Author: Faye Pierce

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

Chapter One

Gia

Why the hell did I come back here?

The leather seat is cold under my legs, even through the fabric of my dress. I keep my hands folded in my lap, watching the countryside roll past the tinted window like the answer to where we’re going is written somewhere in the trees. Fields give way to tall oaks and then forest thick enough to block the late afternoon sun, throwing shadows across Laura’s face.

My baby sister sits beside me doing the thing where she grips the seat edge so hard her knuckles go white, like if she holds on tight enough she can control where we’re going. She’s nine years old and she already knows how to make herself small in our father’s presence, how to keep quiet until spoken to, how to fold into herself when the air gets heavy.

I hate that she knows this.

I hate it so fucking much.

And even worse, I hate it so much because she learned it from watching me.

I reach over and cover her hand with mine, working my fingers between hers and the leather until she lets go. Her palm is sweaty. She looks up at me with those wide brown eyes that haven’t learned hardness yet, and I squeeze once, trying to talk to her without words.

Hey Sweetie Pie, I’m here, I’ve got you, whatever this is I’ll stand between you and it. I’ll always protect you.

God, I hope she understands me.

“Where are we going, Gia?” Her whisper is barely heard over the hum of the car’s engine.

I smile sweetly, “A wedding, Sweetie.”

“Whose?”

Good question.

“Father?” I glance toward the front seat where our father sits beside his driver, his profile sharp against the window.

At fifty-eight, Salvatore De Luca looks like something carved from marble, all the softness eroded away. Silver threads through his black hair now, combed back with the same precision he applies to everything else in his life.

Hardness and violence.

He doesn’t turn around. “An important political union. The whole family’s presence is required.”

Which in itself is weird, but I don’t comment.

But there’s something underneath his words, something that makes the base of my spine go cold. And I’m definitely not trying to figure it out. Years of knowing my father taught me it’s better not to know anything at all.

I’ve only been back a week after years away and I still haven’t readjusted to the weight of his voice, the way every syllable feels like it’s been calculated three moves ahead.

I’ll never get used to it.

“Especially after your brother’s passing,” he continues. “We must prove we’re strong.”

Laura’s hand tenses under mine. She barely remembers Vittorio. She was five when I left, too young to have known him at all. She spent most of the last four years with me in Paris, tucked away in our apartment in the Marais. My safe haven after… Stop, Gia. Don’t think about it.

Marais feels so far away already.

Then, six months ago, father decided it was time for her to come home. I couldn’t stop him. I tried. God, did I. But Salvatore De Luca doesn’t negotiate with his daughters. Or anyone for that matter.

I didn’t even come back for my brother’s funeral three months ago. The truth is we were never close. I barely knew him, and standing over his grave pretending to grieve a brother who was practically a stranger felt dishonest in a way I couldn’t stomach.

But when father called last week telling me to come home, I came. Because Laura is here and I will crawl through broken glass before I leave her alone in that damned house.

Being back feels like wearing a coat that doesn’t fit anymore even though it was tailored to my exact measurements. It feels wrong. Constricting. Like I’ve stepped back into a version of myself I spent four years trying to bury.

It doesn’t feel okay at all.

“Will there be cake?” Laura asks, and there’s so much hope in her voice it makes my chest hurt.

“Probably,” I tell her, making myself smile. “Those fancy ones with too much frosting.”

“The kind that makes your teeth hurt?” She giggles.

“Exactly that kind.”

She settles back against the seat, satisfied for now. I wish I could find comfort in something as simple. I wish I was still young enough to believe weddings meant celebration instead of transaction, that marriage was about love instead of leverage.

But I learned better at nineteen. I learnt so much that I know that I want nothing to do with it anymore.

Father shifts in his seat. “You will comport yourself appropriately.”

He’s talking to me, not Laura. “Of course.”

“No scenes.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Father.” I drawl but we both know that’s a lie.

I’m dreaming of several, actually.

His eyes find mine in the rearview mirror and the warning there is clear.

Pfft.

The memory tries to claw its way up but I shove it down hard. Not here. Not now. Not with Laura sitting beside me vibrating with nervous energy because this is her first real public appearance and she doesn’t understand yet what it costs to be Salvatore De Luca’s daughter. Most people don’t even know she exists.

I think happy thoughts, like the YouTube therapists teach.

Bunnies, pink fluffy bunnies, chocolates and pizza….

The car turns onto a smaller road. Gravel crunches under the tires. Trees press close on either side, their branches forming a canopy overhead that turns the sunlight into scattered coins of gold. This isn’t the suburbs. This is countryside, remote and quiet, the kind of place you go when you don’t want witnesses.

