Author: Faye Pierce

Don’t miss your link for the whole book at the end of the preview.

Chapter One

Artyom

The call came just after dawn. Not from him, of course. He never picks up the phone himself. One of his men delivered the message in that clipped, careful tone that means it isn’t optional.

Your father wants to see you.

I almost said no. Although I live on the estate, I try to avoid this house, and every time I step inside it feels like walking backward through time into a version of myself I thought I’d buried. But there are some things even distance can’t protect you from.

The old unease has already settled in my gut.

My father’s house smells like old cigars and power. Rotting, perfumed power. The kind that seeps into the stone until it forgets what clean air feels like. Every sound here carries weight: the echo of shoes against marble, the click of a cane, the soft drag of a dying man pretending he’s still king.

God, how much I hate all of this.

Vladimir Morozov sits behind his desk, the same one I used to stand in front of as a boy. Back then, it felt like a throne, but now it looks smaller.

He glances up when I enter, surprise flickering for only a second before it hardens into the usual assessment. The years haven’t softened him. If anything, they’ve made him sharper. His suit is immaculate, his tie perfect, the old silver ring still glinting on his hand.

“It’s been a while,” he says finally, the words carrying neither warmth nor reproach. Just fact.

“It has.” I stop a few steps from the desk.

A ghost of a smile touches his mouth, but doesn’t reach his eyes. “Still difficult, I see.”

“I learned from the best.”

He exhales through his nose, a quiet huff that might be amusement or irritation. “I expected you to have missed your old man.”

“Let’s not pretend either of us missed the other.”

He studies me for a moment, eyes narrowing faintly, as if trying to decide whether it was worth summoning me at all.

I break the silence first. “Why did you call me here, Father?”

“Can’t a father ask to see his son?”

“You can,” I say evenly. “You just never do unless you want something. So, let’s not pretend and save us both time.”

That earns me a longer look, intended to make men squirm. I don’t.

He steeples his fingers, settling back in his chair. “Straight to the point, then.”

“Always.”

He nods once, as if conceding a minor point in a game he still believes he’s winning. The room feels smaller when he finally speaks again.

“You’ll marry Irina Petrova,” he says, voice low and deliberate. He doesn’t need to shout. He never did. “It’s time.”

I take the chair opposite him, uninvited. “No.”

A flicker of irritation crosses his face. “No?”

“You heard me.” I unbutton my jacket, slow and calm. “I won’t marry her.”

He studies me the way he used to study his enemies before breaking them. “Boris has made it clear that the wedding must take place in one month. Thirty days, Artyom. That’s all he’s given us—thirty days to bring our families together. You’re treating this like a request.” He leans forward, the light catching the silver in his hair. “And what are you, if not my blood? If I tell you this is how the Morozovs survive, you’ll obey.”

The word tastes wrong. He still says it like I’m a child, as if I’m not the one who took his place when his health failed him.

I let the silence stretch before answering. “You stepped down because the doctors said you couldn’t take it,” I say quietly. “I’m the one keeping this family alive now. I don’t obey.” I meet his gaze, steady. “Not to you. Not to Boris. Not to anyone.”

He lets out a dry laugh. “Power doesn’t change blood. You’re only sitting there because I built it all first.”

“You built it, sure,” I say. “I’m the one who kept it from falling apart.”

His jaw tightens. “You think that makes you better than me?”

I shrug. “No. Just not as rotten.”

The air feels heavier. The smoke from his cigar hangs between us, thick and bitter. I’ve hated that smell since I was a kid, but he loves it—loves the way it fills a room until everyone breathes what he wants them to.

He takes another drag, the tip burning red. “Boris Petrov runs Queens and Long Island. Irina’s his heir. This marriage ties everything together—money, protection, legacy.” He looks at me over the smoke. “You’d really throw that away because your conscience suddenly woke up?”

“I’d rather not tie our name to human trafficking.”

He scoffs. “A moral Pakhan. The world will laugh.”

“The world already daes,” I say. “They think you’re too old to matter.”

That lands, making a vein pulse in his temple.

He rises slowly, using the cane like it’s part of the performance. “You’re my son, Artyom, don’t forget this” he says. “And sons don’t defy their fathers.”

I rise. No Morozov ever allows another to tower over them, this is what I’ve been taught and a rule I keep until this very day. “You call it loyalty, but it’s tyranny. You abdicated, Father. When I took your throne, your rule ended. I won’t serve in its shadow and you know very well my approach is different than yours. I won’t deal with human trafficking and I certainly won’t follow Boris’ lead and agree to his ridiculous schemes. Why on Earth would I marry Irina?”

He takes another drag, watching me like he’s measuring weight for a moment, then smiles. “You’ve grown arrogant.”

“I’ve picked up a few habits,” I say.

