VICIOUS DEVOTION

CHAPTER THREE : The discovery

Three Days Later

Serafina had almost convinced herself she'd imagined him.

The boy—Marco, he'd called himself—had been a ghost in her palace for three days. He ate the food she sent, spoke only when spoken to, and kept his eyes down like a properly chastened servant. He was polite. Grateful. Utterly forgettable.

And yet.

She found herself walking past the infirmary door more often than necessary. She caught herself wondering if he'd slept through the night. If his wound was healing properly. If his smile—that infuriating, knowing smile—would flash at her when she entered the room.

Stop it, she told herself for the hundredth time. He's a criminal. He's beneath you. He's—

"Your Highness."

Her head of security, Commander Voss, stood in the doorway of her study, his grizzled face set in grim lines. He was a veteran of three wars and two assassination attempts, and he didn't look worried often.

When he did, Serafina paid attention.

"What is it, Voss?"

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "We've intercepted a communication. From the Viscardi syndicate."

Serafina's blood chilled. The Viscardis were the most powerful criminal organization in the region—a hydra with a thousand heads, impossible to destroy. They operated in the shadows, laundering money, trafficking weapons, and eliminating anyone who crossed them.

"Il Fantasma," she said slowly. "The Ghost himself?"

Voss nodded. "Him. We've been tracking his movements for months. He's young—barely more than a boy—but he's already consolidated power across three territories. Ruthless. Brilliant. And—" He paused, his jaw tightening. "—completely obsessed with you, Your Highness."

Serafina's heart stuttered. "Excuse me?"

Voss placed a tablet on her desk. On the screen was a grainy surveillance photo—a young man in a black suit, his face half-turned from the camera. Even in blurry pixels, she could see the sharp jaw, the dark hair, the coiled stillness of a predator.

"We've intercepted messages between his lieutenants," Voss continued. "He's been tracking your schedule for two years. He knows when you leave the palace. Where you go. Who you meet. He's been—" Voss paused, clearly uncomfortable. "—collecting information about you. Personal details. Preferences. Routine."

Serafina stared at the photo. Something cold and terrible was unfurling in her chest.

Two years.

"Show me his face," she said, her voice hollow. "A clear image."

Voss swiped the screen. A sharper image appeared—a photograph from a gala, the young man mid-laugh, his dark eyes crinkling with amusement.

Serafina's world tilted.

She knew that face.

She had stitched that face. She had watched that face sleep. She had let that face call her "Angel" while she stood helpless in the infirmary.

Marco.

Dante.

Il Fantasma.

The boy in her infirmary. The bleeding, broken, pitiful boy—was the Ghost. The most dangerous man in the underworld. The man who had been hunting her for two years.

And she had brought him into her palace.

"Voss," she said, her voice steady despite the screaming inside her skull. "Get me the infirmary footage. Now."

---

Five minutes later, she watched the screen in silence.

The security camera showed the infirmary room. Marco—Dante—lying in the bed she'd placed him in. Talking to her. Touching her wrist. Lying to her with those wide, earnest eyes.

She watched herself sit on the edge of his bed. She watched herself tell him her first name.

Idiot. Fool. Naïve, stupid, lovesick i***t.

"Your Highness?" Voss's voice was sharp with concern. "Are you all right?"

Serafina stood up so fast her chair scraped backward. Her hand went to the knife strapped to her thigh.

"Where is he?" she demanded. "The boy from the alley. Where is he right now?"

Voss blinked. "He's in the infirmary, Highness. You ordered him kept there until—"

"Get four guards," she cut him off. "Armed. Meet me at the infirmary door in two minutes. And Voss—" She met his eyes, her gaze blazing. "If he tries to escape, shoot to disable. Not to kill. I want him alive."

---

She burst through the infirmary doors with her guards at her heels.

Dante was sitting up in bed, a book in his lap, looking impossibly innocent. His eyes widened as she entered—the picture of startled surprise.

"Your Highness? What's wrong? Is there—"

"Get up," she said, her voice ice.

