Chapter 1
I am what you’d call the spoiled, rich, breathtakingly beautiful, one-and-only daughter of the infamous Gregori Mafia family—royalty in Italy’s underground.
The crown jewel of blood-stained tradition.
My Papa? Oh, he’s that Gregori. You know, the one who made a mayor disappear over dinner and still had time to tuck me in at night.
My great-grandfather built our empire after the Second World War—with bullets, blood, and a killer wine cellar.
Me? I grew up in Gucci gold silk sheets and Hermes scandal.
You name it—Versace pacifiers, Chanel school uniforms, and a bodyguard named Marco who once took a bullet for my dog. I don’t do normal. I do gala gowns, champagne brunches, private fencing tutors, and discreet bribes to get out of detention at Italy’s most exclusive all-girls finishing school.
I’m what the tabloids call “La Principessa Andria” behind closed doors.
The Grigori Princess. Cute, right?
And today? Graduation day. I was practically glowing in Dior and diamonds, sitting in the back of my custom Maserati with two blacked-out SUVs tailing me like a royal parade. I was opening fan mail—because yes, I get fan mail—when I saw it.
No return address.
No signature.
Just one line:
“You’re marked. The Diablo Mafia eats princesses for breakfast.”
I blinked. Then blinked again. Surely that was some bad joke from a bitter ex or a jealous brat. But Marco—who was on the comms—noticed I’d stopped breathing mid-scroll.
“Signorina? What’s wrong?” he asked, eyes already scanning the perimeter like a hawk in an Armani suit.
“I just got a death threat,” I said, lifting my sunglasses, “in Arial. Can you imagine? At least kill me with some typography.”
Within five minutes, my convoy had flipped around like we were dodging a bomb.
And by the time I reached the family villa in Lake Como, Mama was crying into her pearls and Papa had smashed his second phone against the marble fireplace.
“The Diablos?” he shouted, pacing like a man who had personally decapitated rivals but couldn’t handle his daughter being on a hit list. “They wouldn’t dare! This is Gregori territory!”
“Papa, you say that as if we didn’t blow up their warehouse last Christmas like some demented version of Secret Santa,” I replied, sipping my imported coconut water with an arched brow.
My mother sniffled beside me. “We should have sent her to that convent in Switzerland,” she moaned, clutching her rosary that, of course, had diamonds instead of beads. “She could’ve learned to make cheese and not war!”
But my father wasn’t having it. “No. No, she’s staying here. We’ll triple the guards. Fortify the villa. I’m calling Luca.”
Everyone froze.
Ah fuck!
Luca. Not him! Please!
The last time Papa said that name, a man’s soul left his body without a formal exit.
“You mean Luca Bianchi?” I asked, raising a brow. “The Shadow Prince of Naples? The ‘I-kill-with-my-pinkie-ring’ guy? You trust him with me?”
Papa didn’t look up from his burner phone. “He owes me a favor. And he’s the only one who can keep you alive.”
Mama let out a wail like we were hosting a funeral. I rolled my eyes.
“Can I at least graduate before we go full La Femme Nikita?” I asked. “Or am I gonna have to do my diploma photos wearing Kevlar?”
They ignored me. Of course they did.
Because when you're the princess of Italy’s most feared Mafia dynasty, your voice is only half-heard… until you scream.
But here’s the thing:
They should’ve asked me first.
Because no one messes with my family.
And no one—no one—threatens this Gregori girl and lives to brag about it.
Let the Diablos come.
I’ve got stilettos, sass, and a vendetta.
That night, he arrived like a damn hurricane wrapped in cashmere and arrogance.
Luca Bianchi.
The Shadow Prince of Naples. The man, the myth, the absolute walking headache in a tailored black suit and an attitude that could burn cities. And unfortunately, the same man my Papa trusted to “keep me alive.” As if I were some antique vase in need of bubble wrap and low lighting.
He walked into the room like he owned the Gregori villa. Didn’t knock. Didn’t pause. Just breezed into Papa’s private study as if the marble floors were rolled out for his smug, perfectly polished leather shoes.
And when our eyes met?
Ugh.
His blue eyes still looked like they were forged from frozen arrogance and high-stakes poker nights. And those muscles? Sculpted by some cruel Roman god with too much time and not enough decency. The audacity. The smugness. I mean—how dare someone be an expert in everything? He could shoot a man between the eyes, drive a speedboat blindfolded, charm my mother into handing over family recipes, and apparently play bass in a jazz band? He probably moonlighted as a Michelin chef too. Disgusting.
And to make matters worse?
He ignored me.
I was standing right there—draped in silk, wearing red lipstick, looking like a threat wrapped in Cartier—and he didn’t even look at me. Just gave my Papa a nod, took the glass of wine handed to him like some Greek tragedy anti-hero, and dropped onto the dark velvet couch like he belonged there.
I was fuming.
“Excuse me,” I said, flipping my hair like a weapon and stomping in front of him in four-inch Louboutins, “are you under the impression that I’m invisible? Or just irrelevant now that you’re playing bodyguard again?”
Luca lifted his eyes—those eyes—and took a slow, condescending sip of wine. “Hello, Andria.”
God. His voice. Deep. Smooth. Smug. So smug it should be illegal in at least three countries.
“I see the tantrums have aged like fine wine,” he added with a lazy smirk.
I nearly combusted.
“Tantrum?” I gasped, hands on my hips. “This isn’t a tantrum, Luca. This is rage. Because apparently, my life is in danger, and instead of sending a trained assassin or literally anyone competent, Papa decided to drag in his favorite golden boy from the South. Who still thinks I’m ten years old and obsessed with his stupid motorcycle.”
He raised a brow. “Weren’t you?”
“I also thought peanut butter was a food group and tried to marry our driver twice. I’ve evolved.”
He chuckled.
I hated that he chuckled.
“Look, Signorina Gregori,” he said, putting the wine down and standing up to his full, infuriating height, “you may have a designer wardrobe and enough sass to run a small country, but this is a serious situation. The Diablos don’t send warnings unless they mean it. So unless you’ve suddenly become bulletproof or trained in tactical warfare, you’ll listen to me.”
I took one step closer.