He gets up and walks the length of the desk, slowly coming towards me, and stops close enough that the tobacco is on my skin. “Do you know what happens to arrogant men, Artyom?”

“I’ve killed enough to know.” The words come out flat.

His eyes go sharp, like something there just woke up inside him. “Irina loves you. And she’s such a pretty girl.”

“She doesn’t love me, she barely knows me,” I answer.

“That’s enough.” He taps the desk with two fingers, as if marking time.

“She despises Mikhail, they have a history, he did something to offend her in the past,” I say.

“That’s not your problem.” He shrugs. “This is politics.”

“It is my problem when I have to share her bed.” The sentence lands harder than I expected.

He snorts. “When did you start caring whose bed you’re in? You’ve slept with women across half of Europe.”

My jaw tightens. “There’s a difference between someone you sleep with and a contract you must sign. Don’t confuse them.”

“You sound like a petulant child,” he says.

I step closer until his chin tilts up to meet my eyes and the room narrows. “A child would have left your empire in ashes, not made it more powerful.”

He studies me a long time; the quiet between us feels sharp. Finally: “You forget—men like Boris demand respect. Refuse his daughter and he’ll take what you have.”

“We are allied anyway, Father, why the fuck would I agree to marry his daughter?” I ask.

He shakes his head, slowly. “Power isn’t permanent. One bad move, one broken promise, and everything you’ve built falls apart.”

“I will not marry Irina Petrova,” I say, plain.

He studies me for a moment, like he’s deciding whether it’s worth repeating himself, then turns and walks back to his chair. When he sits, his voice is calm again. “Fine. Then tell me—what should I tell Boris when he calls tomorrow to confirm?”

I set the glass down and look at him. “Tell him I’m already engaged.”

His head snaps up. “To whom?”

“You taught me discretion,” I say. “Consider this one of your lessons.”

“Don’t make a fool of me.”

“I’m not,” I answer. “I’m simply… protecting what we have.”

He stares at me, trying to read whether that’s bravado or a plan. “If she doesn’t exist,” he says, “Boris will tear us apart.”

“Of course she exists. I’m not a psycho that’d lie and say I had a fiancée if I didn’t. I just don’t bother sharing my personal life with you.”

Vladimir exhales through his nose, something between anger and reluctant amusement. “You’ll have to bring her to Italy then and present her to our allies,” he says, dry.

“Will do,” I say as I head for the door.

I don’t look back. The corridor outside is colder; the chandeliers throw hard light across the marble. Portraits of men who thought fear would save them look down on me; it never did.

By the gate my phone is already in my hand. I dial Lev with one motion.

“Da, boss.”

“Find me a woman.”

There’s a pause. “Specifics?”

“She has to look posh. Not fragile. Smart enough to stand with me and not be a problem.”

He whistles low. “Short list.”

“You have until morning.” I don’t soften the deadline.

“What is this about?” he asks.

“She needs to pretend to be engaged to me,” I say. “Make it look true.”

“Understood.”

I hang up and step outside. The wind catches my jacket, pulling at it as I walk, but I don’t slow down. I keep thinking about my father’s face when he realized I wasn’t afraid of him anymore, how quiet he went after that. Let him rage, let Boris make his threats. They can keep their deals, their daughters, their politics. I obey to no one.

As it turns out, I am a psycho. And a need a fake fiancée now

Chapter Two

Kira

The city feels almost kind tonight. Warm for October, the kind of afternoon sunlight that lingers between the buildings, soft and gold, touching everything it can’t quite warm. For once, I don’t take the car. It’s late, but the streets are bright enough—neon signs, open windows, snippets of laughter from bars spilling into the air. My shoes ache from twelve hours on my feet, but walking feels better than sitting in traffic and pretending the silence beside me isn’t waiting to swallow me whole.

Lilly walks next to me, the rhythm of her steps light and careless. She always moves like the world owes her a favor and I love that for her. “You know, most people celebrate the end of a shift by doing something fun,” she says, sipping her coffee. “A bad decision, a drink that turns into a blackout.”

I smirk. “You’re describing your last Friday, not mine.”

“That’s the point,” she says, bumping my shoulder. “You need one.”

“I had a patient flatline in front of me two hours ago,” I remind her. “I think I’ll skip the blackout.”

She rolls her eyes. “God, you’re such a nun sometimes.”

I laugh under my breath, not because it’s funny but because it’s true. My life revolves around scrubs, double shifts, and bills that never stop multiplying. I can count my reckless decisions on one hand, and all of them involve trusting my brother.

Lilly kicks a pebble down the street. “You ever think about taking a day off?”

“Days off are expensive.”

“So are ulcers,” she mutters. “Come on, Kira. You’re twenty-seven. You should at least have a hobby that doesn’t involve vital signs.”

“I like reading,” I say defensively.