Okay, where the hell are we going? Seriously, where? Because this looks less like a wedding venue and more like somewhere they bury the bodies.

My stomach drops. What the heck is happening?

“Where is this church?” I keep my voice level. Curious, not confrontational.

“Does it matter?” Father still doesn’t look back.

“Just making conversation.”

“Curiosity is a dangerous habit, Gia.”

So is raising daughters like chess pieces, but here we are.

I almost say it. The words line up right at the back of my teeth and I can taste how good it would feel to let them out. I glance at Laura instead. She’s watching me with those careful eyes, reading my face the way she always does when she’s trying to decide if she should be scared, and that’s what stops me. Not obedience. Not fear. Her.

I swallow it down and go quiet, chewing the insides of my mouth.

Laura’s hand finds mine again and I hold it, her pulse jumping against my palm. She’s scared. I don’t blame her.

The trees thin and suddenly we’re pulling up to a small stone church, weathered and ancient, surrounded by cars that most people will never see in their entire lives because… why the hell not? Black sedans. Dark SUVs. Lambos. All of them screaming money and violence even in their stillness.

My pulse kicks up hard. I know this feeling. The way my chest goes tight, the way my breathing wants to speed up and I have to force it to stay even. It’s fear wrapped in expensive fabric, terror wearing pearls.

The car stops. The driver gets out, opens father’s door, then comes around to ours. I take what I hope is a deep, steadying breath and step out into the cool air, and immediately I feel it.

Eyes.

So many eyes.

Goodness.

They’re watching from the church steps, from beside the cars, men in dark suits and women in designer dresses, all of them turning to look at us. At me. Four years is a long time to disappear. Long enough to become a ghost story. Long enough that my return feels like an event people will gossip about for months.

The Ghost Heiress is finally back.

I keep my gaze forward, my shoulders back.

Laura stays glued to my side as we walk toward the church entrance. I can feel her trembling and I want to scoop her up and run, want to tell her it’s okay, that nothing bad will happen. But I stopped making promises I can’t keep the day I learned what men like our father are capable of.

As if I summoned him, his hand settles on my shoulder, heavy as a threat. “Head high.”

I don’t respond. I just walk.

The church doors stand open. Inside I can see pews already filled, ceremony preparations centered at the far end. Flowers everywhere, white and pale pink, the kind of arrangements that cost a fortune and say nothing about the people getting married.

We step inside and the temperature drops ten degrees. Stone walls. High ceilings. The smell of incense and wood polish and something older underneath, like centuries of prayers that went unanswered.

Guests go quiet as we enter. I keep walking, Laura beside me, father’s hand on my shoulder steering me like I’m a car he’s driving.

And then I see him.

At the altar.

Waiting.

Rafael Caruso.

I know him. Not well. I’ve seen him maybe half a dozen times over the years, always from a distance, always beside Matteo Romano or one of the other Brotherhood men. Older than me by more than a decade.

But I’ve never seen him this close. And up close, Rafael Caruso is a problem.

He’s over six feet of pure, rogue sex on legs, in an Italian suit, the kind of body that doesn’t come from a gym but from a life where violence is just a normal Tuesday. The suit is black, tailored so precisely it looks grown rather than made, white shirt open at the collar because he clearly doesn’t care enough about this event to bother with a tie. Dark blond hair worn a little too long, like he cut it himself with a knife six months ago and hasn’t thought about it since. There’s a scar that cuts through the left side of his jaw, thin and pale and old, the kind of mark you only get when someone means it.

He’s sexy the way a loaded gun is beautiful. You don’t want to touch it, but you can’t stop looking.

And then there are his eyes.

Green. Not soft green. Not kind green. The flat, calculating green of someone who has looked at a man and decided what to do with him before that man even opened his mouth.

They’re brutal and sexy and—

They’re fixed on me from across the length of that church. The weight of them hits me somewhere low in my core, something I haven’t felt in four years, something I do not want to feel right now, something I am furious at my own body for producing.

Absolutely not. No. We are not doing this.

This man looks like violence, roughness, and uncivilized sexuality wrapped in one. The way he stands is the thing that gets me most, perfectly still, no shifting weight, no checking his watch, no performing patience the way nervous men do. He just stands there like he has already decided how every single thing in this room is going to go. Like he decided before he walked in.

My mouth goes dry at the sight of him.

Then I push myself back to reality.

Because there’s a man at the altar and he’s looking at me like I’m expected and my father’s hand is on my shoulder and the church has gone silent and something is very, very wrong.

