Dante Russo's POV
The gun pressed against the back of my skull felt cold.
I didn't move. Didn't breathe. My hands stayed flat on the table in front of me while my brain screamed at me to run.
"Boss," Vincent's voice whispered behind me. My cousin. My best friend since we were kids stealing candy from corner stores. "Don't move."
Around the warehouse, fifteen gang leaders sat frozen in their chairs. Everyone watched me. The meeting I'd called to make peace between our families had just become my execution.
"Vincent," I said slowly, keeping my voice calm even though my heart hammered in my chest. "What are you doing?"
"What I should've done years ago." His hand shook slightly. I felt it through the gun. "Taking what's mine."
My throat went tight. "I gave you everything. Made you my second-in-command. Treated you like a brother—"
"A BROTHER?" Vincent's shout echoed off the metal walls. "You treated me like your dog! 'Vincent, do this. Vincent, handle that.' Always in your shadow. Always second place."
I wanted to turn around. To look him in the eyes and ask how he could do this. We'd built the Russo family together. Fifteen years of watching each other's backs.
But I knew if I moved, he'd shoot.
"We can talk about this," I tried. My mind raced through options. The other gang leaders wouldn't help me—they'd been waiting for someone to take me down. My own men were outside, guarding the doors. They couldn't see this happening. "Vincent, please—"
"Begging?" Vincent laughed, but it sounded wrong. Broken. "The great Dante Russo, begging? The man who never showed weakness? Who taught me that emotions make you stupid?"
My chest ached. I had taught him that. After my parents died, I'd locked my heart away. Built walls so high that nothing could hurt me. Made myself into a monster so no one would dare cross me.
And I'd taught Vincent to be just like me.
"You're right," I whispered. "I was wrong. About everything. Just... don't do this."
"Too late, cousin."
The other gang leaders started standing up, moving toward the exits. They knew what was coming. This was Vincent's show now.
"Wait!" I called out to them. "He'll kill you all next! You think he'll share power?"
Vincent pressed the gun harder against my head. "Shut up."
But one of the leaders—Big Tommy from the south side—paused. "He's got a point, Vincent. Why should we trust you?"
"Because unlike my cousin," Vincent said smoothly, "I know how to share. Dante kept everything for himself. I'm offering you real partnerships."
Lies. I could hear it in his voice. He'd kill them all once I was gone. But they wanted to believe him because they hated me more.
One by one, they left the warehouse.
Now it was just Vincent and me in the darkness.
"I loved you like a brother," I said quietly. My last try. "Please."
"You loved no one." Vincent's voice cracked. "That's why this is so easy."
Time slowed down. I heard him pull the trigger before I felt the bullet.
BANG.
Pain exploded through my back like fire. My body jerked forward, slamming into the table. Blood poured out of me—hot and wet, spreading across the cold concrete floor.
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Just pain and shock and the bitter taste of betrayal.
Vincent walked around to face me. Tears ran down his cheeks. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "But I can't live in your shadow anymore."
I tried to speak, but blood filled my mouth. My vision went blurry at the edges.
"The problem with teaching someone everything you know," Vincent said, kneeling beside me, "is that they learn all your weaknesses too."
My hand reached out—for what, I didn't know. Help? Mercy? One last chance to make this right?
Vincent caught my hand and squeezed it once. Like he used to when we were kids and made promises to always have each other's backs.
"Goodbye, Dante."
The world went fuzzy. Dark spots ate away at my vision. I couldn't feel my legs anymore. Just cold spreading through my body like ice water.
My last thought wasn't about the empire I'd built. Or the money. Or the power.
It was simpler than that.
I trusted him.
Everything went black.
But death wasn't the end.
Somewhere in that darkness, I felt... something. A pulling sensation, like being yanked through water. Voices echoed around me—speaking words I didn't understand.
My body felt wrong. Too light. Too small.
And then light exploded behind my eyelids, so bright it hurt.
I gasped, sucking in air that tasted strange and clean.
When I opened my eyes, I wasn't looking at the warehouse ceiling.
I was staring at silk curtains hanging above an enormous bed.
My heart started pounding again—but it felt different. Faster. Weaker.
I lifted my hands to my face.
They weren't my hands.
These hands were young and soft, with long fingers and no scars from years of fighting.
"What the hell?" I whispered.
Except my voice came out wrong too. Higher. Younger. Not mine at all.
Panic exploded in my chest. I stumbled out of the bed and crashed into a mirror across the room.
The face staring back at me wasn't Dante Russo.
It was a stranger. A boy—no, a young man—with messy black hair, pale skin, and purple eyes.
Purple eyes.
I touched my face. The reflection touched back.
This wasn't possible. This wasn't real.
I'd died. Vincent shot me in the back. I'd felt my life pour out onto that warehouse floor.
But somehow, I was alive.
In someone else's body.
In a room that looked like it belonged in a castle, not in New York.
And then memories that weren't mine started flooding into my brain like a dam breaking.
Prince Adrian Valerian. Third child of King Wilhelm. The useless prince. The mouse who everyone mocks.
I grabbed the edges of the mirror, my breathing coming fast and panicked.
"Where am I?" I whispered to my new reflection. "WHAT AM I?"
But the stranger in the mirror just stared back at me with wide, terrified purple eyes.
And somewhere in the castle, bells began to ring—like a warning.
Like something terrible was about to begin.