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Chi Tocca Muore
(Italian: "Who Touches [Us] Dies" or "Touch and Die")
Agatha Danbury didn't ask permission. She took what she wanted, destroyed what she didn't, and drank excellent scotch while doing both.
Tonight, she stood in the ballroom of her Belgravia mansion, cigarette in a vintage holder, surveying her annual summer gala like a general surveying a battlefield. Which, functionally, it was.
"There," she said to Charlotte, who stood beside her in purple silk and enough diamonds to fund a small country. "The Bridgerton girl. Daphne."
Charlotte followed her gaze to where Daphne Bridgerton stood near the champagne fountain, looking like a Renaissance painting come to life. Powder blue gown, hair swept up elegantly, smile practiced and perfect. She was talking to some banker's wife about charity work, her expression pleasant and engaged.
To anyone watching, she looked like exactly what she was supposed to be: old money, well-bred, harmless.
Charlotte knew better.
"Beautiful girl," Charlotte murmured. "Also terrifying. I heard she argued a murder case last month. Got her client acquitted on a technicality she found in sixteenth-century common law. The prosecutor cried."
"She's brilliant. Harvard Law, top of her class, came back to London to 'help with family business.'" Agatha's smile was sharp. "Which means Violet's been training her to kill people since she was twelve and now she has a law degree to cover it up. Perfect."
"For what?"
"For Simon Basset." Agatha gestured with her cigarette to the opposite side of the ballroom.
Simon Basset, Duke of Hastings, stood near the windows looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else. Tall, dark-skinned, absurdly handsome in a way that made socialites swoon and rivals nervous. Italian on his mother's side, British aristocracy on his father's, he'd inherited the Hastings banking empire at twenty-five and spent the last three years consolidating power with the kind of ruthless efficiency that made people forget he was only twenty-eight.
He was also, Charlotte noted with amusement, doing that thing with his face.
The Weird Smile.
Simon Basset was charming—devastatingly so when he wanted to be. Smooth, articulate, the kind of man who could negotiate billion-pound deals over breakfast and make it look effortless. But put him in social situations he didn't control, and something... broke.
Currently, he was talking to a duchess about something—probably her recent investment portfolio—and smiling. Except it wasn't quite right. Too wide. Too many teeth. Like he'd learned to smile from a manual and was still working out the mechanics.
"Oh dear," Charlotte said. "He's doing it again."
"The smile?" Agatha sighed. "Yes. Terrifying, isn't it? The man can stare down Russian arms dealers without blinking, but ask him to make small talk at a party, and he looks like a serial killer trying to blend in at a church social."
"Why are we marrying him to Daphne?"
"Several reasons." Agatha ticked them off on her fingers. "One: Nigel Berbrooke. That cretin has escalated from stalking to attempted kidnapping. Last month, he tried to grab Daphne at the Opera House. Benedict broke his wrist. Anthony broke his jaw. Violet promised him a shallow grave. But he's persistent and well-connected. Daphne needs a husband who can actually protect her."
"And Simon can?"
"Simon controls half the security firms in London and has the Italians backing him. His mother's family—the Bassanos—make the Bridgertons look like choirboys. If Daphne marries him, Berbrooke will have to go through an Italian crime family to get to her. He's not that stupid."
Charlotte raised an eyebrow. "You said several reasons."
"Two: Simon's board won't shut up about him needing a wife. 'The Duke needs to settle down. Needs a proper wife who knows her place. Someone decorative and non-threatening.'" Agatha's smile turned predatory. "They want a trophy wife. Let's give them Daphne Bridgerton—Harvard-educated lawyer who can kill a man with a dessert fork—and watch them choke on their assumptions."
"And three?"
"Three: the alliance. Hastings Banking Plus Bridgerton operations plus my connections equals unstoppable. The Cowpers and Sheffields won't know what hit them." Agatha stubbed out her cigarette. "Now. Introductions."
"Agatha, you can't just force two people to marry—"
"Watch me."
Simon saw Lady Danbury approaching and briefly considered jumping out the window.
He'd known Agatha his entire life—she'd been his mother's closest friend, had helped him navigate London society after his parents died, and was generally one of the few people he genuinely respected.
She was also absolutely terrifying when she wanted something.
"Simon, darling!" Agatha materialized at his elbow with a young woman in blue silk. "I want you to meet someone. This is Daphne Bridgerton. Daphne, Simon Basset, Duke of Hastings."
Simon looked at Daphne Bridgerton properly for the first time.
And forgot how to breathe.
She was... stunning. Not just beautiful—London was full of beautiful women. But there was something about her that made his brain short-circuit. Intelligence in her eyes, steel under the social polish, and a smile that was both inviting and slightly dangerous.
"Your Grace," Daphne said, offering her hand. "A pleasure."
Simon took her hand, bowed over it, and tried to remember how faces worked.
He smiled.
Too wide. Definitely too many teeth.
Daphne's eyes flickered with something—amusement? alarm?—but her expression remained perfectly pleasant.
"Miss Bridgerton. The pleasure is mine." His voice at least worked normally. Thank God. "I've heard excellent things about your legal work. The Pemberton case was... inspired."