I drop my gaze fast and hate myself for the heat that follows me down, crawling up the back of my neck and spreading across my collarbones like I’ve been caught doing something weird. I spent four years in Paris deliberately unlearning this, teaching my body that men are not something to want, that attraction is just your nervous system lying to you. Four years. Now one look at Rafael Caruso and apparently all of that work means nothing.

Useless. Absolutely useless. Well, thank you Mrs Youtube Therapist.

I assume I’m late. That we interrupted something. That the bride is somewhere in the back waiting for guests to sit down so the ceremony can start.

I move toward the pews on the right but father’s hand tightens on my arm. “The seats are in front.”

Front seats are for family. Immediate family. Parents and siblings of the bride and groom.

So why the hell are we supposed to sit there??

I don’t question him as he steers me toward the aisle not wanting to draw attention.

I look back for Laura and that’s when I see it. Two women in dark dresses have appeared from nowhere, taking her by the hands, guiding her gently but firmly toward a pew near the back. Laura lets them, because she’s learned to not make scenes, and my chest cracks open watching it.

“Wait!” The word comes out before I can stop it. I pull against my father’s grip, turning back toward her. “Laura comes with me.”

Father’s fingers close around my arm like a vice. Not painful enough to be obvious. Painful enough to be a message. “She’ll be fine.”

I glare at him. “She doesn’t know anyone here. Why would she stay separately?”

“She’ll be fine, Gia.” His voice drops half a degree.

Laura looks back at me over her shoulder. Her eyes are wide and its obviously she’s trying to read my face to know if she should panic or not. I make myself look calm. I make myself smile at her, small and steady.

It’s fine, Sweetie, nothing is wrong.

Only, everything is wrong, I just don’t know exactly why.

One of the women says something to her and Laura turns back around, and they guide her into a pew, I watch her small shoulders settle.

I will burn this entire world down before anything touches her.

But I let father steer me down the aisle because making a scene right now helps no one, least of all her.

The church is silent except for the click of my heels on stone.

Every step echoes.

Every face turns.

Whispers move through the room, barely audible but unmistakable. I can feel them picking me apart. The ghost daughter who disappeared and came back different. The girl who left at nineteen and returned at twenty-four with harder eyes and better posture.

I get it, hot gossip, but look the fuck away. Save the ogling for the bride.

I feel exposed walking this path, ridiculous in my dress and heels, my father’s hand on my arm like I’m being delivered somewhere. Like I’m being escorted.

Like I’m the one getting married.

The thought slips in and I shove it out immediately because it’s paranoid and absurd and the kind of thinking that happens when you’ve spent too many years looking over your shoulder.

But the dread in my stomach doesn’t care what I call it. It spreads anyway, cold and slow, up through my ribs and into my throat.

We’re halfway down the aisle. Rafael is twenty feet away. Fifteen. Ten.

He hasn’t moved. Hasn’t looked away. Just stands there watching me approach with an expression I can’t read, somewhere between calculation and recognition, like he can see into the darkest depths of my soul.

Stop looking at me like that.

I can see him clearly now. Every line of him. The scar on his jaw. The set of his shoulders. The way his hands hang loose at his sides, relaxed, ready. He looks like exactly what he is. A man who has put people in the ground and slept fine after.

A widower. An executioner. A man who buried his wife and never replaced her.

Until now.

That thought hits like a fist to the sternum.

I stop walking. Father doesn’t. He keeps moving and I have no choice but to stumble forward with him or rip my arm free and cause the kind of scene that will get my sister hurt.

“Father.” My voice comes out steady. I’m proud of that. “Whose wedding is this?”

This can’t be happening. This cannot be happening.

He doesn’t answer right away. We’re five feet from the altar now. Close enough that I can see the exact shade of Rafael’s eyes, that flat, unreadable green, close enough to catch his cologne cutting through the incense.

He smells expensive and dangerous and I need to stop noticing things about this man immediately.

Father leans in. His breath is warm against my ear.

“Yours.”

Chapter Two

Gia

I’m sorry, what?

The word is still bouncing around my skull when my father releases my arm and steps back, smooth and unbothered, like he just handed over a coat at a restaurant instead of his daughter’s entire life.

He leaves me there.

Standing beside Rafael Caruso.

At the altar.

And then the priest starts speaking.

“No.”

The word comes out before I even decide to say it. It hits the stone walls, the high ceiling and ricochets back to me in the sudden, suffocating silence of three hundred witnesses.

I don’t fucking care.

“No.” I repeat, stepping back from the altar, my heels sharp against the stone. “Absolutely not. This is not happening!”

