Abby Talley POV

The chandeliers of the Grand Ballroom wept crystal, casting a splintered light over the monsters in tuxedos.

I stood near the entrance, clad in a dress the color of defiance. It was backless, spun from silk, and its bold cut was a statement in itself.

In my past life, Connor had chosen a modest, pale pink gown for me—something that made me look like a virgin sacrifice.

Tonight, I dressed for war.

The Rite of Choice was an archaic tradition, a gala where the daughters of the Outfit were formally pledged to high-ranking men. For me, it was supposed to be a formality. Everyone knew the arrangement. The Don owed my father a debt, and that debt was paid by marrying me to the Family's rising star, Connor Walls.

A hush fell over the room.

Connor had arrived.

He didn't walk in alone. He walked in with Jana clinging to his arm.

It was a calculated insult. A public dismissal before the ring was even on my finger. Jana wore a dress that was too tight, too short, and entirely inappropriate for a formal Family gathering.

But it was her neck that drew every eye.

Unseemly marks bloomed against her pale skin, telling a story of reckless possession.

Connor paraded her through the crowd, greeting Made Men, laughing, acting as if bringing his companion to his engagement ceremony was a power move.

And it was. He was showing everyone that I was nothing more than a business acquisition.

Then, he spotted me.

He handed Jana a glass of champagne and left her by the bar, cutting a path straight toward me. The crowd parted for him like the Red Sea. He was handsome, lethal, and rich. He was everything a mafia princess was supposed to want.

"Red," he said, stopping inches from me. His eyes raked over my body, possessing me without touching me. "A bold choice. I didn't approve this."

"I didn't ask for your approval," I said, taking a cool sip of my water.

He stepped closer, eliminating the space between us. His hand shot out, gripping my upper arm. His fingers tightened, a painful pressure that promised a bruise.

"You're making a scene, Abby," he hissed, his smile still plastered on his face for the onlookers. "First the gym, now this dress. You think playing hard to get makes you valuable? It just makes you annoying."

"And you think parading your companion around makes you look powerful?" I asked, looking pointedly at Jana, who was laughing loudly with a group of soldiers. "It makes you look like you have no discipline."

Connor's grip tightened. A sharp ache radiated down my arm.

"Watch your mouth," he whispered. "You'd do well to remember your position. The Don signed the papers this morning. Tonight is just a show. After this, I'll make sure you understand the rules."

I tried to pull my arm away. He held fast.

"Let go," I said.

"Or what?" he challenged. "You'll run to my brother? The Butcher?"

He laughed, a cruel, sharp sound.

"Brannon is a monster, Abby. He scares grown men. He lives in the shadows, dealing with the family's filth. Do you think he cares about a little bird like you?"

I looked past Connor's shoulder.

In the darkest corner of the room, leaning against a marble pillar, stood a man who looked like he was carved from granite. He wore a black suit that strained against his shoulders. He held no drink. He spoke to no one.

Brannon Walls.

In my last life, I was terrified of him. I believed the rumors. I believed he was a mindless beast who tortured people for the Family. I avoided him until the day I died.

But I knew the truth now.

I knew who had secretly paid for my father's funeral when Connor refused. I knew who had killed the men who tried to kidnap me three years ago. And I knew who had avenged my death in the timeline I left behind.

Connor followed my gaze and sneered.

"Don't look at him. He's an animal. I'm the Prince."

"Princes are just men with crowns," I said, dragging my gaze back to Connor. "And crowns can be knocked off."

Connor's eyes went flat. He squeezed my arm one last time, a warning pinch that sent a sharp spike of pain to my shoulder, then released me.

"Enjoy your freedom for the next hour, Abby," he said, smoothing his lapel. "Because after the ceremony, you're never leaving my sight again."

Abby Talley POV

The orchestra swelled, a crescendo that signaled the beginning of the Rite.

I moved toward the dais where the Don sat ensconced on a velvet throne, watching his kingdom with tired, heavy eyes.

But Jana intercepted me.

She held a glass of red wine, her knuckles tight around the stem. Her eyes were bright with malice. She timed it perfectly.

Just as I passed a group of Capos and their wives, Jana lunged forward, feigning a stumble on her high heels.

The wine splashed across the front of my red dress, leaving a dark, startling stain on the silk.

"Oh my god!" Jana shrieked, dropping the glass.

It shattered on the marble floor with a violent crash. "Abby! Why did you push me?"

The room went deathly silent.

Jana fell to her knees, sobbing dramatically. As she fell, her hand brushed against the broken glass, and she cried out in pain. "I was just trying to congratulate you! Why are you so jealous?"

It was a performance worthy of the stage. In my past life, I would have stammered, apologized, and scrambled to help her up.

Instead, I stood still, looking down at her.

"Get up, Jana," I said, my voice devoid of warmth. "You're embarrassing yourself."

Connor appeared instantly. He didn't look at the spilled wine. He didn't ask what happened.

He saw an audience, and he saw an opportunity to assert his dominance.

"What is wrong with you?" Connor shouted, his voice booming across the silent ballroom.

He grabbed my shoulder and spun me around to face him.