"You follow criminal law?" She sounded genuinely surprised.
"I follow anything that might impact my business interests. Your argument about jurisdictional precedent was brilliant. The prosecution never saw it coming."
"They should have. The case law was clear." But she was smiling—genuinely this time. "Most people only want to discuss my family's 'shipping business.'" She made air quotes. "It's refreshing to talk to someone who's actually read my legal briefs."
"I'm not most people."
"Clearly." Her eyes dropped to his mouth briefly. "That's quite a smile you have there."
Fuck. He was doing it again.
Simon attempted to rearrange his face into something more normal and somehow made it worse.
Agatha cleared her throat. "Simon, darling, why don't you ask Daphne to dance? I'm sure you have much to discuss."
It wasn't a suggestion.
Simon offered his arm—smooth, controlled, back in familiar territory. "Would you do me the honor?"
"I'd be delighted." Daphne took his arm, and they moved toward the dance floor.
Behind them, Agatha smiled like a satisfied cat.
Charlotte appeared at her elbow. "You're matchmaking."
"I'm strategically positioning assets." Agatha lit another cigarette. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"No. But it sounds more professional."
Simon could negotiate billion-pound deals. He could stare down arms dealers. He could manage hostile takeovers without breaking a sweat.
But waltzing with Daphne Bridgerton while maintaining normal facial expressions was apparently beyond him.
"You're very tense," Daphne observed as they moved across the floor. "Formal events aren't your preference?"
"I'm better with boardrooms than ballrooms." He tried for casual. Probably looked deranged. "You seem perfectly comfortable."
"Years of practice. My mother is... exacting about social performance." Her tone was dry. "Though between you and me, I'd rather be reviewing case law. Small talk is exhausting."
"You're a lawyer who doesn't like talking?"
"I like talking when it has purpose. Litigation, negotiation, argumentation—that's interesting. 'Oh, what lovely weather we're having'—that's torture." She met his eyes. "Tell me, Your Grace, why did Lady Danbury really introduce us?"
Direct. He appreciated that.
"Probably because she thinks I need a wife and you need protection from Nigel Berbrooke."
Daphne stumbled slightly. Simon caught her automatically, steadying her.
"You know about Berbrooke," she said flatly.
"Everyone knows about Berbrooke. The man's obsession with you is common knowledge in certain circles. Also, my head of security flagged him as a threat three weeks ago after the Opera House incident."
"Your head of security is monitoring threats to me?"
"My head of security monitors threats to anyone in my social circle. You're Eloise's sister. Eloise is friends with half my associates. Therefore, you're relevant." He paused. "Also, Berbrooke's a creep and I don't like leaving problems unsolved.",
"How very... practical."
"I'm Italian. We're practical about threats." He guided her through a turn. "We also believe in strategic marriages."
Daphne's eyes sharpened. "Is that what this is? Agatha arranging a 'strategic marriage'?"
"Almost certainly."
"And you're amenable to this?"
"I'm amenable to exploring mutually beneficial arrangements." He was back in negotiation mode. Much easier than small talk. "You need protection from a stalker. I need my board to stop pressuring me about marriage. We could... help each other."
"You're proposing a fake engagement."
"I'm proposing we discuss the possibility of a mutually beneficial arrangement that resembles an engagement."
"That's the most lawyer thing I've ever heard, and I went to Harvard Law."
Simon's mouth twitched. Almost a real smile this time. "So you're interested?"
"I'm interested in not being kidnapped by Nigel Berbrooke. I'm interested in my family not starting a gang war over my honor. I'm interested in practicing law without my mother assigning me armed escorts." She tilted her head. "What do you get out of this besides a decorative wife to placate your board?"
"Alliance with the Bridgertons. Access to your shipping networks. And—" He hesitated.
"And?"
"And someone who understands that this world requires... pragmatism. Most society women want romance and stability. You want a business arrangement that keeps you alive and autonomous. That's refreshing."
"You're very strange, Your Grace."
"Simon. If we're going to fake an engagement, you should probably call me Simon."
"Daphne." She smiled—sharp and knowing. "And for the record, I'm strange too. We'll get along perfectly."
The waltz ended. They stood in the middle of the dance floor, still holding hands, while Agatha watched from across the room with satisfaction.
"So," Simon said. "Shall we get engaged?"
"Let's discuss terms first. I have conditions."
"Of course you do."
"I maintain my legal practice. I maintain my autonomy. And if this is fake, we have an exit strategy."
"Agreed. My conditions: you attend necessary social events. You allow me to assign security. And we maintain the fiction convincingly enough that Berbrooke and my board both back off."
"Done." Daphne held out her hand. "Shall we shake on it before Agatha descends and makes this official?"
Simon took her hand. Her grip was firm, professional.
"Too late," a voice said behind them.
Agatha stood there, champagne glass raised, Charlotte beside her looking resigned.
"Attention, everyone!" Agatha's voice carried across the ballroom. "I'm delighted to announce the engagement of Simon Basset, Duke of Hastings, and Daphne Bridgerton! The wedding will be in spring!"