My father immediately returns to my side, grabbing my arm. “Gia, do not—”

“Don’t!” I yank against his grip and something in my chest has snapped clean, something that had been holding for the entire drive and the whole walk down this aisle and it is gone now. “You do not get to do this. You dragged me to a church in the middle of nowhere without telling me a single thing and you expect me to just stand here and —”

“You will lower your voice, Gia.”

“I will not lower my voice.” I turn to face him fully. My hands are shaking. I can feel it. “You are literally selling me to a man I don’t know. Without telling me. So no, I will not lower my voice, I will not comport myself appropriately, and you will have a scene.”

The church is absolutely silent.

Three hundred people look like they’re holding their breath.

My father’s face goes cold, internal calculation behind his eyes, and I hold his gaze because I am so angry right now that I cannot feel scared.

How dare he do this to me, again?!

Then he takes a breath.

“Are you sure? Think about your sister.”

I go still. He wouldn’t…

I look back before I can stop myself. Back down the aisle, to the pew near the rear of the church where Laura was guided minutes ago. She’s standing now. On her feet, small and rigid between the two women in dark dresses, her eyes locked onto me across the length of the church. Even from here I can see the panic in her face, the way her hands are gripped together in front of her.

My chest cracks open.

No. Not her. She has nothing to do with this —

I make myself breathe.

I look at Laura and I hold her gaze and I smile again, reassuring her with my eyes.

It takes a moment. Then her shoulders drop half an inch and she sits.

I turn back to the altar.

The anger is still there. It doesn’t go anywhere. It just folds itself down into something flat, cold and patient that sits in the bottom of my chest and waits. I am aware that this is probably not what my YouTube therapist would call healthy processing, but she is not here and I am.

I walk back to the altar because what else can I do?

Movement beside me. Rafael shifts his weight and turns slightly toward the priest.

The priest opens his mouth.

“A moment, Father.”

The priest slams his mouth shut for the second time.

Rafael turns to my father. “Salvatore. Now.”

The words are delivered with the complete certainty of someone who has never had to wonder whether they’ll be obeyed.

The church goes so still I can hear my own breathing.

And my father walks over.

What. The. Hell?

I watch this happen. I watch Salvatore De Luca, who built an empire on making other men small, cross the floor of this church because Rafael Caruso said so.

Since when does my father do what anyone tells him?!

They step to the side but they’re still close enough that I can actually hear them.

“She didn’t know?” Rafael’s voice is flat. “Your daughter had no idea this was her fucking wedding?”

“That’s not your concern.”

“Like hell it isn’t. I won’t marry someone who didn’t even know she was being married off.”

“She’s not against the wedding.” My father’s voice drops. “This is important for this alliance and you know that as well as her, Mr. Caruso.”

Silence.

Then Rafael leans closer and says something too low for me to catch. Whatever it is, it is brief. And when they turn back around, my father’s expression has done something I have never seen it do in fifty eight years of hard living.

It has gone careful.

Which in my father’s world is very close to fear. He returns to the front pew without another word.

Rafael comes to stand beside me.

His jaw is tight. Shoulders locked. He is angry, genuinely angry, and that alone is disorienting because men in this world do not get angry on behalf of the woman. They get angry about the deal, the optics, the inconvenience. Not this.

I don’t even know what to think.

He turns and looks directly at me, green eyes staring deep into my soul. “Do you want me to stop this?”

Yes. God, yes, obviously yes!

Every functioning part of me is screaming yes.

“You’re supposed to be my bride.” He tilts his head to watch me. “Which means you can tell me what you want right now and no one in this building has a say in that.” A glance toward the pew where my father sits. Then back to me. “So answer me honestly, Little Gia. Do you want me to stop this wedding?”

Little— Little?! I bristle.

I glare up at him.

Say yes. Gia, for the love of everything, say yes.

“If I say yes,” I bite. “What happens to my sister.”

Something flashes across his eyes.

“That’s not a yes,” he grunts.

“No. It’s not.”

He steps close enough that I have to tilt my chin up to hold his gaze, close enough that I catch his cologne again before I can stop myself.

God, he smells so good, I want to push my nose into his neck and inhale deep.

“Then understand what you’re agreeing to,” he says, quiet and even and completely serious. “Not a marriage on paper. Not separate rooms and polite distance. You become mine. Fully.” His eyes don’t move from mine. “Do you understand what that means for a man like me, Little Gia?”

Oh, if he calls me little one more time, I’m going to jail and my YouTube therapist is getting sued.

“Stop calling me little.” I snap and he just blinks, a small twitch at the side of his lips as if waiting for my answer.