“You like medical journals.”

“And old movies.”

“On your couch. Alone.”

I sigh. “You’re relentless.”

“It’s a skill.” She nudges me again. “What about Lucas? Still MIA?”

A familiar pinch tightens in my chest at the thought of my brother. “Yeah. A week now.”

“Did you call him?”

“Twice. Straight to voicemail.”

She shrugs. “He’ll show up. He always does when he needs your help.”

That’s what I keep telling myself. Lucas always reappears eventually—hungover, broke, full of promises that last about three days. I’ve learned not to panic until the calls start coming from numbers I don’t recognize.

Still, something feels different this time. The air carries the same weight I feel before a bad shift, like the exact moment before a code is called, when everyone just knows.

Lilly notices my silence. “Hey,” she says gently, “he’s fine. He probably just found some new gig.”

“Or some new trouble.”

“You worry too much.”

“I have reason to.”

She looks at me with that mix of sympathy and frustration she’s perfected. “You can’t keep doing this, Kira. You can’t live your life cleaning up after him. He’s not your patient.”

“He’s my brother.”

“And you’re not his mother. He’s not your responsibility.”

The words sting more than I want to admit. I hate that she’s right. I hate that I still flinch every time someone reminds me that I’m not enough to fix him.

We walk in silence for a while. Streetlights flash gold across the pavement. The city hums with its usual chaos of horns and the faint echo of music from somewhere above us. It’s the kind of noise that makes you feel less alone, even when you are.

When we reach my building, Lilly stops at the corner. “Are you sure you’re good?”

“Yeah.” I try to smile. “Just tired.”

“Text me if you get bored and want me to come over with ice cream and wine.”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

She studies me a second longer, as if she wants to say more but knows I won’t listen. Then she waves and walks off, her hair catching the streetlight like copper. I watch her go until she disappears into the crowd.

The air feels colder once she’s gone.

Inside my building, the stairwell smells like paint and old cigarettes. The landlord swore he’d fix the lighting months ago, but the bulbs still flicker like a dying heartbeat. I climb the steps, my legs protesting with every move. The building is quiet except for the hum of someone’s TV through a thin wall and the faint drip of water from a leaky pipe.

By the time I reach my door, I’m half-asleep on my feet. I fish out my keys, push the door open, and step inside.

The apartment greets me with its usual silence. A finished cup of coffee sits on the counter, a pile of medical forms on the table. I drop my bag and kick off my shoes.

It’s a small apartment, a one-bedroom carved out of an old brownstone, patched together with secondhand furniture and prayers. The walls are thin enough to hear the neighbors argue, but it’s the first place that’s ever felt like home.

I shrug off my jacket and toss it over the chair. The air inside is warm and stale. I peel off my blouse next, the cheap polyester clinging to my skin. My bra strap digs into my shoulder, the elastic itching where the fabric’s frayed. I make a mental note to buy a new one, then immediately remind myself that rent comes first.

I undo the top button of my jeans while crossing the room, the dim light from the street slipping through the blinds. It’s enough to find my way through the dark.

The floor creaks as I move toward the kitchen, each step whispering back at me. The sound makes me pause for no reason I can explain. I’ve always hated coming home to silence; it makes every small noise feel amplified, like the apartment is listening.

I flip through the mail on the counter—bills, advertisements, a letter for Lucas. My name scratched next to his in someone else’s handwriting. I stare at it longer than I should before setting it aside. The truth is, I haven’t told the landlord he doesn’t live here anymore. I’m not ready to admit that most nights, it’s just me and the echo of someone who should’ve come back by now.

The fridge hums. I open it, find a half-empty carton of milk and a leftover sandwich that’s turned the color of regret. I close the door. My reflection catches in the window—faint, blurred, almost unfamiliar. God, I look tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes though, and I wonder if I should text Lilly and agree to the glass of wine after all.

The clock above the sink reads 6:47. I should shower, but the thought of peeling off the rest of my clothes in the cold bathroom feels impossible. I light a candle instead. Vanilla, almost sweet enough to cover the antiseptic smell that follows me home from work.

Something knocks faintly against the window. Probably the wind, but it makes me look up. The curtains shift a little. I cross the room and check the latch. Closed. Everything looks normal.

Still, a small chill runs down my spine. I know it’s exhaustion and I’ve seen way too many people turn paranoid after continuous ER nights. But still… something feels off.

The candle sputters.

I exhale through my nose, force myself to move and I see that the bedroom door is cracked open. The blinds let in a faint strip of light from the street—thin and gold, cutting through the dark like a scar. My bed’s already made, the sheet smooth, the sweatshirt folded neatly at the foot.

Lucas used to sleep there sometimes, when he’d show up too drunk to find his own bed. I never said no, even when he stumbled in at 3 a.m. smelling like whiskey and trouble. Some part of me always thought if I kept a place for him, he’d find his way back to it.