The ballroom erupted in applause.
Simon and Daphne stared at each other.
"Did we just get engaged?" Daphne asked.
"I think we did."
"Your friend is terrifying."
"I know." Simon attempted another smile. Still weird. "Welcome to the family?"
Daphne laughed—bright and genuine. "This is either the best decision I've ever made or the worst. We'll find out which."
The next morning, Simon's London townhouse received an unexpected visitor.
Violet Bridgerton swept in like a force of nature—elegant in lavender, smiling pleasantly, radiating the kind of danger that came from decades of running a criminal empire while pretending to be a society matron.
"Your Grace." She settled into his study's best chair without waiting for an invitation. "We need to discuss your engagement to my daughter."
Simon, who'd been up since five reviewing security protocols, attempted a welcoming smile and achieved something closer to a grimace. "Mrs. Bridgerton. Coffee?"
"Tea. Earl Grey. No sugar." She waited while he poured—hands perfectly steady despite having consumed an entire pot of espresso already. "Now. Daphne tells me this is a business arrangement."
"It is."
"To protect her from Nigel Berbrooke and satisfy your board of directors."
"Correct."
Violet studied him with eyes that missed nothing. "You're aware my daughter is not... typical?"
"I'm aware she's brilliant, lethal, and probably the most dangerous person I've ever agreed to fake-marry. Yes."
Violet's expression softened fractionally. "Good. You're not completely stupid." She sipped her tea. "I approve of this arrangement. The Hastings-Bridgerton alliance benefits both families. Your Italian connections give us access to European markets. Our operations give you leverage in Asia."
"Quite mercenary, Mrs. Bridgerton."
"I prefer practical." She set down her teacup. "However, if you hurt my daughter—fake engagement or not—I will personally ensure your next board meeting is your last. Understood?"
"Understood."
"Excellent." Violet smiled—warm and maternal and absolutely terrifying. "Now. Let's discuss security protocols. I've already assigned John to Daphne's detail—"
"John?"
"Our head driver. Loyal. He's been with us since he was a child. She trusts him." Violet pulled out her phone and showed him a photo. “John?”
John was … young.
“Don’t be fooled by his young appearance. He’s ruthless and military trained.”
"I'll coordinate with my head of security," Simon nodded.
"His name?"
"Will Mondrich. Ex-SAS. Runs a security consultancy firm that's a front for more... specialized services."
"And his wife Alice runs the books?"
"You know them?"
"Alice Mondrich is one of the best forensic accountants in London. We've used her services before." Violet approved. "Good. They'll work well with John."
This was possibly the strangest meeting of his life. They were discussing security details for a fake engagement, as if it were a corporate merger.
Which, he supposed, it was.
"There's one more thing," Violet said. "Nigel Berbrooke."
Simon's expression hardened. "What about him?"
"He won't stop. The broken wrist, the broken jaw—they were warnings. But Nigel is... persistent. Delusional. He believes Daphne is 'promised' to him because of some agreement our families allegedly made decades ago."
"Did you?"
"Of course not. But Nigel's father and my late husband were friends. Nigel has convinced himself that there was an understanding." Violet's voice dropped to something cold. "Three weeks ago, he hired men to grab Daphne outside her office. They failed—she put two in the hospital—but he'll try again."
"Then we end him." Simple. Direct.
"Eventually. But not yet. If Berbrooke disappears immediately after your engagement announcement, questions will be asked. Better to let him make another move. Then..." Violet made a graceful gesture that somehow conveyed extreme violence. "Problem solved."
"You're terrifying, Mrs. Bridgerton."
"I'm a mother protecting her daughter, Your Grace. There's a difference." She stood and smoothed her skirt. "Daphne will move into the safe house tomorrow. I assume you have one prepared?"
"Three, actually. She can choose."
"Excellent. John will coordinate with your Mr. Mondrich." Violet headed for the door, then paused. "Simon. One last thing."
"Yes?"
"My daughter may be playing a role, but she's still my daughter. Treat her with respect. Protect her as promised. And if this arrangement becomes... more than business?" Violet's smile was knowing. "Don't fight it. The best partnerships often start as pragmatic arrangements."
She left, leaving Simon staring after her.
His phone buzzed.
Daphne: My mother just left your house. How badly did she threaten you?
Simon: Moderately. I think I'm on probation.
Daphne: Good. That means she likes you. If she REALLY liked you, she wouldn't bother threatening. She'd just have you killed if you disappointed her.
Simon: That's... comforting?
Daphne: Welcome to the Bridgertons. We're a nightmare.
Simon: I'm Italian. We invented nightmares.
Daphne: This is going to be fun.
Simon's "safe house" in Chelsea was actually a four-story Georgian townhouse with bulletproof windows, reinforced doors, and enough security cameras to monitor a small country.
Daphne arrived the next afternoon with three suitcases, John driving, and an expression that suggested she was deeply unimpressed.
"This is supposed to be discreet?" she asked, looking up at the house.
"It's Chelsea. Everyone here has security." Simon helped John unload luggage. "Besides, we're engaged. You living with me is expected."
"We're FAKE engaged."