“Are you trying to talk me out of this?” I frown at him.

“I’m making sure you know what you’re walking into.” A pause. “So, tell me, Little… Gia.”

Fucking bastard.

I hold his gaze. I think about Laura sitting back down in that pew. I think about my father’s face when he threatened me and the complete absence of any option that doesn’t end with her getting hurt.

“I know what I’m walking into,” I say.

He looks at me for one more beat.

“Tell the priest,” he nods toward the man.

I turn. “We can proceed, Father.”

The elderly man looks between us one more time and clears his throat before picks up where he left off.

The ceremony begins.

I hear my own voice saying the words from somewhere slightly outside my body, which has decided that a full dissociative response is the most reasonable thing it can do right now and honestly, I agree with it completely. My YouTube therapist did an entire video on this. Dissociation as a trauma response. She said to try to stay grounded when it happens, find something physical to focus on, breathe into the present moment.

She did not account for this specific situation. I will be leaving a strongly worded comment on her channel at my earliest convenience.

Vows are spoken. I hear them leaving my mouth. Rafael’s responses are even and unhurried, like he has decided to treat the whole thing as a formality to get through.

The ring comes.

I watch it happen from a slight distance, this gold band sliding onto my finger, cold at first and then warming against my skin. Heavy and uncomfortable.

Then the priest says the words. The ones about kissing the bride.

Rafael turns to look at me again and every dissociated, floating part of me slams back into my body all at once.

Oh! Shit! I forgot this part existed! Shit! Shit! Shit!

His hand doesn’t go to my face. It goes to my jaw first, thumb beneath my chin tilting it up, and then his fingers slide to my throat.

A little gasp leaves my lips at that.

Strong, rough hands wrap around my throat, and squeeze. The pressure is light enough to breathe through but firm enough that I can’t think about a single other thing in the world.

Oh lord.

His eyes drop to my mouth. Then back up. Then his lips meet mine.

I think my spirit leaves my body at some point.

His mouth moves against mine like he has all the time in the world and the rest of the room can wait, the hand at my throat squeezes once, just slightly, and I feel it light up every nerve from my jaw to my collarbone, straight down my spine. It flows down my core, into my panties, hot, wet, throbbing.

Aching. What in the world is going on?

This is a performance, I am enduring it and I will stand here completely locked down until it is over.

The sound that comes out of my mouth is small, completely involuntary and it goes directly into his mouth.

Shit.

He freezes for a second at that, growls and deepens the kiss.

I am dimly aware that I am kissing him back, aware that my hands have found the lapel of his jacket, aware that this is happening in front of three hundred people and I cannot make myself stop, and then finally, slowly, he pulls back.

He looks at me.

I gape at him, breathing hard.

My face is burning. My throat is still wrapped in the warmth of his grip. There is something in my chest that is not fear and not relief and I am absolutely not going to name it or look at it or acknowledge it in any way whatsoever.

I need a real therapist.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the priest announces, voice slightly unsteady, bringing me out of my thoughts. “Mr. and Mrs. Caruso.”

Applause fills the church.

I stand there with gold on my finger and the warmth of his hand still sitting on my throat and the absolute certain knowledge that I have no idea what I just agreed to.

And just like that, I’m married to a stranger.

Again.

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

Isabella

If Vittorio De Luca touches me one more time tonight, I’m going to stab him with my salad fork.

The thought races constantly through my mind as he stands beside me at the head table, his hand resting on the small of my back like he owns me. Like I’m already his. Tomorrow, I guess I will be, but for now he should keep his hands to himself.

The Plaza’s ballroom is packed with politicians, mafia bosses, their wives dripping in blood diamonds. Everyone who matters on the East Coast is here to watch Isabella Romano get sold off for an alliance.

Sorry. Married. That’s the polite word for it.

Vittorio raises his champagne glass, and the room goes quiet. He’s handsome in that boring, rich-boy way: perfect hair, designer suit that probably costs more than most people’s cars, a smile that’s all teeth and no warmth.

Blah.

“To Isabella,” he announces, his voice carrying across the ballroom. “The most beautiful woman in New York. Tomorrow, she becomes mine.”

I want to throw up.

Mine. Like I’m a fucking Rolex. Like I’m something he picked out of a catalogue.

The room erupts—applause, cheers, glasses clinking. I keep my smile in place because I’ve been practicing it for three weeks. Sweet Isabella. Dutiful Isabella. The Romano princess who does what her family needs because the O’Rourkes are circling again and we need the De Luca alliance or people die.