The city outside murmurs—a siren far away, laughter closer, a dog barking in the alley. It’s ordinary. Comforting, even.

I pull my hair free from its ponytail and let it fall over my shoulders and I stand, half-undressed, and glance toward the hallway. For a moment, I think I hear something like a quiet shift of fabric, a slow breath that isn’t mine. The sound is so faint I almost convince myself I imagined it.

I move toward the doorway, every sense on edge. “Lucas?” I call softly.

Silence.

My heartbeat drowns out the rest of the world. I take another step.

Something about the darkness feels different now, watchful. Like the second before a lightning strike. My mind flips through every rational explanation. The neighbors. The pipes. The wind. But none of them explain the smell.

It’s faint—cologne, maybe. Expensive. Nothing like Lucas’s cheap spray or the sterilized scent of the hospital. This is darker and way more subtle.

I pause halfway between the bedroom and the living room. The candlelight spills just enough to show the edge of the armchair by the window. The shadow there looks deeper than it should.

My pulse stumbles. I tell myself to move, to grab my phone, to do something, but my body won’t listen. Another sound—a soft exhale, almost a sigh.

There’s someone here. There’s someone in my fucking living room!

Every muscle in my body locks. I can’t see him yet, but I can feel him and I am damn sure it’s a man. A chill crawls up the back of my neck.

No movement. No sound. Just my own heartbeat hammering in my ears. I stand there for what feels like a full minute, my breath coming short and fast. The candle still flickers, steady and harmless. Maybe it was the neighbors. Or the old building settling again. Maybe the sound was mine—a creak of floorboard, a breath caught wrong.

Get a grip, Kira. You’ve been awake too long.

I’ve seen what sleep deprivation does to people—hallucinations, paranoia, the mind twisting shadows into faces. I’ve told patients the same thing a hundred times. So why does the apartment feel like it’s holding its breath?

I run a hand through my hair, force out a laugh that doesn’t sound real. “Jesus, maybe I need the blackout after all.”

The joke lands flat in the dark.

I sit on the couch, letting my body remember the fatigue instead of the fear and I unlock my bra, getting ready to go under the shower and wash this day away.

“I’d let you keep going,” a voice says smoothly, “but things might escalate in a direction I didn’t plan for.”

My body freezes before my brain catches up. The voice isn’t my brother’s.

How likely are you to recommend this preview to a friend?

Not at all Likely Extremely Likely
0	1	2	3	4	5	6	7	8	9	10

Submit

Best selling books of Faye Pierce

★★★★★ 51 ratings

Read the book

★★★★★ 37 ratings

Read the book

★★★★★ 45 ratings

Read the book

Don’t miss your link for the whole book at the end of the preview.

Chapter One

Dante

I shouldn’t be here.

The bass from the club floor vibrates through the walls. But back here, in the storage room that doubles as my office when I need privacy, the only sound is Adrian Morelli’s ragged breathing.

I adjust my cufflinks—platinum, understated—and take my time crossing the concrete floor. My three-piece Tom Ford fits like it was painted on, because it was made for me, and the slight give of Italian leather beneath my feet reminds me that everything in my world has its place. Order. Control. Precision.

And if I know one thing it’s that Adrian doesn’t fit anymore.

He’s zip-tied to a metal chair, flanked by two of my men who know better than to speak unless I ask them a direct question. I can see the sweat that darkens his collar. His usually slicked hair hangs limp across his forehead, and his breath—Christ, his breath carries that sour-sweet stink of bottom-shelf whiskey that makes my jaw lock.

I hate drunks.

The smell alone drags me back to places I’ve spent a decade burying, but I shove it down and let the cold settle in my chest where it belongs. Emotion is a liability. Sentiment gets you killed. My father taught me that, even if he learned it too late.

“Adrian.” I stop three feet away, hands in my pockets, my voice even. “Do you know why you’re here?”

His head jerks up, bloodshot eyes struggling to focus. “Dante, listen, I can explain—”

“I didn’t ask for an explanation. I asked if you know why you’re here.”

He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. “The money. I know. I just need a little more time—”

“You had time.” I pull out my phone, scroll through the ledger Rafe sent me this morning. “March nineteenth. We forgave fifty-three thousand because you’d worked with us for six years. You cried. You promised it would never happen again and that you would return them. Do you remember?”

“Yes, but—”

“April twenty-second. You were back at the tables. May eleventh, you borrowed from a loan shark in Brooklyn. June third, you missed a payment to us. And last week—” I look up, let him see the flatness in my stare, “—you placed a thirty-thousand-dollar bet on a basketball game. With our money.”

“I was going to win it back—”

“But you didn’t.”