He blinked. "I'm sorry?"

You will be.

She crossed the room in three strides, grabbed his collar, and dragged him to his feet. Her guards leveled their weapons at his chest. He didn't flinch. He just looked at her with that infuriatingly calm expression.

"Easy now, Angel," he murmured. "You're going to tear your stitches."

"Don't you dare call me that."

His eyes flickered. Something cold and knowing settled in their depths.

"Ah," he said softly. "You found out."

She shoved him back against the wall, her knife at his throat. The guards shouted. She ignored them.

"Marco," she hissed. "Or should I say Dante Viscardi? Il Fantasma? The Ghost who's been stalking me for two years?"

He looked down at her—down, the bastard, like she was a tantruming child—and smiled. That slow, knowing, devastating smile.

"You're even more beautiful when you're furious," he murmured. "I've been wondering what you'd look like. It's better than I imagined."

"Answer me!"

"With pleasure." He leaned into her blade, pressing the edge against his skin until a thin line of blood appeared. "My name is Dante Viscardi. I am the heir to the Viscardi crime empire. I orchestrated my own injury to get close to you. I've been watching you for two years, Princess. I know your coffee order, your perfume, your secret visits to the slums. I know you haven't slept through the night since your father died. And I know—" His voice dropped to a whisper. "—that you've been thinking about me since you stitched me up."

She pressed the blade harder. "You're a dead man."

"Probably." He didn't even blink. "But you won't kill me."

"You don't know me."

"Oh, Angel." He reached up and cupped her cheek—slowly, deliberately, like he had all the time in the world. "I know you better than you know yourself. You saved a dying stranger because you can't bear to let anyone die alone. You're strong, brilliant, and so devastatingly lonely it breaks my heart. And I—" He tilted his head, his gaze burning. "—I am going to burn down everything you hate and hand you the ashes. Because you deserve someone who fights for you. And I am going to be that man. Whether you like it or not."

She should have cut his throat.

She should have thrown him in the dungeons.

Instead, she stood frozen, her knife at his neck, his hand warm on her cheek, and felt something terrible and undeniable bloom in her chest.

He's insane, she thought. He's dangerous. He's—

He's the only one who's ever seen me.

She pulled back, shoving his hand away. Her voice, when she spoke, was dangerously low.

"You have exactly one minute to explain yourself. And then—"

"Then you'll have me thrown out." He smiled again. "I know. I've already planned for that. But before you do—" He reached into the pocket of his borrowed pajama pants and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "—read this. You'll understand."

She snatched it from his hand. It was a list. Names, dates, account numbers.

"What is this?"

"Your enemies," he said simply. "Every council member who's been embezzling from your treasury. Every noble who's been conspiring to have you removed. Every assassin who's been paid to put a bullet in your head. I've been collecting their secrets for years. For you."

She stared at the list. Her hands were trembling.

"Why?" she whispered.

He stepped closer, ignoring the guards' weapons. His voice dropped to a whisper.

"Because I love you, Serafina." He said it like it was the simplest truth in the universe. "I've loved you since the moment I saw you walk through that slum, carrying a dying dog to the vet. I've loved you since I watched you face the council alone. I've loved you since you knelt in the gravel and bled for me. And I will spend the rest of my life proving to you that I am the only person in this world who will ever be worthy of you."

She wanted to deny it.

She wanted to laugh in his face.

Instead, she looked at the list in her hands—her enemies, her betrayers, her salvation—and wondered if she had just traded one cage for another.

"Get out," she whispered.

He nodded slowly. "I'll go. But I'll be back. And when I am—" He stepped past her, close enough that his breath brushed her ear. "—you'll be ready for me, Angel. I know you will."

---

He left.

The guards escorted him out, just as she'd ordered.

And Serafina stood alone in the infirmary, clutching the list of names that would burn her enemies to the ground, and felt the cold, terrifying certainty that she had just met her match.

He doesn't love gently, she realized. He loves viciously.

And somewhere in the shadows of her heart, a voice whispered back: So do I.