"She's your cousin! She has nothing, and you treat her like trash because you're insecure?"

"She threw the wine, Connor," I said calmly. "Ask the Capo behind me. He saw it."

But Connor didn't care about the truth. He cared about the narrative. He cared about breaking me down publicly so that no one would question it when I disappeared into his penthouse later.

"Don't lie to me!"

His hand moved faster than I could react.

A sharp sting bloomed across my cheek, and the world went silent. The impact was less a sound and more a sudden, deafening pressure that stole the air from the room.

My head snapped to the side. A dull, throbbing ache began to spread from my jaw.

The gasp from the room sucked the air out of the space.

In our world, striking a Made Man was a grave offense. Striking a woman under the Don's protection, at a formal ceremony, was… complicated.

But Connor was the Golden Boy. He was the heir. He banked on his privilege protecting him.

Slowly, deliberately, I turned my head back to face him. My cheek throbbed, but I didn't touch it. I didn't cry.

Connor looked momentarily stunned by his own violence, or perhaps by the fact that I hadn't crumbled. Then, his arrogance returned.

"You needed to be calmed down," he announced, loud enough for the Don to hear. "She's hysterical. Look at her."

I wasn't hysterical. I was ice.

"Is that how you treat what you claim to value, Connor?" I asked, my voice clear.

"Do you damage it before the ink is even dry?"

"You think you can escape my influence?" he sneered, leaning in close. "I can take everything from you. I can throw you on the street. You are nothing without me."

I looked past him.

The shadows in the far corner of the room seemed to detach themselves from the wall. A figure was moving. Not walking—stalking.

The crowd parted, not out of respect this time, but out of pure, primal fear.

Brannon Walls stepped into the light.

He was huge, broad-shouldered and towering, a monolith of a man. A scar ran through his left eyebrow, giving him a permanent scowl.

He didn't look at Connor. He didn't look at the Don.

His dark, empty eyes were locked with lethal focus on the red mark blooming on my cheek.

Abby Talley POV

The temperature in the ballroom didn't just drop; it plummeted, sucking the oxygen right out of the air.

Brannon stopped three feet away from us. He stood like a monolith of silence in a room fracturing with noise. He dwarfed Connor, making the "Golden Prince" look less like royalty and more like a petulant child caught playing with matches.

Brannon didn't speak immediately. His dark eyes swept over the broken glass on the floor before shifting to Jana, who had stopped crying and was now staring at him with wide, terrified eyes.

Then, he looked at me.

His gaze was heavy, physical. It felt like a touch. When he reached out, his knuckles grazed the line of my jaw, his touch a shocking, paradoxical gentleness against my stinging skin. His jaw muscle feathered—a tiny tic that betrayed a tectonic rage shifting beneath his stoic mask.

"Who did this?"

His voice was a deep rumble, vibrating through the floorboards. It was a demand for truth, heavy with unspoken consequences.

Connor stepped between us, puffing out his chest in a vain attempt to reclaim his territory.

"Back off, Brannon," Connor said, though his voice lacked its usual confidence, cracking slightly at the edges. "This is a domestic dispute. It doesn't concern the Enforcer."

Brannon didn't even blink. He didn't deign to look at his brother. He kept his eyes locked on me.

"Abby," Brannon said. "Who?"

I saw the flicker of uncertainty in Connor's eyes. He knew Brannon. He knew that Brannon lived by a code that the rest of them had forgotten. He had a line, and he never allowed it to be crossed.

"She fell," Connor lied quickly, the words tumbling out too fast. "She's clumsy. Aren't you, Abby?"

He reached for my hand, a silent threat digging into my skin. "Tell him."

I looked at Connor's hand on my wrist. Then I looked at Brannon.

For years, I thought Brannon was the monster because he was covered in blood. I never realized the blood wasn't his—it was the blood of the men who threatened the Family. He wasn't the wolf; he was the wall that kept the wolves out.

I ripped my hand away from Connor.

"He hit me," I said.

The truth hung in the air, sharp and undeniable.

Connor's face went red. "You lying—"

Brannon moved.

It was a subtle shift, just a step forward, but it forced Connor to scramble back as if burned. Brannon placed himself between me and Connor, his presence an unbreachable shield.

"The Rite has begun," the Herald announced from the stage, his voice trembling slightly. "Bring forward the bride."

The timing broke the tension, but only just.

Brannon turned his back on Connor, dismissing him completely. He looked down at me. Up close, he smelled of rain and sandalwood, not the metallic scent of violence I expected.

"Are you sure?" Brannon asked quietly.

He wasn't asking if I was sure about the accusation. He was asking if I was sure about what I was about to do. He knew. Somehow, he knew I wasn't going to walk up to that dais and pledge myself to Connor.

"I'm sure," I whispered.

"Then walk," he said. "I'm right behind you."

I walked past Connor, who was fuming, held back by two of his own soldiers who sensed the volatility of the situation. I walked toward the Don.

But I didn't stop at the designated mark for Connor's fiancée.

I kept walking until I stood in the center of the room. I turned to face the crowd. Then, I shifted my gaze past them, locking eyes with the monster standing guard in the shadows—the man who had just become my only hope.