The silence stretches and one of my men shifts his weight. I don’t look at him, but I know he’s wondering if I’m going to draw this out or end it quickly. Even they can’t always predict me, and I like it that way.

Predictability gets you killed in my world. It’s why I vary my methods deliberately. Sometimes I’m surgical and quick. Other times I let fear do the heavy lifting, let a man’s imagination run wild with what I might do. Sometimes I’m generous when they expect violence. Sometimes I’m brutal when they expect mercy.

A man who can’t anticipate your next move can’t prepare a defense, can’t plot against you, can’t find your weaknesses. My men respect me more because they never know which Dante they’ll get when they walk into a room. It’s not cruelty for cruelty’s sake—it’s strategy. And that respect, that uncertainty, keeps them sharp. Keeps them loyal. Keeps them alive. And most importantly—keeps me alive.

Adrian’s breathing picks up. “Please. I’ll get it. I swear to God, I’ll get every cent—”

“You have nothing left to get it with.” I slide my phone back into my pocket, then smooth my jacket. “I’ve seen your accounts. Your credit’s torched. Your car’s leased. Your apartment’s two months behind. You’re a financial corpse, Adrian. You just haven’t stopped moving yet.”

His face crumples. For a second I think he might cry, and the disgust rises sharp in my throat.

“One day,” I say, my tone unchanged. “You have twenty-four hours to bring me eighty-seven thousand dollars, or you die. No extensions. No negotiations.”

“I don’t have it!” His voice cracks, desperation bleeding through. “Dante, please, I’ve been loyal—”

“Loyal?” The word tastes bitter. “You stole from me. You lied. You gambled with money that wasn’t yours and lost. That’s not loyalty, that’s suicide.”

I nod to Marco, the man on Adrian’s left. He steps forward, produces a pair of pliers from his jacket, and Adrian’s eyes go wide.

“Wait—wait, no, please—”

“You want more time?” I ask, almost conversational. “Then you need to understand what happens when you waste mine.”

Marco grabs Adrian’s hand, wrenches it flat against the armrest. Adrian thrashes, but the zip ties hold, and my other guy—Sal, built like a fridge—clamps a hand on his shoulder to keep him still.

“Please don’t—”

The pliers close around his left pinky nail.

Adrian screams before Marco even pulls. The sound is shrill and ugly, and when the nail tears free, blood wells up fast, dripping onto the chair, onto the floor. The stench of copper mixes with the whiskey on his breath and I take a step back, keeping my expression neutral even as my stomach turns.

Not from the blood, I’ve seen worse than that. Done worse.

It’s the drunk, pathetic whimpering that gets under my skin.

“Stop—stop, please, I’ll do anything—”

“Anything?” I arch a brow, pulling a handkerchief from my pocket to wipe a fleck of blood from my shoe. “You just told me you have nothing.”

“I’ll work! I’ll do jobs, I’ll—whatever you need, just give me two weeks, please—”

“Two weeks.” I laugh, low and humorless, wondering if this idiot actually understands the trouble he’s in. “What are you going to do in two weeks, Adrian? Win the lottery?”

His phone buzzes on the table beside me, screen lighting up. The vibration cuts through his sobs, and I glance down.

The name Bianca flashes across the display, accompanied by a photo.

I pick it up.

She’s smiling in the picture—really smiling, the kind that reaches her eyes. Hazel-green, I think, though the lighting makes it hard to tell. Long chestnut hair pulled over one shoulder, a simple blouse, nothing flashy. She looks warm. Genuine. The kind of woman who probably bakes cookies for her neighbors and remembers birthdays.

The kind of woman who has no business being anywhere near a man like Adrian Morelli.

“Who’s this?” I ask, turning the phone toward him.

His face goes pale. “That’s—that’s my girlfriend. Please don’t—”

“How long have you been together?”

“Three years. Dante, she has nothing to do with this—”

“Three years.” I study the photo again, something cold and calculating clicking into place in the back of my mind. “And you’ve been gambling the whole time?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Does she know what you do? Who you work for?”

“No.” His voice drops to a whisper. “She thinks I’m just an accountant.”

Of course, she does.

I set the phone down, cross my arms. Marco sets the pliers down, waiting for orders. Adrian’s hand is still bleeding, but he’s stopped screaming, reduced to pathetic whimpering and shaking.

“I can settle this another way,” Adrian blurts out suddenly, voice cracking. “I can repay you. Just not with money.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You just told me you have nothing left, boy, don’t fucking play with me.”

“I have something.” He’s talking fast now, desperate. “Something valuable. My girlfriend.”

The room goes quiet.

I tilt my head, studying him. “Your girlfriend.”

“Yes. Bianca. You can have her. As collateral. She’s—she’s worth more than the debt, I swear.”

