Paris did not sleep that night.
Sirens tore through the quiet like screams, slicing the air as armed guards flooded the château grounds. Floodlights ignited the gardens, illuminating crushed roses and shattered lanterns. Men shouted orders into radios. Security alarms blared endlessly.
Inside the château, Lucien Laurent stood perfectly still.
That was how his men knew the world was about to burn.
"Tell me again," he said quietly, his voice so calm it terrified everyone in the room, "how my daughter disappeared from a locked wing guarded by twelve men."
No one spoke.
One of his lieutenants swallowed hard. "They were professionals. Silent. Military-grade execution."
Lucien's jaw tightened.
"Twelve men," he repeated. "Dead or unconscious?"
"Dead," another replied softly.
Lucien closed his eyes.
When he opened them, the warmth was gone.
"Seal every border," he ordered. "I want ports locked, airports watched, underground routes burned. Anyone who moves without my permission dies."
"Yes, boss."
Lucien turned slowly, his gaze falling on the bloodstain near the balcony doors—small, dark, unmistakable.
His chest constricted.
Amélie.
The thought of her terror, her struggle, her fear—
It took everything in him not to lose control.
"She is alive," he said firmly. "They wouldn't take her dead."
"Sir," someone hesitated, "the Russo syndicate—"
Lucien's eyes snapped up. "Bring Vittorio Russo to me."
Across the city, Vittorio Russo stood on a rooftop overlooking Paris, phone pressed to his ear.
"They took her," he said.
On the other end, one of his men cursed violently. "Who?"
"I don't know yet," Vittorio replied. "But they made a mistake."
He lowered the phone, his gaze distant.
He hadn't planned to care.
He told himself that repeatedly.
Princess Amélie Laurent was a symbol. A political piece. A reminder of everything his family had lost to the Laurents.
And yet—
Her eyes haunted him.
Defiant. Sharp. Unafraid.
When the call from Lucien Laurent came, Vittorio expected fury.
What he got was far worse.
"Come to the château," Lucien said. "Now."
Amélie woke to darkness.
The air smelled of metal and damp stone. Her head throbbed, pain pulsing behind her eyes. Her wrists were bound, not painfully tight—but enough to remind her she was not free.
She forced herself to breathe slowly.
Panic would not save her.
Her father had raised her better than that.
She tested her surroundings discreetly. Hard floor beneath her. No windows. A faint hum—machinery, maybe a generator.
A door creaked open.
Light spilled in.
Three men entered. Faces masked. Movements efficient.
"You're awake," one said.
Amélie lifted her chin. "You're making a very expensive mistake."
One laughed. "Your father already knows."
"Then you know he will kill you," she replied calmly.
The laughter stopped.
Another man stepped forward. "You're not here to threaten us, princess. You're here to be traded."
"Traded for what?" she asked.
"Peace."
Her blood ran cold.
They weren't random kidnappers.
They were strategists.
Back at the château, the atmosphere was thick with tension.
Vittorio stood opposite Lucien Laurent in the study, the two men facing each other like opposing forces of nature. Armed guards lined the walls, fingers hovering near triggers.
"You think I did this," Vittorio said calmly.
Lucien's gaze was ice. "I think your family benefits from chaos."
"And yet," Vittorio replied, "if I wanted her dead, she would be."
Silence.
Lucien studied him carefully.
"You will help me find her," Lucien said. "Or I will erase every Russo operation in France."
Vittorio's mouth curved faintly. "You assume I need motivation."
Lucien's eyes narrowed.
Vittorio continued, "The people who took her are not amateurs. This was surgical. Quiet. Which tells me something."
"What?" Lucien demanded.
"They want us at war," Vittorio said. "And they're using her to light the match."
Lucien exhaled slowly.
"You have twenty-four hours," he said. "After that, I stop thinking."
Vittorio nodded once. "Then we don't have time to waste."
Amélie was moved just before dawn.
Blindfolded, shoved into another vehicle, driven for what felt like hours. She memorized turns, counted seconds, clung to any detail she could steal.
When the blindfold was removed, she found herself in a warehouse near the outskirts of the city. Crates stacked high. Armed guards positioned carefully.
A man approached her—older, scarred, eyes sharp.
"Princess Laurent," he said. "You're worth more alive than dead. Be grateful."
"I am not grateful," she replied evenly.
He smirked. "Good. Fear keeps people obedient."
She met his gaze. "So does hope."
He studied her for a long moment.
"You're not as fragile as they say," he muttered before turning away.
Vittorio tracked her trail methodically.
Intercepted communications. Bribed informants. Broke bones when necessary.
By nightfall, he had a name.
The Valen Syndicate.
A shadow organization that thrived on destabilizing empires.
"They want war," Vittorio muttered. "And they're going to get blood."
When he finally located the warehouse, he didn't wait.
He went in alone.
Gun silenced. Movements lethal and precise. Guards fell before they could scream.
Inside, Amélie heard chaos erupt.
Gunfire.
Shouts.
Her heart slammed violently against her chest.
The door burst open—
And there he was.
Vittorio Russo, blood spattered across his suit, eyes blazing with fury.
"Get up," he ordered.
She stared at him, stunned.
"You?" she whispered.
"We don't have time," he said sharply, cutting her restraints. "Move."
She didn't argue.
They ran.
Bullets ricocheted. Alarms blared.
Vittorio shoved her behind him, shielding her without hesitation.
"Why are you helping me?" she shouted.
He glanced back once. "Because no one touches what's under my protection."
Her breath caught.
They burst into the night, escaping into waiting vehicles as explosions rocked the warehouse behind them.
As the car sped away, Amélie finally allowed herself to tremble.
Vittorio noticed.
He removed his jacket and draped it over her shoulders.
"You're safe," he said quietly.
She looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time.
And realized something terrifying.
The enemy who saved her
might be the one who destroys her heart.