The summons to my father’s office before breakfast was never an invitation; it was a subpoena. In the Garvano household, early morning meetings weren't for family bonding—they were for damage control. They were calculated warnings wrapped in the scent of expensive tobacco and impending bloodshed.

I stood before the mahogany doors, the family crest carved into the wood mocking me. I adjusted the hem of my oversized T-shirt, pulling the sleeves over my palms to hide the faint tremor of adrenaline. I knocked twice.

"Entra," my father’s voice sliced through the heavy wood. Cold. Absolute.

I stepped inside, my practiced mask of innocence ready, but the air in the room stopped me dead.

My father sat behind his monstrous desk—an altar of power that reduced everyone else to subjects. But he wasn’t the source of the sudden chill in the room. It was the shadow standing before him.

Tall. Broad. A silhouette of lethal precision clad in a suit so black it seemed to swallow the morning light. He didn't just occupy space; he dominated it. When he turned to face me, the movement was slow, predatory, and entirely unimpressed.

My breath hitched. My God.

He wasn't just handsome; he was a violent masterpiece. A jawline carved from granite, hair dark as a moonless night, and eyes… eyes so devoid of warmth they felt like looking into the barrel of a loaded gun. He looked like a man who had forgotten how to bleed, let alone smile.

I let out a low, jagged whistle. "Fuck. Is he the entertainment?"

"Valencia," my father snapped, the word hitting like a whip.

I blinked, forcing my gaze away from the human personification of a death warrant. "Yes, Papa?"

"This is Blake Caruso. Your shadow. Your keeper. Effective immediately."

My smirk died. "I’m sorry... my what?"

One of the associates dropped a thick dossier on the desk. I flipped it open, and my stomach did a slow roll. It was a digital autopsy of my life. High-res photos of me dancing on bars like a dervish, security stills of me flipping off cameras, infrared shots of me stumbling out of clubs with a stranger’s coat and a wild look in my eyes.

"The club incident was a misunderstanding," I said, slamming the file shut. "No one died. A few shattered bones, maybe. They'll live."

"And the 'associate' who took you to that warehouse?" my father asked, his voice a low growl.

I shrugged, feigning boredom. "He tied me to a chair. We were playing a game."

"He’s in a body bag, Valencia."

A faint, sharp smile touched my lips. "Yeah. I noticed."

The silence in the room became heavy, suffocating.

"I don't need a babysitter," I hissed, crossing my arms. "I need people to stay out of my way."

"You’re getting a bodyguard because you’ve become a liability," my father said, standing up. The power in the room shifted toward him like a tide. "And Blake isn’t here to keep you safe. He’s here to keep you in line. He has my full authority to use whatever... measures... are necessary."

"But—"

"Fine della discussione."

In this house, those words were a guillotine.

I turned on my heel, the heat of fury rising in my chest. I stormed out, but the heavy, rhythmic thud of boots followed me. A presence so dark it felt like a physical weight on my spine.

I stopped at the top of the stairs and spun around, looking up at him. "So, Blake... tell me. Are you my new guard dog, or just the latest man waiting for a chance to get into my bed?"

His expression didn't flicker. It was a mask of cold marble. "I’m the man paid to ensure you don’t end up in a ditch, ma'am. Don't confuse my proximity for interest."

"Ma'am? God, you're boring. You're just a glorified stalker."

"I am the barrier between you and the consequences of your own stupidity," he replied, his voice a low, vibrating baritone. "Call it what you like."

An hour later, I walked down the stairs, dressed in a black crop top and a red leather skirt that left nothing to the imagination. It was a middle finger in clothing form.

Blake was waiting by the door. His eyes flicked over me—a cold, clinical sweep—and then moved right past me to the window. Not a spark of desire. Not a hint of a reaction.

The audacity of this man.

"Are you allergic to beauty, or is your programming glitching?" I asked, brushing close enough that my perfume should have choked him.

"I’m scanning for threats," he said, stepping toward the SUV.

"Then you should be looking at me," I whispered, leaning in. "Because I'm the most dangerous thing in your life right now."

He didn't blink. He reached past me, shut the car door before I could enter, waited five agonizing seconds while scanning the street, and then opened it.

"Why the hell did you just shut me out like a child?" I snapped.