No hesitation. The offer comes out smooth, rehearsed almost, like he’s been holding it in reserve this whole time. No stumbling over the words. No visible guilt.

I wait for the backtrack. The moment where he realizes what he just said and tries to take it back. Because his offer is mad. Ridiculous.

But it doesn’t come.

I set the phone down carefully, adjust my cufflinks. “You’re telling me that instead of bringing me my money, you want to give me a living and breathing woman.”

“She’s not just any woman,” Adrian says quickly, desperately. “She’s loyal. She’ll listen. And she’s—” He swallows. “She’s almost a virgin. Never been with anyone but me. That’s worth something, right?”

Marco makes a sound low in his throat, and I don’t have to look to know he’s disgusted.

I am too.

But I’m also intrigued.

Not because of what Adrian’s offering—I’m not some trafficking animal who trades in women like currency. But because this pathetic waste of oxygen just showed me exactly who he is, and in doing so, made me very, very curious about the woman he’s throwing away.

“And how exactly do you plan to deliver her?” I ask, circling back to the practical. “What’s stopping her from running the moment you bring her to me?”

Adrian’s face goes even paler, if that’s possible. “She won’t run.”

“You seem very confident about that.”

“I am.” He’s talking faster now, desperate to close this deal. “I’ve been paying her mother’s medical bills. Cancer. Stage four. Expensive treatment at St. Catherine’s. Without me, her mother loses everything—the care, the medication, all of it.”

There it is. The leverage.

“So, she’s tied to you,” I say slowly.

“Exactly. She won’t run because she can’t afford to. Her mother’s life depends on those payments.” He’s almost smiling now, thinking he’s made a brilliant play. “Bring her here, tell her the situation, and she’ll cooperate. She has no choice.”

I study him for a long moment. The casual way he’s using a dying woman as collateral. The ease with which he’s manipulating someone who presumably loves him.

He’s even more worthless than I thought.

But he’s also handed me exactly what I need.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” I say, my voice flat. “You’re going to walk out of here. You’re going to go home, pack a bag, and disappear for a while. Maybe leave the state. I don’t care. But your debt doesn’t disappear with you.”

“I know, I—”

“It transfers to her.”

His face pales. “What?”

“You heard me. Bianca now owes me eighty-seven thousand dollars. And since I’m betting she doesn’t have that kind of money, she’ll be working it off. However, I see fit.”

“But—”

“You offered her, Adrian. I’m accepting.” I lean forward, let him see the flatness in my stare. “And if you ever come near her again, if you so much as text her, I’ll cut off more than a fingernail. We clear?”

He stares at me, mouth opening and closing, the full weight of what he’s done finally sinking in.

Too late.

“Sal, cut him loose.”

The zip ties snap. Adrian stumbles to his feet, cradling his bleeding hand against his chest. He looks at me, then at the phone still sitting on the table, and for half a second, I think he might actually try to take it back.

“Go,” I say quietly.

He goes.

The door slams behind him, and the room feels cleaner without him in it.

Marco picks up a rag, starts wiping blood off the pliers. “You really taking his girl, boss?”

“I am.”

“You think she knows what she’s walking into?”

I look at the phone again. At Bianca’s smiling face, frozen in a moment of happiness that’s about to shatter.

“No,” I say. “But she will.”

Because Adrian Morelli just sold her to the devil, and I always collect what I’m owed.

Chapter Two

Bianca

The last bell rings at 3:15, and the hallway explodes with the sound of twenty-three second-graders who’ve been sitting still for six hours too long. Loud doesn’t even begin to cover it.

I gather my papers, slide them into my tote bag, and step into the chaos. Backpacks scrape against lockers. Shoes squeak on linoleum. Someone’s already crying because they can’t find their lunchbox, and I make a mental note to check the lost and found before I leave.

“Miss Mancini!”

I turn to find Emma Rodriguez clutching a drawing, her gap-toothed smile wide enough to split her face. “I made this for you!”

It’s a crayon masterpiece—stick figures holding hands under a bright yellow sun, one labelled “Miss M” in wobbly letters.

“It’s beautiful, Emma.” I crouch down to her level, accepting the paper like it’s worth a million dollars. “I’m going to hang it right on my desk. Thank you, sweetheart.”

She beams, then races off to join her mother at the door.

I watch her go, feeling that familiar warmth settle in my chest. This is why I teach. Not for the paycheck—God knows the paycheck is barely enough to survive on—but for moments like this. For the chance to be the stable, caring presence these kids deserve.

The presence I never had.

“Miss Mancini?”

Alex Martinez stands at my elbow, backpack dangling from one shoulder, eyes fixed on the floor. He’s small for seven, with dark hair that always needs cutting and a jacket two sizes too big.

“Hey, buddy.” I rest a hand on his shoulder. “You all set?”

He nods but doesn’t move.

