VICIOUS DEVOTION

CHAPTER FOUR : The Gala

One Week Later

The Grand Ballroom of the Asterian Palace glittered like a stolen constellation.

Crystal chandeliers cast diamond light across marble floors. Musicians played a waltz from a gilded balcony. Nobles in silk and jewels swirled through the crowd, champagne flutes in hand, smiles fixed in place like masks.

Serafina stood at the center of it all, a statue in crimson silk, and felt nothing.

She had worn her armor tonight—a gown of blood-red velvet that hugged her curves and plunged dangerously low. Her crown rested heavy on her brow. Her smile was perfect. Her eyes were dead.

Three days, she thought. Three days since he left.

She had burned through Dante's list like a wildfire. Two council members arrested. Three nobles stripped of their titles. Four assassins' accounts frozen. The palace was in chaos, and she had never felt more alive.

But at night, in the darkness of her chambers, she heard his voice.

I love you, Serafina.

She crushed the thought ruthlessly.

"Your Highness." Lady Marguerite, a simpering countess, appeared at her elbow. "You look absolutely radiant tonight. That gown—is it Valentino?"

"Bespoke," Serafina replied, her voice silk over steel. "The designer prefers to remain anonymous."

He's dead, she added silently. I had him killed for spying on me.

Marguerite giggled nervously and retreated. Good.

Serafina surveyed the room. Her enemies were in shambles. Her allies were wary. And somewhere out there, in the shadows of her city, a twenty-one-year-old mafia heir was watching her every move.

She knew it. She felt it. Like a hand on the back of her neck.

The music swelled. The dancers twirled. Serafina took a sip of champagne and waited for the trap to spring.

---

It happened at midnight.

The grand doors of the ballroom swung open. Not with a crash—no, that would be too theatrical. They simply opened, silently, and a man walked through.

He was tall. Youthful, with sharp cheekbones and a jaw that belonged on magazine covers. His black suit was immaculate, custom-tailored, the kind that cost more than most people made in a year. A blood-red tie glowed against his white shirt. His dark hair was swept back from his brow.

And his eyes—black as sin, burning with intensity—found Serafina across the room like a homing missile.

Dante.

He didn't walk toward her. He walked through the crowd like he owned it, and the crowd parted for him instinctively. Nobles who had never met him stepped aside. Guards who should have stopped him froze in place.

Because there was something about him. Something that screamed danger. Something that made even the most powerful men in the room step back.

He reached the center of the ballroom. The music faltered. Conversations died.

Dante Viscardi, heir to the deadliest criminal empire in the region, dropped to one knee in front of the Princess of Asteria.

The room gasped.

"Your Highness," he said, his voice carrying through the silence. "I have come to request a dance."

Serafina stared down at him. Her heart was pounding. Her hand itched for the knife strapped to her thigh.

He's insane. He's reckless. He's going to destroy everything.

"You're not on the guest list," she said, her voice ice.

He looked up at her, and his smile was devastating. "I'm not on any list, Princess. But I am persistent."

A titter of nervous laughter rippled through the crowd. This was a scene. A scandal. The criminal prince kneeling before the royal princess.

Serafina could have called the guards. She could have had him arrested, dragged away in chains, thrown into the darkest dungeon.

Instead, she placed her hand in his.

"One dance," she said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "And then you leave."

He rose, his hand closing around hers like a man who would never let go. "Of course, Your Highness. One dance."

---

The music started again. A waltz.

He led her to the center of the floor, and the other dancers melted away, leaving them alone. She could feel every eye in the room on them. She could hear the whispers.

Who is he?

Is that—no, it can't be—

The Viscardi heir? Here?

She ignored them all. Her attention was fixed on the man holding her.

"You're insane," she hissed, as he pulled her into the first turn. "This is a suicide mission. The guards will have you shot the moment this dance ends."

"I know." His hand pressed against the small of her back, drawing her closer than propriety allowed. "But it was worth it. You look devastating tonight, by the way. I almost forgot to breathe."

"Flattery won't save you."

"Who said I wanted to be saved?" He spun her, catching her against his chest. "I'm exactly where I want to be. In your arms. In your palace. In your world."

She wanted to push him away. She wanted to slap that smug smile off his face. Instead, she leaned into him, her lips brushing his ear.

"You're playing a dangerous game, little mafia boy."

"Little?" He laughed, low and dark. "I'm twenty-one, Angel. I'm older than I look. And I've been playing this game since before you knew my name."

She pulled back, meeting his eyes. "You're a child playing with fire."

"And you're the flame." He dipped her, holding her weight easily. "I'm not afraid to burn."

She should have been furious. She should have knee'd him in the groin and walked away.

Instead, she let him pull her upright, her body pressed against his, her heart racing.

"Why?" she whispered. "Why are you doing this?"

He looked at her—really looked. His eyes softened, the mask of arrogance slipping for just a moment.

"Because I've been alone my whole life," he said quietly. "I've had money. Power. Fear. But I've never had someone who looked at me and saw something worth saving. You did that, Serafina. You knelt in the gravel and bled for me, and you didn't even know my name. You're the only person in the world who has ever made me feel human."

"I didn't know who you were," she said, her voice cracking. "I would never have—"

"Yes, you would have." He smiled, sad and knowing. "Because that's who you are. You save people. You protect people. You love people, even when they don't deserve it. And I—" He stopped, swallowing hard. "I don't deserve you. But I'm going to spend the rest of my life trying to become worthy of you."

The music swelled. The dance was ending.

She looked into his eyes and saw the truth.

He wasn't pretending. He wasn't playing. He was utterly, devastatingly sincere.

"The dance is over," she whispered.

"I know." He released her slowly, stepping back. "I'll go. But I'll be back, Angel. I'll always be back."

He turned and walked away, through the crowd, toward the doors.

The guards raised their weapons.

"Let him go," Serafina said, her voice ringing through the ballroom.

They lowered their guns.

Dante paused at the door, looking back at her. His smile was soft. His eyes were burning.

"Until next time, Princess."

And then he was gone.

---

The ballroom erupted into chaos.

Whispers. Shouts. Nobles demanding answers.

Serafina stood in the center of it all, her heart pounding, her hands shaking.

She had just let a criminal prince walk out of her palace. She had just danced with the enemy in front of her entire court. She had just signed her own political death warrant.

And she didn't care.

Because for the first time in years—maybe for the first time ever—she had felt seen. Not as a princess. Not as a symbol. As a woman.

I'm in trouble, she realized. Deep, deep trouble.

But somewhere in the shadows of her heart, a voice whispered back: So is he.