Vincenzo's POV
I have two hours to save my life, and I don't even know what crime I'm accused of.
My hands shake as I lock the door and lean against it. Think, Vincenzo. In my old life, when the FBI raided my warehouses or rival families tried to set me up, I survived by knowing everything—every detail, every enemy, every weakness. Information is power.
Right now, I have no information. Just scattered memories from a drunk prince's dying brain.
I close my eyes and force myself to focus. The memories are there, floating in my head like broken glass. I just need to put the pieces together without cutting myself.
Show me, I think desperately. Show me who Cassian was.
The memories explode behind my eyes:
A little boy with golden eyes, standing alone at his mother's funeral while his father holds his older brother Adrian close. "You're the spare heir," someone whispers. "The backup. Nothing more."
Growing older. Always second best. Adrian is smarter, stronger, better at everything. Father looks at Cassian like he's a mistake.
The first drink at age fifteen, stolen from the wine cellar. How it burns going down. How it makes the loneliness hurt less.
More drinking. Gambling. Expensive parties with fake friends who laugh at him behind his back. Waking up in strange places with no memory of how he got there. Servants cleaning up his messes. The whole kingdom calling him "the Wastrel Prince."
And then—
My eyes snap open. "No."
But the memory keeps coming, drowning me:
An engagement ball six months ago. Cassian is drunk—so drunk he can barely stand. A beautiful woman with black hair and green eyes stands beside him. She has a scar running down her face, but she's stunning. She's trying to smile, trying to be brave, but Cassian can see she's terrified of being in front of the whole court.
Her name is Sera Blackthorn. She's a warrior from a military family. Their engagement is political—her family needs the royal alliance, and Father wants her family's soldiers.
The room is full of nobles watching them, judging them. And Cassian, drunk and hurting and hating himself, opens his mouth and destroys her.
"Look at my bride!" he slurs, laughing cruelly. "The Scarred Lady! My father gives me damaged goods and expects me to smile about it. Tell me, Lady Sera—did you think hiding behind makeup would make me not notice? Did you think I'd actually want you?"
The memory of her face—the way something breaks behind her eyes—makes me want to throw up.
The entire court laughs. Sera stands frozen, tears running down her scarred cheek. Then she runs from the ballroom, and Cassian drinks until he passes out.
"That bastard," I whisper, rage burning in my chest. In my old life, I did terrible things. I hurt people who threatened my empire. But I never—never—humiliated a woman like that. Never broke someone just because I was broken.
Prince Cassian was a coward. Weak. Pathetic.
And now everyone thinks I'm him.
I push away from the door and start searching the room. There has to be something here that explains the treason accusation. Some clue about what Cassian did in his last three days before dying.
Empty wine bottles are everywhere—under the bed, behind curtains, in corners. At least twenty bottles. The room reeks of old alcohol and shame.
I find the crumpled invitation to the engagement ball under a pile of dirty clothes. Sera's name is written in elegant script. I crumple it tighter in my fist. That poor woman. No wonder she hates Cassian.
But that doesn't explain treason.
I tear through drawers, searching for letters or documents. Nothing. Just expensive clothes Cassian never wore and gambling debts he never paid. I'm starting to panic when I spot something under the massive desk.
A hidden drawer. So obvious once you know what to look for—in my mafia days, I had dozens of these in my office.
I pry it open and find three things:
First: A black ledger filled with numbers. I flip through it, my old skills kicking in. These are financial records, and they don't make sense. Massive amounts of gold leaving the royal treasury, but the payments are marked "Northern Relief Fund." Except Cassian's memories show me the North is starving—no relief money is reaching them.
Someone is stealing from the kingdom. A lot.
Second: Letters between Cassian and someone named "V." They're love letters, but there's something wrong about them. V keeps asking Cassian for information about the King's health, about military movements, about treasury passwords. And drunk, stupid Cassian gave her everything.
My blood runs cold. This isn't love. This is espionage.
Third: A half-burned note in different handwriting, barely readable:
"The fool served his purpose. Once the King is dead, Cassian will take the blame for everything. Make sure he doesn't wake up from his 'sickness.' —A"
A. Adrian. My new "brother."
The pieces snap together like a gun being loaded.
Adrian is stealing from the kingdom. He used some woman—V—to seduce Cassian and get information. Then he poisoned the King and plans to frame Cassian for everything. Adrian probably poisoned Cassian too, three days ago, to keep him from defending himself.
Except Cassian died, and I woke up in his body instead.