I catch Matteo’s eyes across the room. My brother, the Don, gives me the smallest nod. You’re doing good. Keep going.

Yeah. Sure. Great.

And then Vittorio turns to me.

I see it coming but I can’t move fast enough. His hand slides to my waist, too tight, fingers digging in and then his mouth is on mine.

The kiss is hard. Demanding. Possessive. We’ve met maybe five times total. We’ve never been alone. And he’s kissing me like I’m already his property, his tongue pushing into my mouth while his hand grips my hip hard enough to bruise.

My body goes rigid.

I can’t breathe. Can’t move. The champagne glass nearly slips from my fingers and I have to lock my knees to stay upright because suddenly I’m not here in the Plaza ballroom in a designer dress with three hundred witnesses.

I’m thirteen.

I’m in a basement that smells like mold and rust and something worse.

Hands are holding me down, too many. Someone laughs. Irish accent, sharp and cruel.

“She’s a pretty little thing, isn’t she? Shame we can’t keep her.”

No. No, no, no. Not now. Shove it down. Lock it away. I’m good at this. I’ve had nine years of practice.

Vittorio finally pulls back and the room is still cheering but all I can hear is my own heartbeat hammering in my ears. My hands are shaking. I force them still, force my smile wider, force my lungs to pull in air that tastes like smoke and fear, even though there’s no smoke here.

He touched me. In front of everyone. Like he has the right to.

My chest is too tight. I need to move, to run. My brain is screaming at me to find the exits, two behind me, one to the left, service door near the kitchen. My body is coiled like a spring ready to bolt.

And that’s when I see him.

Enzo.

He’s across the room near the bar, whiskey glass in his hand that he’s gripping so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter. His dark eyes are locked on me, and the rage in them is so raw it steals whatever breath I managed to get back.

He looks like he’s two seconds away from crossing this ballroom and killing Vittorio with his bare hands.

And just like that, I can breathe again.

It’s pathetic. It’s fucked up. But seeing Enzo, seeing that fury in his eyes that’s for me, because of what just happened to me, it pulls me out of my head. Grounds me. Reminds me I’m here, I’m twenty-two, I’m safe.

Or as safe as I ever am.

The fear doesn’t disappear. It never does. But it gets smaller, quieter, shoved into the box in my chest where I keep all the things I don’t want to feel.

Enzo’s jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping. His knuckles are white around the glass. He’s wearing a black suit with the sleeves rolled up, showing the serpent tattoo winding up his forearm—the one I used to trace with my fingers when I was eighteen and stupid enough to think he might love me back.

His eyes drop to Vittorio’s hand still on my waist, and something dark and possessive crosses his face.

Heat floods through me, unwanted and so fucking inconvenient. Even now. Even after everything. One look from Enzo Bianchi and my body forgets how to be normal.

I hate him for it.

I hate that he can still do this to me. That after a year of silence and four years of broken-hearted anger, all it takes is his eyes on me and I’m burning.

Then he turns away, drains his whiskey in one swallow, and the spell breaks.

Right. Because that’s what you do, Enzo. You look away.

Music starts—some slow, romantic bullshit that makes me want to scream. Vittorio leans down, his breath hot against my ear, and I have to fight not to flinch.

“I’ll be right back, tesoro. Need to speak with your brothers and my father.”

Tesoro. Treasure. I’m definitely going to be sick.

“Of course,” I say, because what the fuck else am I supposed to say?

He kisses my temple, another claim, another mark and then he’s gone, moving toward where Matteo, Luca, and Salvatore De Luca are having their little power meeting in the corner.

The second he’s out of reach, I can breathe properly again.

How am I ever going to survive ‘forever’ with that guy?

I grab a fresh champagne from a passing waiter and down half of it in one go. My hands are still shaking slightly. I curl them into fists, nails biting into my palms until the sharp pain overrides everything else.

Get it together, Isabella. You’ve survived worse than a kiss from an asshole.

“Isabella! Sweetheart, how are you?”

I turn and there’s my brother’s wife Alessia, looking gorgeous in burgundy, her warm eyes full of concern. Next to her is Bianca—Dante’s wife, sharp-eyed and small but fierce as hell in navy blue.

I admire them both so much. If only I had just a little bit of the composure and control they do.

“Hey,” I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Surviving. Barely.”

Alessia pulls me into a hug and I let myself have it for three seconds before I pull back. Physical contact is… complicated. But Alessia’s safe. Bianca’s safe. Most people aren’t.

“You look beautiful,” Alessia says. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

No. “I’m fine. Just counting down the hours until I’m legally bound to an asshole for life.”

