words."

"What are you doing here?" I step closer. Stupid, reckless. "If my father finds you..."

"He won't." His confidence is infuriating. "I'm good at not being found."

"Except by me."

"You weren't looking." He tilts his head. "You were escaping."

The observation cuts too close to truth.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"No?" He moves closer now, and I catch his scent. Smoke and worn leather, the kind ground into fabric from years of use. "Then why are you standing in a cold garden in Valentino and diamonds, while your engagement party happens upstairs?"

My blood goes cold. "How do you know about that?"

"Everyone knows about that. The Bianchi princess, pledged to the Russo heir. The alliance of the century." His voice drops. "You must be thrilled."

I should lie. Should perform the role I've been trained for.

But something about the darkness, the cold, this impossible moment, it cracks the performance wide open.

"Thrilled doesn't begin to describe it."

His eyebrows rise at my tone.

"That sounded almost like sarcasm."

"Did it?" I manage a smile. "How careless of me."

For a long moment, we just look at each other. The enemy enforcer and the capo's daughter. Meeting in a garden where neither of us belongs.

"I should go," I say. Don't move.

"Yes," he agrees. Doesn't move either.

"If anyone sees us..."

"War." He says it simply. "At minimum."

"And you're still standing here."

"So are you."

Neither of us fills the silence.

I should run. Every instinct screams it, he's dangerous, he's forbidden, he's everything I've been trained to avoid.

But Adriano Falcone is the first person to look at me tonight like I'm a person, not a chess piece.

"Why did you come to the garden?" I ask.

"I was following you."

"That's not creepy at all."

His lips twitch. Almost a smile. "Your father hired outside catering. My people got me credentials. I was supposed to be gathering intelligence. Then you walked past, alone, heading away from the party like you knew exactly where you were going."

"I did. Here."

"And here we are." He echoes his earlier words. "Two people who shouldn't exist in the same space."

"Life is full of contradictions."

This time, he definitely smiles. It transforms his face, makes him look younger, less dangerous. More human.

"I should go," he says.

"Before someone misses you."

"Before someone misses you." He's already retreating into shadow. "Your fiancé looked like he was searching."

The reminder is cold water.

Marco. Looking for me. Wanting to claim his prize for the evening.

"Wait..."

But Adriano Falcone is already gone, dissolved into the night like he was never there.

I stand alone in the garden, shaking.

Not from fear.

From something far more dangerous.

I return to the party with a smile fixed in place.

"There you are." Marco's hand closes on my arm. Possessive. Too tight. "I've been looking everywhere."

"I needed air." I don't flinch. "The room was crowded."

"You should have found me." His grip tightens. "I would have taken you outside."

No. You would have followed me. Made sure I performed.

But I don't say that. Instead, I smile, and let him lead me back into the crowd.

My father catches my eye across the room. Nods approval at my position on Marco's arm.

The perfect daughter. The perfect princess. The perfect prize.

In my mind, gray eyes watch from the shadows.

And standing in my father's house, I feel something other than numb.