★★Leon's POV★★



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As I walked away, leaving Damien and Antonio to deal with her, her voice followed me down the hallway like an echo.

"Take one more step, and I swear I'll gouge your eyeballs out and shove them down your throats!" she screamed at the top of her lungs.

I couldn't help the smirk that tugged at my lips. God, she's relentless. There was something disturbingly satisfying about hearing her threats, like she was challenging the world with every fiber of her being.

It was almost... entertaining.

Her voice, dripping with fury and defiance, filled the halls like a melody of rebellion. The thought of her spirit, so fiery and untamed, only made me want to crush it further—to see just how much she could take before breaking.

But as much as I enjoyed hearing her shout, I promised myself one thing: that's all she would ever do. Scream. Not out of rage or defiance, but from pain.

Agony.

The kind of suffering that lingers in the bones and etches itself into the soul.

My smirk deepened as her voice echoed faintly behind me, fading as I walked further down the hall. Yes, Mariella De Angelis could scream all she wanted.

It wouldn't change a damn thing.

Her voice grew fainter the farther I walked until silence consumed the corridor. Eventually, I reached my office. The shattered glass from earlier still littered the floor, a reminder of how quickly things could spiral into chaos. I brushed the debris aside with my shoe before slumping into my chair, leaning back until the old leather creaked.

Resting an elbow on the armrest, I rubbed my temples. My mind replayed Damien's words, each syllable etching itself deeper into my thoughts.

The Italians, huh?

Then her voice crept into my mind, unbidden and sharp. "I'm Mariella De Angelis."

She had said it with such venom, glaring at me as if her name alone should be enough to bring me to my knees. De Angelis. I chuckled bitterly, letting the weight of it sink in. The princess of the Italians mafia.

This wasn't just an issue; this was a ticking time bomb.

I sighed, dragging my hand down my face in frustration. Now I have to deal with this mess.

Pulling my phone from my pocket, I scrolled through my contacts until I found the name I was dreading to see: Father.

The name glared back at me, taunting me. I hovered my finger over it, hesitating.

Damn it, Leon. Just get it over with.

Finally, I hit the call button, raising the phone to my ear. The line rang once. Twice. By the third ring, his deep, composed voice answered.

"Leon," he said. No pleasantries. No small talk. Just my name, straight to the point.

I exhaled slowly, pressing my fingers against my temple, trying to keep my mind from spiraling out of control. "Sir," I said, my voice clipped and tight, each word controlled. "We've got a problem."

There was a brief, agonizing silence on the other end. My heart thudded in my chest, a constant beat of tension that refused to dissipate.

"Yes," he replied, his tone unnervingly calm. Too calm. "I've already been informed."

I leaned back in my chair, irritation gnawing at me. Of course, he knew. He always knew. "Mariella De Angelis," I said, letting her name hang in the air, testing it, tasting it. She was the daughter of the fucking De Angelis, a family whose reputation stretched across borders like a shadow.

"Yes," he said, his voice unwavering, as if he were speaking about a minor inconvenience. "Luciano De Angelis's daughter. The leader to the Italian mafia."

The name hit me like a slap to the face. Luciano De Angelis. The man whose name alone could command entire nations to bend the knee. The Italian mafia. I could practically feel the weight of it pressing against my chest. My voice faltered, barely a whisper. "The Luciano De Angelis?"

"Yes," he confirmed, his tone the same detached, emotionless drone.

I clenched my jaw, my mind racing, trying to process what this meant. "What's the play here?" I forced the words out through gritted teeth. "What do we do now that we're on their radar?"

His next words cut through the tension like a blade. "There's no play, Leon. There's no plan."

I froze, a hot wave of confusion and frustration flooding my veins. "What the fuck do you mean, 'no plan'?" I demanded, my voice rising, a mix of disbelief and anger seeping through.

"It's fine," he said, his voice maddeningly calm. "It's not going to be an issue."

I felt a surge of frustration claw at my chest. "Not an issue? We have their princess. They're going to retaliate. That's what they do!"

"That won't happen," he said, his voice unwavering. "Luciano already knows we have her. In fact, he reached out to me first. We've already talked."

The world stopped spinning for a second. I blinked, my mind struggling to catch up. "You talked?" I asked, the disbelief leaking into my voice. "How the hell did you manage that?"

He sighed, as if the whole thing was so simple it barely warranted his attention. "Luciano and I go way back. We were in the same university in America. We were... close. Best friends, even. When we graduated, life took us down different paths. He returned to Italy to take over his family's business. I stayed here and built the French mafia." His voice grew even more distant, as if recounting an old memory. "It wasn't until recently that I discovered he's the head of the Italian mafia, just as he found out what I was doing here."

I was still trying to piece it all together. "So, what does that mean for us?"