"The perimeter wasn't clear, Princess."

"Princess?" I arched a brow, a slow heat blooming in my chest. "Is that a pet name, Blake? Are we flirting already?"

"Don't flatter yourself," he said, his voice dropping to a deadly silk. "It’s a classification. High-maintenance, shielded, and blissfully unaware of how the world actually works."

I didn't answer. I just smiled. We’ll see how long that composure lasts when I start breaking your rules.

Southwood Academy was a playground for the elite, but today it felt like a stage. As I stepped out, the usual whispers began, but they weren't about my outfit. They were about the lethal shadow trailing three paces behind me.

My girls—Layla, Jessica, Sofi, and Ivy—were waiting in the courtyard. Their jaws practically hit the pavement.

"Valencia," Jessica purred, her eyes devouring Blake. "Who is the tall drink of sin? Did Papa finally buy you a pet?"

"He's my stalker," I said, my voice carrying.

Blake let out a sharp, dry cough. "Bodyguard."

Ivy stepped closer, twirling a lock of hair. "Bodyguard? Does that mean you're off-limits, or just... extra protected?"

"Have at him," I said, feeling a strange, sharp prick of annoyance I refused to call jealousy. "I don't mind sharing."

"I do," Blake muttered, the words almost too low to hear.

I whipped around. "What was that?"

"Nothing that concerns you."

The girls giggled, swarming him like vultures. I watched as he gritted his jaw, his hand twitching toward his side—likely wishing he could shoot his way out of the conversation.

In class, he stood at the back like a grim reaper in Armani. He didn't sit. He didn't relax. He watched the door, and he watched me.

Noah, the school’s star quarterback and resident thorn in my side, slid into the seat next to me. "Val. Party tonight. My place. Be there."

"Not in the mood, Noah."

"Come on, don't be like that. One night. I’ll make it worth your while." He reached out to touch my arm.

Before his fingers could graze my skin, a hand like a vice clamped onto his wrist. Blake was suddenly there—an eruption of silent violence. He towered over Noah, his shadow swallowing the boy whole.

"She said no," Blake said. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

"Who the fuck are you?" Noah stammered, his face turning a sickly shade of white.

"The man who will break your arm in three places if you touch her again," Blake whispered. It wasn't a boast. It was a promise.

Noah bolted.

I looked at Blake, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Jealous, Caruso?"

"I'm doing my job," he said, stepping back into the shadows. "Trash removal is part of the contract."

The fun really began in the Principal's office. Principal Harris looked like he was about to have a stroke.

"Valencia... Leah’s parents are calling for an arrest. They say you... you burned her Mercedes and had it airlifted into their pool?"

I leaned back, clicking my tongue. "The bitch needed a bath. And the car was an eyesore."

Harris paled. "You admitted it? Just like that?"

"Call my father if it's a problem," I challenged, knowing damn well it was a bluff. If my father found out I’d used one of the family choppers for a petty grudge, I’d be locked in the basement.

Harris shook his head frantically. "No, no. No need to involve Mr. Garvano. We’ll... we’ll handle the paperwork internally. A 'mechanical fire,' perhaps."

I smirked, standing up. "Good boy."

Out in the hallway, the silence from Blake was deafening. I stopped and faced him. "Going to tattle to Daddy? Tell him I’m a big, bad arsonist?"

Blake looked down at me, his eyes darkening with something that looked suspiciously like a challenge. "You used a heavy-lift helicopter to settle a grudge over a spilled drink."

"It was white Chanel, Blake. It was a declaration of war."

"You're a sociopath," he said, but his voice lacked its usual bite. He stepped closer, invading my personal space until I was forced against the locker. "You're reckless, impulsive, and you have no idea how close you are to falling off the edge."

I tilted my head back, my pulse thrumming in my throat. "Then why don't you catch me, Blake? Or are you afraid you'll fall too?"

He leaned down, his breath ghosting over my ear. "I don't catch things, Valencia. I contain them. Try me again, and I'll show you exactly how I report 'misbehavior' to your father."

He pulled away before I could respond, leaving me breathless and burning in the middle of the hall.

The game was on. And for the first time in my life, I wasn't sure if I was the hunter or the prey.