Adrian doesn't know that. He thinks Cassian will stumble into the throne room drunk and confused, making himself look even more guilty. The whole court will see a wastrel prince who betrayed his father, and Adrian will be the hero who exposed him.
Perfect frame job. In my old life, I'd almost admire it.
Except now I'm the one being framed.
I check the sun through the window. One hour left.
I could run. Take one of Cassian's horses and disappear. Start over somewhere else in this kingdom.
But then what? I survived twenty years in the mafia by never running from a fight. By being smarter than my enemies. By turning their traps into their graves.
Adrian thinks he's playing against a drunk fool.
He has no idea he's playing against Vincenzo Salvatore.
A smile spreads across my face—the cold, dangerous smile that used to make grown men nervous. I grab the ledger and the letters. Evidence. In my world, evidence was everything.
I need to get to the throne room early. Catch Adrian off guard. Turn his game against him.
But first, I need to look like a prince, not a corpse who just stole someone's body.
I strip off Cassian's dirty clothes and find something clean. Not fancy—just simple and dignified. I wash my face, tie back Cassian's messy hair. Look in the mirror.
The wastrel prince is gone. The man staring back at me has hard eyes and a harder smile. This is Vincenzo wearing a prince's face.
"Let's see how good a player you are, brother," I say to my reflection.
I unlock the door and step into the hallway. Servants jump away from me, their faces confused. I don't stumble or apologize like Cassian always did. I walk like I own this palace. Because in my mind, I do.
The throne room is at the end of a long hallway. Each step I take, I feel more like myself. The mafia boss. The survivor. The man who built an empire from nothing.
Adrian wants to destroy Prince Cassian? Fine.
Prince Cassian is already dead.
I push open the throne room doors forty-five minutes early. The room is massive, filled with marble columns and a throne at the far end. King Aldric sits on the throne, looking thin and sick. Just like the note said—Adrian poisoned him.
But my father isn't alone.
Adrian stands beside the throne, dressed in perfect royal blue. He's handsome, golden-haired, everything a prince should be. When he sees me, his face flashes surprise before he controls it. He wasn't expecting me to arrive early. Or sober.
"Brother," I say, my voice cold and clear. "We need to talk."
Adrian's smile is poison wrapped in sugar. "Dear Cassian. You actually came. I'm impressed. I thought you'd be too drunk to—"
"I found your note." I pull out the half-burned paper. "The one that says 'make sure he doesn't wake up.' Did you mean before or after you finished poisoning Father?"
The throne room goes completely silent.
King Aldric's head snaps toward Adrian. "What is he talking about?"
Adrian's perfect mask cracks just slightly. "Father, don't listen to him. He's obviously still drunk and delusional—"
"I also found the treasury records." I throw the ledger at Adrian's feet. "Want to explain where three million gold coins went? Because the Northern Relief Fund never received them."
Adrian's face goes white, then red with rage. This isn't how his plan was supposed to go. I'm not supposed to have evidence. I'm not supposed to be coherent.
And then Adrian does something that tells me everything I need to know about how desperate he is.
He draws his sword.
"You treasonous little worm," Adrian snarls, pointing the blade at me. "You confess to poisoning our father and stealing from the kingdom, and now you try to blame ME?"
Guards pour into the throne room from side doors. At least twenty of them, all wearing Adrian's colors. They surround me, weapons drawn.
This was a trap within a trap. Adrian didn't just plan to frame me with words. He planned to have me arrested—or killed—the moment I arrived.
And I walked right into it.
King Aldric tries to stand but collapses back onto his throne, too weak. "Someone explain what's happening!"
Adrian's smile returns, cruel and victorious. "I'm saving the kingdom from a traitor, Father. Guards—arrest Prince Cassian for high treason. And if he resists..." The smile grows wider. "Kill him."
Twenty swords point at my chest. I have no weapon. No allies. No escape.
Just me and my brain against an enemy who planned this perfectly.
Adrian thinks he's won.
But he's made one mistake—he assumed I'd be alone.
The throne room's main doors explode open with a boom that makes everyone jump.
A woman strides in, and my breath catches. Black hair. Green eyes. A scar running down her face like a war trophy. She's wearing armor and carrying a sword that looks like it's tasted blood.
Lady Sera Blackthorn. The woman Cassian destroyed.
She looks at me with pure hatred, then at Adrian with something worse.
"Nobody," she says, her voice sharp as broken glass, "kills my fiancé except me."