"The security threats are real. Berbrooke's not fake. Therefore, real precautions." He opened the door. "I'll give you the tour."
The house was... not what Daphne expected.
Modern kitchen with restaurant-grade appliances. Library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Study with three monitors and enough computing power to run a small country. Gym in the basement. Wine cellar that was definitely too sophisticated for someone who supposedly only cared about business.
"You cook?" she asked, running her hand over the Viking range.
"When I have time. Italian mother. She insisted I learn." Simon looked uncomfortable. "I'm not good at it. But I try."
"What can you make?"
"Pasta. Badly. Coffee. Excellently. And—" He opened the freezer, revealing approximately thirty containers of various premade meals. "—I have a meal service."
Daphne laughed. "Practical."
"I told you. Italians are practical."
John appeared in the doorway. "Miss Daphne, I've secured the perimeter. Will Mondrich is here to coordinate."
A tall Black man in his forties entered—fit, professional, with kind eyes and the bearing of someone who'd seen combat. "Will Mondrich. Pleasure to meet you properly, Miss Bridgerton."
"Daphne, please." She shook his hand. "John speaks highly of you."
"John's a professional. We've worked together before—that situation in Prague three years ago."
John nodded. "Good times. Minimal casualties."
"Define minimal," Daphne said dryly.
"Less than ten."
"Ah. Minimal."
Will pulled out a tablet. "Security protocols: armed detail rotating every eight hours. Panic buttons in every room. Secure communications only—I'll set up your encrypted phone. No leaving the house without John or myself accompanying. And—" He looked at Simon. "—we need to discuss the Italian situation."
"What Italian situation?" Daphne asked.
Simon grimaced. "My mother's family. The Bassanos. They're... concerned about the engagement."
"Concerned how?"
"Concerned they weren't consulted. Concerned you're not Italian. Concerned I'm making strategic decisions without family approval." He rubbed his face. "My uncle Enzo is flying in from Milan tomorrow. With approximately twelve cousins. To 'meet' you."
"Oh God."
"It gets worse. They're expecting a traditional engagement dinner. With speeches. And my nonna's ring."
"You have your grandmother's ring?"
"She left it to me before she died. Explicitly for my future wife." Simon pulled a small velvet box from his pocket, opened it.
The ring was stunning—emerald surrounded by diamonds, clearly vintage, absolutely exquisite.
"That's beautiful," Daphne breathed.
"It's also a family heirloom that will cause a minor international incident if I give it to you under false pretenses." Simon snapped the box shut. "But if I DON'T give it to you, my uncles will assume I'm not serious about the engagement and possibly stage an intervention."
"Your family stages interventions?"
"My family stages hostile takeovers disguised as family dinners. It's a whole thing."
Daphne started laughing. "This is absurd."
"Welcome to my life."
"No, it's perfect. I get to meet the Italian crime family I'm fake-marrying into. What could go wrong?"
"Everything. Literally everything."
Later that evening, Will Mondrich returned with his wife Alice, a beautiful Black woman in her early forties with sharp eyes and an accounting ledger under one arm.
"Daphne Bridgerton," Alice said, shaking her hand firmly. "I've reviewed your legal work. The Pemberton case was brilliant."
"You review legal cases?"
"I review everything. Occupational hazard." Alice settled at the kitchen table and opened her ledger. "Now. Let's discuss your financial situation."
"My... what?"
"Your financial situation. You're marrying into the Hastings empire. That means consolidated assets, joint accounts, and approximately forty-seven shell companies that need to appear legitimate." Alice looked up. "Also, I need to know your net worth so I can structure the prenup."
"We're not actually getting married—"
"You're faking getting married. Which still requires paperwork that looks real. Otherwise, people ask questions." Alice was already writing. "Net worth?"
Daphne looked at Simon. He shrugged. "She's thorough."
"I have a trust fund. Approximately five million. Plus my legal practice income—around three hundred thousand a year."
"Investment properties?"
"Two flats in London. One in Edinburgh."
"Good. Diversified." Alice made notes. "I'll structure this so you maintain autonomy over your assets. Simon's family will expect a prenup heavily in his favor, but we'll include clauses that protect you if—when—this goes sideways."
"When?" Simon raised an eyebrow.
"When. Fake engagements always go sideways. Usually someone catches feelings. Sometimes someone gets shot. Either way, paperwork helps." Alice closed her ledger. "Now. Let's discuss the Berbrooke problem."
"What about it?" Daphne asked warily.
Will pulled up files on his tablet. "Nigel Berbrooke. Thirty-two. Trust fund baby with delusions of adequacy. He's been stalking you for six months. Three documented attempts at contact. One attempted kidnapping. And—" He showed her photos. "—he's been hiring surveillance."
The photos showed Daphne at various locations—her office, the grocery store, a café. Always from a distance. Always creepy.
"That's illegal," Daphne said flatly.
"Very. But hard to prosecute without catching him in the act." Will swiped to more photos. "He's also been in contact with some unsavory people. Mercenaries. Not particularly good ones, but armed."
"He's planning another attempt."