"It means," his voice sharpened, no room for argument, "I've already made an agreement with him. I gave Luciano my word that his daughter would be returned to him. Unharmed. That's the deal."

I felt my stomach drop. "You made a deal with him?" My voice was a low growl now, the words coming out like they were coated in steel. "You're sure you want to do that? After all this?"

He didn't flinch. "Yes, Leon. I promised Luciano. I gave him my word. He'll get her back, in one piece. No complications. No games. This is bigger than you."

I wanted to scream, the frustration clawing at my insides. "But this woman—she's a goddamn nightmare!" I spat, my voice low and dangerous, each word dripping with venom. "She's not some fucking prize you can hand over without consequences." The weight of my words hung in the air like a threat, sharp and suffocating. "You think I'm just going to let her walk away from this? You have no idea what you're asking me to do."

He ignored me, his tone now clipped. "I've made my promise, Leon. Luciano's coming here himself to collect her. He'll be here soon. This ends now. No more drama."

I could hear the underlying menace in his voice, the warning I wasn't sure I wanted to follow. "This ends now?" I repeated, my voice rising in disbelief. "You want me to just—just hand her over like some fucking package?"

His tone became ice-cold, and for the first time, I felt the full weight of his authority. "I'm giving you an order, Leon. The promise I made stands. She is to be unharmed. Not a scratch. Don't test me."

A bitter laugh escaped me, thick with frustration and rage. "Unharmed," I repeated, the word dripping with mockery. "You think I'll just hand her over, pristine and untouched? You've got another thing coming." My fists clenched at my sides, the anger simmering beneath the surface. "I'm not some fucking babysitter. She's not some fragile little princess, and you better pray I don't make her regret crossing me." The threat was there, heavy in my tone, every word sharp enough to cut through steel

"Leon." my father's voice snapped, a sharp edge to it now. "I'm not asking you to coddle her. I'm telling you to bring her back alive. This is not a negotiation."

I clenched the phone so tight my knuckles whitened. "Fine," I muttered through clenched teeth. "I'll bring her back. Alive. Unharmed. But don't expect me to like it."

"Good," he said, his voice smooth and final. "We'll be done with this soon enough."

Before I could respond, the line went dead.

I sat there in the suffocating silence, the weight of the promise I'd just made pressing down on me. She was right. Mariella De Angelis—the Italian mafia princess—wasn't just any girl. And now I had to deliver her back into the lion's den, unharmed.

But the question gnawed at me. What happens when Luciano realizes I've done more than just take his daughter? What happens when he finds out exactly how far I'm willing to go?

Let the games continue.I stood there for a moment, the silence in the room deafening. My fingers tightened around the phone as frustration boiled over.

Unharmed. The word echoed in my head, mocking me. She'd already caused enough chaos in less than 24 hours.

Now I was expected to handle her with care? To play nice?

I slammed the phone down on the desk and rose from my chair, pacing the room in a futile attempt to cool down. But the rage was like fire in my veins, refusing to die down.

With a sharp growl of frustration, I whirled around and drove my fist straight into the nearest wall. The drywall cracked and caved under the force of the blow, splintering around my knuckles. Dust and bits of plaster crumbled to the floor as I stood there, breathing heavily, staring at the damage I'd caused.

But it wasn't enough.

I punched the wall again, harder this time, until my knuckles burned and blood trickled down my hand. I stepped back, my chest heaving, my mind still reeling.

Unharmed.

The word rang in my ears again, taunting me.

I shook my head, running my hand through my hair, frustration consuming me. "Fucking hell," I muttered under my breath, my grip tightening as the voices started to creep back in, clawing at my mind, echoing in the darkness. It felt like they were inside my skull, gnawing at the edges of my sanity, threatening to crack me open all over again. I clenched my jaw, trying to push them back, but it was useless. They were there, relentless, relentless, like a constant buzz in my ears.

The weight of everything—of her, of the deal, of the promise to Luciano—pressed down on me, and I felt the tension in my chest tighten, the urge to snap, to break, rising like a tide I couldn't control.

For the first time in a long time, I felt trapped. Trapped by promises I hadn't made, by expectations I couldn't meet, and by the infuriating presence of that woman.

I turned to the shattered remains of my office, the broken glass and now the crumbling wall a reflection of the chaos swirling in my mind.

This wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

****

The engine hums softly as I lean against the car, typing away at the emails I've been putting off for the past hour. Outside, the fleet of SUVs is lined up like a military operation, the guards standing in sharp, disciplined rows—eyes scanning, waiting for Damien and Antonio to bring out the damn princess.

I hear them before I see them. Antonio's loud voice carrying, that unmistakable sound of bubble gum popping as he talks. Then comes the silence of Damien, the ever-stoic one, walking with purpose as he carries her.