I glance at the clock. His mom works until six most nights, and the after-school program doesn’t start until four. That leaves him forty-five minutes to kill, and I know he hates waiting alone in the cafeteria.

“What do you usually do before the program starts?” I ask gently.

His eyes drop to the floor. “I’m not going to the program this year.”

“Oh?” I keep my voice casual, not wanting to embarrass him. “How come?”

“Mom can’t afford it.” He says it matter-of-factly, like he’s used to hearing it. “She said maybe next semester if she picks up more shifts.”

My heart squeezes.

“Well then,” I say, straightening up. “Want to help me organize the supply closet?” I ask.

His face lights up. “Really?”

“Really. I could use an extra set of hands.”

We spend the next half hour sorting through construction paper and glue sticks while Alex tells me about the book he’s reading. He’s smart—too smart for his own good sometimes. The kind of kid who notices everything and feels too much.

The kind of kid I used to be. He reminds me so much of myself it hurts sometimes.

When his mom finally arrives, breathless and apologetic, I walk them both to the door. Alex waves until they disappear around the corner, and I feel that familiar ache in my chest.

I want to give these kids everything. Stability. Safety. The kind of childhood where they don’t have to worry about whether the adults in their lives will show up.

But I can barely keep my own life together.

My phone buzzes as I’m locking the classroom door.

St. Catherine’s Medical Center flashes across the screen and my stomach drops.

“Hello?”

“Miss Mancini?” The voice is professional, clipped and makes the hair on my neck stand straight. “This is Sharon from billing at St. Catherine’s. I’m calling about your mother’s account. Is it a good time?”

I press the phone tighter to my ear, already walking toward the parking lot. “Yes, I can speak. Is she okay?”

“She’s fine,” I feel a huge weight falling off my chest. Mom’s fine. “But we haven’t received this month’s payment yet, and I wanted to check in. Is everything all right on your end?”

The breath I’ve been holding releases in a rush. One of my biggest fears is that someday they will call me and tell me the news no child wants to hear, no matter the age. That they’re mom is gone.

“Yes, I’m so sorry. My—my partner handles the payments. I’ll check with him and call you back today.”

“Perfect. We just want to make sure there are no issues with—”

“Miss Mancini!”

I turn to see Alex’s mom rushing back toward me, waving. She mouths thank you and blows a kiss before disappearing again.

I manage a smile, but my heart is racing.

“—coverage,” Sharon finishes. “Just give us a call when you can.”

“I will. Thank you.”

I hang up and lean against my car, fingers automatically finding the gold cross pendant at my throat. Mom gave it to me when I was ten, told me it was a promise that she’d always be there.

Even when she’s not.

Even when cancer is eating her alive and the only thing keeping her in that hospital bed is money I don’t have.

I close my eyes, take a breath, and try to remember the last time Adrian actually answered a question about finances without getting defensive. Why the hell is he delaying the payment?

“Bianca.”

The voice cuts through my thoughts like a knife, and I jerk upright.

Adrian is leaning against the passenger side of my car, arms crossed, looking like he hasn’t slept in days. His suit—usually crisp and tailored—is wrinkled. His tie is loose. And his eyes…

God, his eyes are glassy and unfocused in a way that makes my skin crawl.

“Adrian?” I glance around the parking lot, suddenly aware that a few teachers are still loading up their cars and my boyfriend looks like the local drunk. “What are you doing here?”

He pushes off the car, takes a step toward me. “Came to see my girl.”

The smell hits me before he does—whiskey, sharp and sour. It’s 3:30 in the afternoon and he reeks like he’s been marinating in it.

“You’re drunk.” I take a step back, keeping distance between us. “You need to go home.”

“I’m fine.” He reaches for me, fingers closing around my wrist. “Just wanted to surprise you.”

His grip is too tight. Not painful yet, but firm enough that I’d have to yank to get free.

“Adrian.” I keep my voice low, aware of the lingering eyes. “Let go.”

Instead, he pulls me closer, his other hand sliding to my waist. “Come on, baby. Give me a kiss.”

I turn my face away just as his lips brush my cheek. “Not here. Not like this.”

“Why not?” His words slur together. “I’m your boyfriend, aren’t I?”

Mrs. Chen from fourth grade is watching now, concern etched across her face. The last thing I need is the school administration getting involved in my personal life. I force myself to relax, to soften my tone even as anger burns in my chest. “You are. But I’m not kissing a drunk man in front of my students’ parents. So let go, and we can talk.”

Something flickers in his eyes—hurt, maybe, or shame—and his grip loosens.

I pull my wrist free, rubbing the red marks his fingers left behind.

“The clinic called,” I say, tucking my hands into my pockets so he can’t see them shake. “About Mom’s payment. They said it hasn’t gone through.”