The cafeteria was a cacophony of high-pitched desperation and hormone-driven posturing—the kind of noise that made a man like me itch for a suppressed Glock and a silent exit. I trailed two paces behind Valencia, my eyes dissecting the room. I wasn't looking for lunch; I was mapping exits, identifying threats, and cataloging every entitled brat who looked at her with a hunger they weren't man enough to satisfy.

In this world, the Garvano name was a death warrant wrapped in gold. These kids played at being "bad," but they had no idea that the girl in the red leather skirt belonged to a dynasty that could erase their entire lineage before the bell rang for third period.

We reached her table—a shallow hive of designer silk, cloying perfume, and girls who looked at me like I was a prize to be hunted. It was nauseating.

"Go fetch my lunch, Blake," Valencia commanded, her voice dripping with a royal entitlement that made my jaw tighten. She looked up at me, her eyes dancing with the challenge of trying to break my professional mask.

I didn't argue. I needed the distance before I did something that would violate my contract.

But the universe apparently wanted me to spill blood today. As I moved toward the line, Noah—the human personification of a participation trophy—stepped into my path. He had a sidekick lurking behind him, emboldened by the audience of his peers.

"Hey, Shadow," he sneered, puffing out his chest. "You think that stunt in the classroom scared me? I was just caught off guard. You’re nothing but a glorified babysitter in a suit."

I stopped. I didn't reach for him. I didn't have to. I simply stepped into his personal space, let my height swallow him, and allowed the mask to slip just enough for him to see the abyss underneath.

"Listen to me, you pathetic little stain," I said, my voice a low, rhythmic vibration that didn't carry past his ears. "I am currently being paid to be civil. If I weren't, you wouldn't be standing. You’d be choking on your own teeth in the parking lot. Walk away before I decide the paycheck isn't worth the restraint."

The color drained from his face so fast it was almost poetic. He mumbled something incoherent about a team meeting and vanished into the crowd. Coward.

I grabbed Valencia’s overpriced salad—rabbit food for a girl with a predator’s soul—and returned to the table. I caught the tail end of a conversation that set my teeth on edge.

"There’s a soft opening tonight for The Vault in the West District," Layla was whispering, her eyes wide with excitement. "Word is, the Syndicate runs the VIP floor. Heavy hitters only."

"The Garvano name is a skeleton key for a place like that," Ivy added, leaning in. "You in, Val? It’s supposed to be legendary."

Valencia’s lips curled into a slow, wicked smirk. She knew I was listening. She felt my shadow over her shoulder and she thrived on it. "I’m in. First three rounds of Cristal are on me."

I caught her gaze. It was a silent war. Don’t even fucking think about it, my eyes told her.

She didn't blink. Her smile only sharpened, becoming a taunt. This girl wasn't just a menace; she was a suicide mission in a crop top. Her father would have my head on a pike if I let his daughter anywhere near a West District syndicate club after the stunt she pulled with the helicopter.

I felt a dark, cold satisfaction settle in my chest as I leaned down, placing the tray in front of her. I let my fingers brush against her shoulder—a brief, burning contact that made her breath hitch.

I leaned into her ear, my voice a ghost of a threat. "Enjoy your lunch, Princess. Eat up. You're going to need your strength for the disappointment waiting for you at the front gate."

I straightened up, a slow, predatory smirk finally touching my lips.

Go ahead, Valencia. Plan your little escape. I’ve spent my life hunting far more dangerous things than you. Your night is about to end before it even begins.

The ride back to the estate was a suffocating vacuum of silence. I sat in the plush leather of the SUV, the neon lights of LA blurring past us like streaks of spilled ink. Beside me, Blake was a statue of reinforced steel and cold intent.

"Blake..." I started, dropping my voice into a low, honeyed purr—the kind that usually made men trip over their own feet to please me. "You didn’t actually tell my father about the... aquatic incident, did you?"

"I did. Twenty minutes ago."

I gasped, the sting of betrayal sharp in my chest. "You absolute fucking traitor."

He didn’t even grant me a glance. his profile was a jagged edge against the window. "I’m your shadow, Valencia. Not your confidant. Certainly not your accomplice."