I glance up just as they approach. Damien's carrying Mariella like she's nothing—her body dangling limp, arms and legs hanging from his shoulder. She looks almost delicate, but I know better. Her ruffled brown hair has dried, the wet strands settling against her skin. As they get closer, I can't help but notice her ass, lifted in the air. My eyes linger on it longer than I should, caught in some kind of trance. I force myself to look away, biting my tongue.

Focus, Leon. She's trouble. Nothing more.

I clear my throat and step off the car, watching as a guard rushes to open the door to the car for them. Damien moves to put her in the backseat, his voice low and commanding: "Careful. It's important she can't have a bruise."

I walk toward the car, my hands slipping deeper into my pockets. As I approach, I see her lying there—one arm sprawled out on the seat, the other hanging loosely off the edge. Her face. For a moment, I freeze. Something about her expression—the subtle defiance even in unconsciousness—gets under my skin.

I push her legs in roughly, trying not to let the irritation show on my face. The door slams shut with a hard bang, the sound echoing in the air like a release of all the tension I've been holding.

Turning around, I lock eyes with Damien. He's staring at me like he knows exactly what I'm thinking.

"What?" I snap, my voice low and annoyed. The last thing I need right now is his smirk adding fuel to the fire.

Damien doesn't miss a beat. His lips curl into a small, almost taunting smirk. He chuckles softly, as if this whole thing amuses him. I hate it. I hate the way he seems so unfazed by it all. He slides into the passenger seat without saying another word.

I stand there for a second, trying to shake off the frustration clawing at me. I scoff and finally climb into the driver's seat, slamming the door shut with a bit more force than necessary. Antonio slides in next to Mariella in the backseat, and I turn the key in the ignition.

The car rolls down the highway, the hum of the engine the only thing that cuts through the thick silence, aside from the occasional chatter of the guards. They stay close, a wall of security as we head toward the compound. But my mind? It's a storm of thoughts, replaying everything from earlier in the day—the chaos, the tension, the way things shifted when Mariella's name came up.

I lean back in the seat, one hand gripping the wheel while my other elbow rests on the center console. I tilt my head slightly, feeling the weight of the day, the growing irritation simmering beneath my skin.

Then, as expected, Damien breaks the silence, his voice carrying that infuriatingly smug tone he's perfected. "So she's the one who had you looking like a lovesick puppy that night, huh?"

I feel my jaw tighten, but I don't take the bait. Not this time.

Damien smirks and leans back, clearly amused. Antonio, on the other hand, leans forward between us, eyes wide with disbelief. "Wait, what night?" he asks, his voice loud. "You've met her before?" His gaze shifts to the unconscious girl in the backseat.

I scoff, already knowing there's no way out of this conversation. My grip tightens on the steering wheel as I force my eyes back to the road. "I didn't meet her," I explain, my tone as casual as I can manage. "I just saw her at the club that night we went out in New York City, thats all."

I can feel their eyes on me, but I don't look away, praying they won't dig deeper. It's a half-truth, but not enough for them to catch me in the lie.

Damien, never one to let a comment slide, leans in slightly and smirks. "Really? I remember you practically ready to go down on your knees for her."

That damn mocking tone makes my blood boil, but I won't give him the satisfaction. He's fishing for a reaction, but I'm not about to give it to him.

"Careful, brother," I warn, my voice low and menacing, "Remember I'm the one behind the wheel, so don't think for a second I won't drive this vehicle off a fucking cliff."

They exchange a glance, and then they both chuckle like a couple of schoolboys. I roll my eyes, my grip on the wheel tightening. The temptation to take that cliff route is honestly growing.

Antonio's voice cuts through the growing tension, his tone casual yet curious. "You know, she's probably the prettiest girl I've seen," he says, and I can feel his gaze shifting toward her in the backseat. "She's got that, uh, innocent look—like she doesn't belong in this world. But there's something about her eyes, like a fire's burning just beneath the surface."

I scoff, my grip tightening on the steering wheel. Pretty? Her? The same girl who spat venom at me earlier, who glared at me like she could set me on fire with her rage alone? The same girl who—if we're being honest—might actually try to kill me if she got the chance?

I tilt my head slightly, catching her reflection in the rearview mirror. Her body lies motionless, her hair a mess of soft waves spilling over the seat. For a moment, I hesitate. With her features softened by unconsciousness, there's none of that ferocity she carries when she's awake. She almost looks... peaceful. Like someone who's never had to spill blood to survive.

But I know better.

My lips twist into a smirk, the fleeting thought banished by the memory of who she is. No way. She's not pretty. She's a headache—a disaster wrapped in delicate packaging, designed to make you lower your guard before she cuts you down.

The irritation creeps into my chest, and without thinking, my foot presses a little too hard on the brake. The car jerks forward, and her limp body slides off the seat, landing on the floor with a dull thud. Her arm flops awkwardly, and her head tilts against the doorframe.