"Within the week. Maybe sooner, now that you're engaged to Simon." Will looked grim. "He sees this as a challenge. You're promised to him, in his delusional mind. Simon is an obstacle."
"Then we remove the obstacle," Simon said quietly.
"Can't yet. Violet's right—too suspicious if he disappears right after your engagement announcement." Will put away his tablet. "Better to let him make his move. We'll be ready. And then..." He smiled—cold and professional. "Problem solved."
Alice stood, collecting her things. "One more thing. The Italian dinner tomorrow night."
"What about it?" Simon asked.
"I'll be there. As your accountant. Enzo Bassano will want to review the family financials—make sure this marriage isn't diluting the Hastings assets. I'll handle him."
"You're going to argue with my uncle Enzo?"
"I'm going to charm your uncle Enzo while subtly demonstrating that Daphne brings significant value to the family. Then I'll get him drunk on good wine and he'll approve anything." Alice smiled. "I've handled Italian patriarchs before. They're all the same—suspicious, traditional, and easily manipulated by good accounting and better food."
Simon looked at Daphne. "Your family's accountant is terrifying."
"Everyone associated with the Bridgertons is terrifying. You'll get used to it."
The Bassano family descended on Simon's townhouse like a well-dressed natural disaster.
Uncle Enzo arrived first—silver-haired, expensively suited, radiating Old World menace. Behind him: twelve cousins of varying ages, two aunts who looked like they could kill you with their handbags, and one nonna who was approximately ninety and terrifying.
"Simone!" Enzo embraced Simon, kissed both cheeks, then held him at arm's length. "You get engaged and don't call your family? This is how you respect tradition?"
"Uncle Enzo. It was... sudden."
"Love is sudden! But respect? Respect takes time!" Enzo spotted Daphne and switched to rapid Italian. "This is the girl?"
"Yes. Daphne Bridgerton—"
Enzo ignored Simon entirely, crossing to Daphne and looking her up and down like she was livestock at auction. "You're very beautiful. Good hips. You'll have strong children."
"I'm sorry?" Daphne's smile was fixed.
"Uncle Enzo," Simon said in English. "Please."
"What? I'm complimenting!" Enzo switched back to English. "Your family—Bridgerton—they're criminals, yes?"
"We prefer 'import-export specialists,'" Daphne said smoothly.
Enzo laughed—loud and genuine. "Diplomatic! I like her. You—" He pointed at Simon. "—you chose well. For once."
One of the aunts—Aunt Martina, terrifying and tiny—appeared at Daphne's elbow. "You cook?"
"I... yes?"
"Italian food?"
"I can learn."
"HAH!" Martina smacked Simon's arm. "She's honest! Not like that last girl. The Russian. She said she could cook and burn water."
"We don't talk about Katarina," Simon muttered.
"We talk about everyone!" Enzo steered them toward the dining room, where Alice had set up a stunning spread—Italian antipasti, wine, bread, cheese. "Now. We eat. We talk. We decide if this marriage is acceptable."
"It's not really up for—" Simon started.
"Everything is up for negotiation, nephew. This is business. Family business." Enzo sat at the head of the table like it was his house. "Now. Miss Bridgerton. Tell me about your family's operations."
Daphne, to her credit, didn't miss a beat. "Shipping. Import-export. Some financial services. We operate primarily in Asia and Eastern Europe."
"Competitors to the Bassanos?"
"Complementary. You operate in Southern Europe and the Mediterranean. We could expand your Asian markets. In return, you give us European access."
Enzo's eyes sharpened. "You've done your homework."
"I'm a lawyer. Research is what I do." Daphne sipped her wine—an excellent Barolo that Alice had selected specifically to impress. "Also, if I'm marrying into the Bassano family, I should understand the business."
"She's smart," one of the cousins muttered in Italian.
"And beautiful," another added.
"And she speaks Italian," Daphne said in perfect Italian, making half the table choke on their wine. "My mother insisted. Said it was useful for business."
The room erupted in approving laughter.
Enzo slammed his hand on the table. "I like her! Simone, you did well! This one has spine!"
Simon looked at Daphne with something like awe. She winked.
The dinner progressed—more wine, more food, stories about the old country that were definitely crimes confessed in the guise of nostalgia. Alice sat next to Enzo, charming him with financial projections and strategic analyses that made the merger look brilliant.
By dessert, Nonna had claimed Daphne, pulling her aside to examine the ring.
"My mother's ring," she said in heavily accented English. "You wear it well."
"Thank you, Nonna."
"You love my grandson?"
Daphne hesitated. This was the moment. The lie.
Except looking at Simon across the room—awkward and charming and trying so hard to manage his chaotic family—she realized it wasn't entirely a lie anymore.
"I respect him," she said carefully. "And I think we could make each other happy."
Nonna studied her with ancient, knowing eyes. "Respect is good. Love comes later. My husband? I hated him when we married. Arranged. But he was good man. Kind. We learned to love." She patted Daphne's hand. "You're smart girl. You'll figure it out."
The attack came three nights later.
Daphne was in the library, reviewing case files for an upcoming trial. John was in the kitchen making tea. Will's team was on perimeter patrol.
The window exploded inward.