I shifted, sliding across the seat until my thigh brushed against his—a deliberate spark of friction. I looked up at him through my lashes, a wicked grin tugging at my lips. "What if I made it worth your while? A month of my undivided attention. Maybe two. I can be very... rewarding."

He let out a short, dry snort—a sound devoid of humor. "Is that your opening bid? Attempting to seduce the help?"

"It worked on Noah. He would’ve burned down the whole school if I’d asked."

Finally, he turned. He looked at me then, his eyes dark with a condescending pity that made my blood boil. "Noah is a boy playing with matches. I’m the man who handles the furnace. Your father needs to break you, Princess. Maybe then you’ll stop treating this Mafia legacy like a dress-up game."

I rolled my eyes, leaning back with a huff. "So basically, you’re just a mediocre guard who’s too scared to handle a girl like me without calling for backup."

He moved then—faster than I could track. He leaned into my space, his large hand gripping the headrest behind my ear, pinning me against the door. The scent of sandalwood and cold rain rolled off him, overwhelming my senses.

"You have no idea what I can handle, Valencia," he rasped, his voice a low, dangerous velvet. "Don't mistake my patience for weakness. If I ever decided to truly 'handle' you, you wouldn't be smiling."

My stomach did a violent somersault. I stared at him, my mouth dry. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

He didn’t answer. He simply pulled back, the cold air rushing in to fill the void he left behind.

We reached the Garvano mansion—a fortress of limestone and blood money. I practically fell out of the car, spinning around to stick my tongue out at him with all the maturity of a cornered cat before storming through the massive front doors.

Later that Evening

I was lounging on my silk sheets, mid-call with the girls, orchestrating the night’s chaos.

"The silver slip dress, definitely," I said into the phone. "And tell the driver to be at the back gate by eleven. We're going to make that club bleed cash tonight."

A sharp, rhythmic knock cut through my plotting.

"Ma’am," one of the household staff called through the wood. "Mr. Garvano is requesting your presence in the study. Immediately."

I groaned, falling back against the pillows. "That son of a bitch snitched."

Jessica’s laughter crackled through the speaker. "You mean your lethal, suit-clad wet dream? Sorry, Val. Call us after your sentencing."

I hung up and marched down the hallway, my heels clicking a war drum on the marble. I didn't bother with a polite knock; I pushed the double doors open with a flare of defiance.

"Yes, Papa? You missed me so much you couldn't wait until breakfast?"

My father didn't look up from his papers. The air in the study was thick with the weight of judgment. "Drop the petulance, Valencia. Blake has already briefed me on your little aeronautic display."

Of course he did.

"Would you like to explain why you thought incinerating a classmate's vehicle and dropping it into a pool was a productive use of family resources?"

"She insulted me. It was a matter of respect."

"Respect," he repeated, finally standing. He looked at me with eyes that had ordered hits on men far more powerful than I. "Valencia, revenge is a dish served by those who rule. Not by a spoiled girl playing with a helicopter she hasn't earned. You're becoming a liability to the name."

I tilted my chin up, my smile sharp and brittle. "So you're saying I should have just shot her? Is that more 'Mafia' of me?"

His eyes narrowed into lethal slits. "You're grounded. Two weeks. No parties, no clubs, no leaving this estate unless it's for school. Be grateful I’m not sending you to the villa in Sicily to reflect in silence."

"Two weeks?!" I shrieked. "The Vault opens tonight! Everyone who matters will be there!"

"No," he barked, his voice echoing off the walls. "It’s a Syndicate-run den, and you're too volatile to be trusted near our rivals. Niente ma. Get out."

I stormed out of the office, slamming the heavy doors so hard the glass rattled in its frames.

Blake was leaning against the opposite wall, his arms crossed over his broad chest. He didn't say a word, but the smug, knowing curve of his lips was louder than a shout. He looked like a man who had just watched a bird fly straight into the bars of its cage.

"You’re going to regret this," I hissed, stepping right into his space, my finger jabbing into his chest. "I’m going to make your life a living hell for this, Caruso."

He chuckled—a deep, dark sound that vibrated right through me. "I’ve survived war zones, Princess. I think I can handle a brat in a temper tantrum. I’m looking forward to the challenge."

I pushed past him, my skin buzzing where I'd touched him.

The war had officially begun. And he had no idea how dirty I was willing to play.

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