As they stepped out of the cars, all eyes turned toward them. It wasn't just curiosity, it was the weight of expectation, of fear, of whispered rumors coming to life in real time.
James Bellini looked exactly how people imagined him.
Dressed in a sharp black suit, flanked by his underbosses and right-hand men, he moved with a quiet authority that made it impossible to ignore him. He didn't need to declare who he was, his presence alone made it clear. He was a king in the underworld, and today, he had arrived like royalty.
But soon, the gazes shifted. Not to his men, not to the bodyguards, but to the small girl holding his hand.
Dressed in mourning black, wearing an elegant yet respectful hat with tinted sunglasses that shielded her young eyes from the world, Charlotte looked like a princess in a funeral procession.
A black princess.
A princess whose bloodline carried an fallen empire's weight.