Three men in tactical gear crashed through—professionals, armed, moving fast.
Daphne's instincts kicked in before conscious thought—rolling behind the desk, reaching for the pistol she kept in the drawer (Violet's training: always be armed, always be ready).
She came up firing.
Two shots. Center mass. The first man went down.
The second man raised his weapon—
John appeared from nowhere, snapping the man's neck with clinical efficiency. The body dropped.
The third man grabbed Daphne from behind, arm around her throat.
"Stop or she dies!"
John froze.
Daphne didn't.
She drove her elbow back—hard—into the man's solar plexus. When he loosened his grip, she twisted, brought her knee up into his groin, then grabbed the letter opener from the desk and drove it into his throat.
He collapsed, choking, blood spreading across the Persian rug.
"Shit," Daphne gasped. "Shit, that was—"
"Excellent form, Miss Daphne," John said calmly. He was already on his phone. "Will. Three hostiles down. Send cleanup. And tell His Grace to come home. Now."
Daphne looked at the bodies. At the blood. At the letter opener still in her hand.
She'd killed a man with a letter opener.
"Are you alright?" John asked gently.
"I—yes. I'm fine. That was—" She started laughing, slightly hysterical. "That was my favorite letter opener."
"We'll get you another one."
"It's sterling silver. Eighteenth century. I got it at an estate sale."
"Miss Daphne." John gently took the letter opener from her hand. "You're in shock. Sit down."
"I'm fine—"
The front door slammed open. Simon burst in, Wild Mondrich right behind him, both armed.
Simon took in the scene—three bodies, blood, Daphne standing in the middle of it in a cardigan and house slippers, looking vaguely annoyed.
"What happened?" he demanded.
"Berbrooke sent men. They came through the window." Daphne gestured at the broken glass. "I shot one. John broke another's neck. I stabbed the third with my letter opener."
"You... stabbed him."
"He was choking me. It seemed reasonable." She looked at Simon. "Your rug is ruined."
"I don't care about the rug—"
"It was a very nice rug."
"DAPHNE." Simon crossed to her, grabbed her shoulders. "Are you hurt?"
"No. John's excellent at his job. And Violet trained me well." She looked up at him. "I told you. I'm not typical."
Simon stared at her—this woman who'd just killed a man with a letter opener and was now concerned about rugs—and felt something in his chest crack open.
"No," he said softly. "You're definitely not typical."
Will's cleanup team arrived—efficient, professional, unbothered by the bodies. Within an hour, the library looked normal except for the missing window.
Simon found Daphne in the kitchen, making tea with hands that shook just slightly.
"Hey," he said quietly.
"Hey."
"You okay?"
"I killed someone."
"You defended yourself."
"I know. It's not—I've done this before. In training. Once in Paris when I was twenty-three. But it's still..." She set down the kettle carefully. "It's still not easy."
Simon moved closer, carefully telegraphing his movement. "Can I hug you?"
She nodded.
He pulled her into his arms—gently, giving her room to pull away. She didn't. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her face into his chest.
They stood there for a long moment, just breathing.
"Thank you," Daphne murmured. "For not treating me like I'm fragile."
"You're the least fragile person I've ever met." Simon kissed the top of her head without thinking. "Also, you're terrifying. That was some John Wick shit."
She laughed—wet and slightly broken. "My mother will be so proud."
"Your mother is definitely going to be proud."
"Simon?"
"Yeah?"
"I think we should kill Nigel Berbrooke now."
"Yeah. I think we should too."
The next morning, a war council convened in Simon's study.
Present: Simon, Daphne, Will Mondrich, Alice Mondrich, John, Anthony Bridgerton (who'd arrived at dawn looking murderous), and—unexpectedly—Frederick of Mecklenburg-Strelitz.
Frederick lounged in his chair, perfectly put-together in Savile Row tailoring, looking deeply entertained. "So Berbrooke tried to kidnap Daphne AGAIN. This is getting repetitive."
"This is getting dangerous," Anthony corrected. His voice was ice. "My sister killed three men last night—"
"I helped with one," John interjected mildly.
"—and Berbrooke is still walking around free. That's unacceptable."
"Agreed," Simon said. "Which is why we're ending this. Today."
"How?" Daphne asked.
"We use you as bait."
"Absolutely not," Anthony and Simon said simultaneously.
They glared at each other.
"I'm not using my sister as bait," Anthony continued.
"And I'm not using my fiancée as bait," Simon added.
"FAKE fiancée," Daphne said.
"Doesn't matter. Not happening."
Frederick cleared his throat. "What if we use a different kind of bait? One that's not Daphne but makes Berbrooke think he has an opening?"
"Explain," Will said.
"Berbrooke's obsessed, right? Thinks Daphne's 'his.' But he's also a coward. He won't make another direct move after last night's failure. Too risky." Frederick pulled out his phone, showed them a social media post. "But what if he thinks Simon's distracted? Focused elsewhere?"
The post was from Cressida Cowper—Frederick's on-again, off-again disaster of a girlfriend. She'd posted a photo from earlier that week: Frederick at some gallery opening, looking bored.