Adrian’s jaw tightens. “Yeah. That’s actually one of the things I wanted to talk to you about.”

My stomach flips. “What do you mean?”

“Not here.” He gestures toward his car—a black sedan that’s parked crooked across two spaces. “Come on. I have a surprise for you.”

“Adrian, I don’t—”

“Please.” The word comes out raw, desperate. “Just trust me. I need you to come with me. It’s important.”

I look at his car, then back at him. At the way he’s swaying slightly on his feet. At the panic lurking beneath the alcohol haze.

Every instinct I have is screaming at me to say no. To get in my own car and drive away.

But Mom’s payment didn’t go through. And Adrian is the one who’s supposed to handle it. And if I don’t figure out what’s going on, she could lose her spot at St. Catherine’s.

“Fine.” I grab my tote bag from my car. “But you’re not driving. Give me the keys.”

“I’m fine to—”

“Keys, Adrian. Now.”

He fishes them out of his pocket and drops them into my palm, muttering something under his breath that I choose to ignore.

The drive starts normal enough. Adrian slouches in the passenger seat, eyes closed, one hand pressed to his temple like he’s fighting off a headache. I keep both hands on the wheel and try to ignore the dread pooling in my gut.

“Where am I going?” I ask.

“Take the expressway toward Newark.”

“Newark? Why—”

“Just drive, Bianca. Please.”

So, I drive.

The neighborhoods get worse the farther we go. Pristine suburbs give way to strip malls, then to blocks of boarded-up buildings and chain-link fences. The sky seems darker here, like the sun gave up trying to reach this part of the city.

“Adrian, what’s going on?”

“Work stuff.” He doesn’t open his eyes. “I just need to take care of something.”

“You’re an accountant, not a drug dealer,” I murmur, but he doesn’t say a thing.

The silence stretches between us, heavy and suffocating. I glance at Adrian’s profile—jaw clenched, eyes still closed, that telltale vein pulsing at his temple that only appears when he’s stressed.

Or lying.

“What kind of work stuff?” I press, my fingers tightening on the wheel.

“Just some accounts that need clearing up. Nothing you need to worry about.”

But I am worried. Because in three years together, Adrian has never once brought me to a work meeting. Never introduced me to a single colleague. Never even mentioned specific clients by name.

I thought it was because he wanted to keep work and personal life separate. Professional boundaries and all that.

Now, driving through streets that look like they’ve given up on ever seeing better days, I’m wondering if there’s another reason entirely.

“Adrian, if you’re in some kind of trouble—”

“I’m handling it.” His voice is sharp, final. “Just trust me, okay?”

Trust him.

The words taste bitter in my mouth, but I swallow them down because what choice do I have?

I grip the steering wheel tighter, my fingers finding the cross pendant again. It’s a nervous habit I’ve had since childhood—whenever I’m scared or angry, I reach for it. Mom used to joke that I’d wear the gold smooth one day.

“Turn here,” Adrian says suddenly.

I follow his directions down a street lined with warehouses and auto shops, then into a parking lot in front of a sagging apartment complex that looks like it should’ve been condemned years ago.

“This is your surprise?” I can’t keep the edge out of my voice. “A slum in Newark?”

“Just come inside.” He’s already opening the door, stumbling slightly as he stands. “It’ll make sense. I promise.”

It won’t. I know it won’t. But I’m already here, and turning back now won’t answer any of my questions.

I kill the engine and follow him toward the building, praying I won’t have to put my teenage self-defense classes to use.

The hallway reeks of mildew and cigarette smoke. Paint peels from the walls in long strips, and the fluorescent lights overhead flicker like they’re trying to give up. Adrian leads me to the third door on the left, then pauses with his hand on the knob.

“Just… don’t freak out, okay?”

“Adrian—”

He opens the door.

The apartment is small and dim, curtains drawn against the afternoon light. Smoke hangs thick in the air—cigar smoke, expensive and cloying. There are men here. Four, maybe five, all standing or sitting in positions that feel deliberately casual.

And in the center of the room, standing by the window with his hands in his pockets and his suit so perfectly tailored it looks obscene in this place, is a man who makes my heart stop.

He’s tall. Like extremely tall. Dark hair. Blue eyes that cut through the smoke and the shadows and land on me with the precision of a scalpel.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

Just looks at me like he’s been expecting me.

Like he already knows exactly why I’m here.

“Adrian,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the blood rushing in my ears. “What did you do?”

But Adrian doesn’t answer.

And the man in the perfect suit smiles.

How likely are you to recommend this preview to a friend?

Not at all Likely Extremely Likely
0	1	2	3	4	5	6	7	8	9	10

Submit

Best selling books of Faye Pierce

★★★★★ 51 ratings

Read the book

★★★★★ 37 ratings

Read the book

★★★★★ 45 ratings

Read the book