Bianca snorts. “Vittorio seems… charming.”

“Vittorio is a spoiled, arrogant prick who thinks he can buy obedience,” I mutter. “But he’s a useful spoiled prick, so here we are.”

Alessia squeezes my hand. “Matteo wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t—”

“Important. I know.” I do know. That’s why I came back from France after a year of trying to outrun my own head. That’s why I said yes when they told me the O’Rourkes were moving again and we needed the De Luca alliance.

Declan O’Rourke. Killian O’Rourke.

Just thinking their names makes my stomach turn over.

“They need this alliance,” I say quietly, staring into my champagne like it has answers. “The O’Rourkes are dangerous. We can’t fight them alone.”

I don’t say the rest. Don’t say that the O’Rourkes are the reason I still sleep with the lights on. That I spent nine years trying to forget what their basement smelled like, what Declan’s laugh sounded like when he—

No. Not going there. Not tonight.

“Still,” Bianca says, and there’s something fierce in her voice. “You shouldn’t have to marry someone you don’t love.”

I laugh, and it comes out bitter and sharp. “Love is a luxury people outside of the mafia world have. I’m a Romano. We have duty.”

The music shifts, and I watch couples move onto the dance floor. Matteo pulls Alessia close, and she goes willingly, smiling up at him like he hung the fucking moon. Dante’s hand settles on Bianca’s waist with a tenderness that makes my chest ache.

They chose each other. They fought for each other.

I chose survival.

“Isabella.”

Vittorio’s voice behind me makes every muscle in my body lock up. I turn, and he’s there, hand extended, that smile on his face that doesn’t reach his eyes. The smile that says he knows he’s won.

“Dance with me.”

It’s not a question. It’s an order. And tomorrow I’m marrying this man, so I better get used to taking orders, right?

I place my hand in his because I have to. Because I don’t have a choice. Because this is my life now.

His fingers close around mine, too tight and controlling, and my stomach drops.

He leads me onto the dance floor, and the second we’re surrounded by other couples, his hand slides low on my waist. Lower than appropriate. Lower than comfortable. His fingers dig into my hip, pulling me flush against him, and I feel every inch of his body pressed to mine.

I can’t breathe again.

The room is too hot, too crowded. His cologne is suffocating and his hand is a brand on my hip and I can feel his breath on my neck and—

My chest tightens and the ballroom disappears, replaced by basement walls and echoing laughter.

I need to run.

Bile rises in my throat. Sweat breaks out across my skin from the inside out, cold and clammy and wrong. My vision tunnels. The music is too loud. The lights are too bright. I need to get out, I need to run, I need—

“You look stunning tonight,” Vittorio murmurs against my ear, and his voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater.

My heart is trying to beat out of my chest. My hands are shaking. I’m going to pass out or throw up or both and there are three hundred people watching. I can’t fall apart here, I can’t—

“Move your hands,” I bite out, and my voice comes out sharp and desperate.

Vittorio pulls back just enough to look at me, one eyebrow raised. “What?”

“Your hands.” I’m shaking. Fuck, I’m shaking and he can probably feel it. “Move them. Now.”

He laughs, actually fucking laughs like I’m adorable. “We’re getting married tomorrow, Isabella. Don’t you think we’re past being shy?”

Shy. He thinks I’m being shy.

The anger cuts through the panic just enough for me to meet his eyes. “We’ve met five times. We’ve never been alone. And you just shoved your tongue down my throat in front of three hundred people. What the hell was that?”

His smile turns into something uglier. Something that makes my skin crawl for different reasons. “You’re going to be mine tomorrow anyway. Why not start enjoying each other now?”

Enjoying. Like I have a say in it.

I try to pull back but his hand tightens on my waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. “You’ve got some fire in you. I like that.” His voice drops, soft and dangerous. “But you’ll learn. After we’re married, you’ll learn what it means to be an obedient wife.”

The threat is clear. I’ll break you. I’ll teach you. You’ll learn to submit.

I’m going to kill him. Or throw up on him.

I try to pull away again but he holds me tighter, and the panic is clawing its way back up my throat—

“Mind if I cut in?”

The voice is low, deadly calm, and so familiar it makes my entire body go still.

Enzo.

I don’t turn around. I don’t need to. I’d know his voice anywhere. It’s been a year since I’ve heard it directed at me, but my body remembers.

“We’re in the middle of a dance,” Vittorio says, and I can hear the dismissal in his tone.

“And now you’re done.” Enzo’s voice doesn’t get louder. Doesn’t get angrier. But somehow it gets more dangerous. “Let her go.”