"Cressida's obsessed with me," Frederick said. "Has been for months. What if we stage a very public scandal? Simon allegedly caught in a compromising position with someone who's NOT Daphne. Engagement in crisis. Daphne 'devastated,' retreating to the family estate in the country—"
"—where Berbrooke thinks she's vulnerable and alone," Will finished. "He makes his move. We're waiting."
"And we end him," Simon said quietly.
"Wait," Daphne said. "You're going to stage a fake affair?"
"Not me. Frederick." Simon looked at his friend. "You're volunteering?"
"I'm bored. Cressida's been trying to seduce me for months. Let her think she succeeded. We stage some photos, leak them, create drama. Daphne 'flees' to the country. Berbrooke follows. You"—he pointed at Simon—"get to play the vengeful fiancé with a convenient alibi while your people handle the wet work."
"That's insane," Daphne said.
"That's perfect," Alice countered. "Berbrooke's predictable. He'll absolutely try again if he thinks Daphne's unprotected. And this gives us control over when and where."
Anthony was still glaring at Simon. "If anything happens to my sister—"
"It won't." Simon met his eyes. "I'll have twenty people on that estate. Will's entire team. Snipers. Surveillance. Berbrooke won't get within fifty feet of her."
"And then?" Anthony's voice was soft, dangerous.
"Then I handle him personally."
"Define 'handle.'"
Simon's smile was nothing like the awkward social grimace. This was something else. Something cold.
"By the time I'm done, there won't be enough of Nigel Berbrooke left to identify."
Daphne felt a shiver run down her spine. Not fear.
Anticipation.
"When do we start?" she asked.
The scandal broke forty-eight hours later.
Photos appeared on social media: Frederick and a blonde woman (Cressida, heavily made-up and photographed from angles that obscured her face) leaving a hotel. The woman wore Simon's distinctive Hastings family signet ring—borrowed for the occasion.
The caption: Duke of Hastings' engagement on the rocks? Mystery woman spotted wearing HIS ring!
London society lost its collective mind.
Daphne played her part perfectly. She appeared at a charity luncheon looking "devastated"—pale, withdrawn, speaking to no one. By evening, she'd "fled" to the Bridgerton country estate in Kent.
Anthony released a terse statement: The family requests privacy during this difficult time.
Simon, meanwhile, held a press conference looking appropriately guilty and refused to comment. His awkward smile made him look even more suspicious.
"You're enjoying this," Daphne texted him from Kent.
"I'm not enjoying being accused of cheating on you," he replied. "But I AM enjoying Cressida's meltdown."
Frederick had broken up with Cressida that morning—publicly, dramatically, claiming she'd "tried to seduce him to make Daphne jealous" and he was "disgusted by her behavior."
Cressida had responded by throwing a drink in his face at a café in Mayfair. The video had gone viral.
"She called me twelve times," Frederick texted the group chat. "This is AMAZING."
"You're a chaos agent," Daphne replied.
"I prefer 'agent of creative destruction.'"
"That's the same thing."
In Kent, Daphne settled into the Bridgerton estate—a sprawling manor that looked picturesque and hid enough security to guard Fort Knox. Will's team was positioned in every possible approach. Snipers on the roof. Surveillance in the woods.
They waited.
Berbrooke took three days to make his move.
He approached at night—stupid, but predictable. Four men with him this time. Better armed, better trained.
They made it past the outer perimeter because Will let them. Made it to the house because they were supposed to.
Daphne stood in the library (different library, same setup) reading a book, waiting.
The window shattered.
Berbrooke climbed through himself this time, gun drawn, smiling like he'd won.
"Daphne. Finally."
"Nigel." She set down her book. "You're persistent."
"You're mine. You've always been mine. That ridiculous engagement to Hastings—it's nothing. You belong to me."
"I belong to myself." She stood slowly. "And you're trespassing."
"I'm claiming what's mine—"
The lights went out.
Will's team moved like shadows—taking down Berbrooke's men with clinical efficiency. Tranquilizers. Non-lethal. They needed them alive.
For now.
Berbrooke spun, panicking. "What—"
The lights came back on.
Simon stood in the doorway.
"Hello, Nigel," he said pleasantly. "We need to talk."
They took Berbrooke to the basement.
The Bridgerton estate had excellent basements. Stone walls. Soundproofing. Drains in the floor for easy cleanup.
Violet had planned.
Simon had changed clothes—expensive suit gone, replaced with dark jeans and a black shirt. He rolled up his sleeves methodically while Berbrooke was zip-tied to a chair.
"You can't do this," Berbrooke said, trying for bravado. "I have lawyers. Family. People will ask questions—"
"No one's going to ask questions," Simon said quietly. "You came here to kidnap Daphne. Your men will be found dead in a car accident on the M25. You'll disappear. Tragic. Mysterious." He picked up a pair of pliers from the table Will had helpfully set up. "No one will miss you, Nigel. You're a trust fund baby with delusions and a police file full of stalking complaints. Your own family will be relieved."
"You're insane—"
"I'm Italian." Simon's smile was terrible. "We take family very seriously. You threatened someone I care about. Multiple times. Sent armed men to kill her. Twice." He stepped closer. "That requires... correction."