"Sérieusement, Léon? (Seriously, Leon?)". Antonio snaps, his voice sharp as he leans forward to scoop her up. He shifts her back onto the seat with a frustrated sigh, muttering under his breath as he props her head against the door. "What the hell's wrong with you? You're driving like a maniac."

Damien chuckles from the passenger seat, clearly entertained. "Real smooth, Leon. Real subtle. Definitely not on purpose."

I shoot him a glare but don't respond, my smirk returning as I focus back on the road. "She's fine," I say dismissively, my tone dripping with indifference. "Not my fault she can't stay in one place."

Antonio groans, leaning back in his seat with a shake of his head. "Maybe don't drive like you're trying to throw her out of the car."

I scoff, a cruel smirk tugging at my lips. "Pretty?" I mutter, my voice laced with sarcasm. "Yeah, she's about as pretty as a bullet to the chest."

Antonio's brow furrows, clearly thrown by my response. Damien lets out another amused laugh, but I'm not in the mood for their games. I keep my focus on the road, the lines on the pavement blurring as the frustration simmers under my skin.

"Don't know what you're seeing," I add, my voice cold, "but what I see is trouble. Wrapped in a nice package, sure, but trouble all the same." My gaze flicks to the mirror again, her hair tumbling over the seat like it's mocking me. "Nothing pretty about that."

Antonio mutters something about me being insufferable, but I don't care. They can think what they want. I've already decided. Mariella De Angelis isn't pretty—she's a problem. And the last thing I need is to let my guard down because of her.

After nearly an hour and a half of blessed silence on the road, the dark curtain of night had fully fallen by the time we reached the estate. The long driveway stretched before us, lined with glowing lamps casting eerie shadows against the trees. As the house came into view, so did the gathering of staff waiting at the entrance—maids and guards standing in neat rows, and my mother standing among them, hands clasped tightly in front of her. Always the picture of composure... until she wasn't.

I brought the car to a halt directly in front of the house, switching off the engine. My gaze flicked to the backseat where Mariella lay, still blissfully unconscious. Something about her sleeping form ignited an inexplicable irritation in me. Maybe it was how peaceful she looked, considering the chaos she'd caused. I exhaled sharply, shaking off the thought as Damien and Antonio climbed out of the car.

I followed suit, barely shutting the door before my mother rushed toward us, her arms wide open like we'd just returned from war. She wrapped us in a tight hug, nearly squeezing the life out of Damien and Antonio in the process.

"Mama," Damien groaned, "We were gone for a day. Not a year."

"Chut tais-toi (Shh, be quiet,)" she shot back, her voice quivering as she held onto him for a second longer. "Let me savor this moment."

She finally released them and turned toward the car, her gaze sharp and inquisitive. "Your father said we're having a guest?" she asked, eyes narrowing as if she already knew the answer wouldn't please her.

A smirk tugged at my lips. "Yeah, but unfortunately, she's unconscious." My tone was mockingly casual, earning me a wide-eyed look from her.

"Unconscious?" she repeated, her hands clasping together like she was about to start praying. "What do you mean unconscious? Is she hurt?" The panic in her voice was immediate and, honestly, a little dramatic.

Antonio jumped in before I could say something that would really set her off. "Oh no, Mrs. Laurent. She's not hurt. We just... put her to sleep." His voice was careful, but I could see the sweat forming on his brow.

"Unfortunately," I added flatly, earning stares from all of them.

Antonio cleared his throat nervously and forced a chuckle. "Uh, yeah. Because, um, she's a little feisty."

"Feisty?" my mother echoed, her concern morphing into suspicion.

"She tried to bite me, Mama," I said, smirking as I stepped past her and signaled one of the guards. "Il suffit de la jeter dans une pièce (Just toss her in a room.)"

The guard nodded and strode to the car, opening the door. He slung her over his shoulder with practiced ease, her limp body dangling as her hair swayed like a pendulum. My mother took a step toward them, her maternal instincts kicking in as she reached out.

"Sois prudente, maman (Careful, Mama,)" I warned, stepping into her path. "Last time I got too close, let's just say it didn't end pretty." I gestured to the bruise forming on my forehead.

She froze, her eyes wide as she looked from me to Mariella. Finally, with a reluctant nod, she stepped back, watching as the guard carried the girl into the house.

"Go on, you boys," she said after a moment, turning back to us. "Get some rest. Your father isn't here—he's out taking care of some business."

Didn't have to tell me twice. I leaned in, kissed her cheek, and muttered, "Bonne nuit, maman(Goodnight, Mama,) " before heading inside. The day had drained every ounce of my patience, and I could already feel the weight of tomorrow pressing down on me.

Another long day with the feisty headache upstairs.

Fucking hell.

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Well??? how are we feeling?

The French and Italians crossover???

*Guys i ran out of questions...*(help me lol)

Bye, lovies! (っ◔◡◔)っ

Maddie♡