Daphne watched from the doorway, John beside her. She should probably feel something. Horror. Disgust. Fear.
Instead, she felt satisfied.
"How long will this take?" she asked.
Simon glanced at her. "How long do you want it to take?"
"Make it hurt. But don't kill him. Not yet."
"As my lady commands."
What followed was... methodical.
Simon had clearly done this before. He worked with the calm efficiency of someone following a procedure. Fingers first—breaking them one by one while asking questions Berbrooke couldn't possibly answer correctly.
"Why did you target Daphne?"
"She's mine—"
CRACK.
"Wrong answer. Try again."
After the fingers came the psychological warfare. Simon described, in detail, exactly how isolated Berbrooke was. How no one was coming. How his men were already dead. How his family wouldn't pay ransom even if Simon asked.
Berbrooke cried. Begged. Offered money.
Simon ignored all of it.
"The thing about obsession," he said conversationally, using the pliers on Berbrooke's left hand, "is that it blinds you. You convinced yourself Daphne was yours. But she was never yours, Nigel. She's brilliant and dangerous and so far out of your league you couldn't reach her with a telescope."
"Please—"
"Begging doesn't work. I'm Italian. We invented revenge." Simon paused. "Also, I'm a consigliere. Was, anyway. Before I became Don. You know what a consigliere does?"
Berbrooke shook his head frantically.
"We advise. We strategize. We remove problems." Simon's smile was gentle. Terrifying. "You're a problem, Nigel."
He worked for another twenty minutes. By the end, Berbrooke was broken—physically and psychologically. A shell.
Simon stepped back, wiped his hands on a towel Will provided.
"He's done," he said. "Will. Disposal?"
"Already arranged. Car accident. Body burned beyond recognition. Dental records will confirm identity."
"Good." Simon looked at Daphne. "You want to say anything to him?"
Daphne crossed the room and crouched in front of Berbrooke's chair.
"Nigel. Look at me."
He raised his head, tears streaming.
"I was never yours. I will never be yours. And now you'll die knowing you were nothing. Just a footnote. A problem we solved before breakfast." She stood. "Goodbye."
She left.
Simon followed, leaving Will to handle the rest.
They found each other in the estate's library—a different library, no broken windows this time.
Daphne was shaking. Not from fear. From adrenaline crash.
"Hey," Simon said softly.
"Hey." She looked at him. "That was..."
"I'm sorry you had to see that."
"I'm not." She crossed to him. "You protected me. Thoroughly. Violently. Exactly as promised."
"That doesn't bother you?"
"Simon. I killed three men with a letter opener and a pistol. I'm not exactly squeamish." She touched his face—his actual face, which was somehow doing a real smile this time. "You're covered in blood."
"Most of it's his."
"That should not be attractive."
"But it is?"
"Incredibly." She kissed him—hard and desperate and real.
Simon kissed back with everything he'd been holding in for weeks. This wasn't fake. Wasn't performance. This was real.
They broke apart breathing hard.
"Daphne." His voice was rough. "This stopped being fake for me about three weeks ago."
"For me too."
"So when I ask this, I need you to know I mean it." He pulled out the velvet box—his nonna's ring, still pristine. "Marry me. For real this time. Be my wife. My partner. My don's wife."
Daphne's eyes widened. "Your don's wife?"
"I wasn't just consigliere. I was next in line. After my father died, I inherited. I've been Don for three years." He opened the box. "This isn't a business arrangement anymore, Daphne. I love you. I love your brilliance and your violence and the way you care about antique letter openers even while stabbing people with them. Marry me. Build this empire with me."
"Simon—"
"I know it's insane. I know we've only known each other eight weeks. But I've never been more certain of anything." He pulled out the ring. "Marry me."
Daphne looked at the ring. At Simon. At the future spreading out before her.
"Yes."
"Yes?"
"Yes, you absolute disaster. I'll marry you. For real this time." She held out her hand. "Put the ring on before I change my mind."
He slid it onto her finger—perfect fit, like it was always meant to be there.
Then he kissed her again, and somewhere in the background, Will whistled appreciatively.
"About damn time," John muttered.
Anthony appeared in the doorway, looking resigned. "You're actually marrying him? Not fake this time?"
"Not fake," Daphne confirmed.
"He's Italian mob, Daphne. Don of the Bassanos—"
"I'm aware."
"And you're fine with this?"
"Anthony." Daphne looked at her brother. "I'm fine with this. I love him. And I'm going to help him run an empire."
Anthony stared at her for a long moment. Then sighed. "Violet's going to be insufferable. She loves being right."
"She's always right. You should know this by now."
"Fair point." Anthony looked at Simon. "If you hurt my sister—"
"You'll kill me. I know. Your mother already threatened me. Twice." Simon's smile was almost normal. Still slightly weird, but close. "I'm going to spend the rest of my life making her happy. You have my word."
"By order of the Bridgertons?"
"By order of the Bassanos." Simon held out his hand.
Anthony shook it.
"Welcome to the family," he said grudgingly. "God help us all."