I feel the moment Vittorio considers pushing back. His hand tightens on my waist for one second, his jaw clenching.

Then he sees Enzo’s face and whatever death promise is written there. Something in him backs down.

“Of course,” Vittorio says tightly. He releases me and steps back, but not before leaning close one more time. “We’ll finish this conversation later, tesoro. In private.”

Then he’s gone, disappearing into the crowd.

I’m still standing there, my heart racing, when Enzo’s hand slides into mine.

I suck in a breath, every muscle tensing, waiting for the fear to kick in. Waiting for my brain to scream at me to run, for my body to lock up, for the panic to flood back—

But it doesn’t come.

Enzo’s hand is warm, calloused, steady. His other hand settles on my waist, light, careful, nothing like Vittorio’s grip, and my body doesn’t revolt. Doesn’t freeze. Doesn’t panic.

It never does with him. Not since the night he carried me out of that basement covered in… way too many things I don’t want to think about.

We start to move, and I can’t look at him. Can’t let him see how much he affects me. How, even after everything, his touch is the only one that doesn’t make me want to crawl out of my skin.

“What are you doing?” I ask, keeping my eyes on his chest.

“You looked uncomfortable.”

A laugh bursts out of me—sharp and humorless. “So, you decided to swoop in and save me? Again?”

His hand tightens slightly on my waist. Not controlling. Just… present. “Isabella—”

“No.” I look up at him now, letting him see all the anger I’ve been carrying for four years. “You don’t get to do this, Enzo. You don’t get to pretend you care about me now when you’ve ignored me for a year. When you broke my heart and walked away without looking back.”

His jaw clenches. “It’s more complicated—”

“Then explain it.” I’m so close to him I can feel the heat of his body, smell his cologne mixed with whiskey and something darker. Gunpowder, maybe. Danger. “Because from where I’m standing, you saved my life once and I’ve been paying for it ever since.”

We’re moving in slow circles, and I’m hyperaware of every point where our bodies touch. His hand on my waist. My hand in his. The bare inches between us that feel like miles and nothing at all.

His thumb brushes the small of my back, just once, barely there and heat shoots down my spine.

Fuck.

This is so much worse than it used to be. The pull. The want. Four years ago, when I told him I loved him, it was intense. Now? Now it’s a live wire between us, sparking and dangerous, and I can see in his eyes that he feels it too.

“You want to know why I stay away?” His voice is rough, his dark eyes boring into mine. “You want to know why I can’t—”

He cuts himself off, his grip on my waist tightening.

My heart is racing for entirely different reasons now. “Why you can’t what?”

“Before you marry him tomorrow,” he says instead, his voice dropping lower, “there’s something I need to tell you. Something you need to kno—”

The explosion cuts him off.

One second, I’m staring into Enzo’s eyes, my whole body wound tight with tension. The next, the world erupts.

Sound hits first—deafening, glass shattering, people screaming, followed by smoke, thick and choking. Then chaos.

Enzo moves before my brain can catch up. One arm wraps around me, the other hand on the back of my head, and then I’m falling. We hit the floor hard and he’s dragging me, pulling me under the nearest table, his body covering mine completely.

Gunfire.

We’re going to die.

Chapter Two

Isabella

Oh god.

The gunfire is getting louder and nearer.

My hands are shaking so badly I have to grip Enzo’s shirt just to hold on to something solid. The table we’re hiding under won’t protect us for long. I can hear boots on marble, glass crunching, someone shouting orders in that accent that makes my blood freeze.

Irish. Crisp. Cold.

“Fan out. Fucking find the girl.”

I know that voice, the voice from all my nightmares.

Declan.

My lungs seize up. I can’t breathe. The smoke in the air mixes with a smell that isn’t really there. Mold. Rust. Blood.

The basement.

I’m thirteen again and Declan O’Rourke is standing over me with that disgusting, leering smile, telling his father about all the things they could do to a Romano princess before they kill her. How much she’d be worth. How long she’d last.

“She’s pretty, Da. Shame to waste her quick.”

“Can’t I have a little fun first?”

My stomach lurches. Bile rises hot and acidic in my throat.

“Isabella.”

Enzo’s soft whisper cuts through the noise in my head. Low and steady. He’s still covering me with his body, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other wrapped around my waist.

“Listen to me, Isabella.” His mouth is right next to my ear. “I need you to breathe. Can you do that?”

I shake my head. I can’t. My chest is too tight and my heart is trying to claw its way out through my ribs and there’s not enough air––

“Yes, you can.” His hand moves to my face, turning me to look at him. His dark eyes lock on mine. “In through your nose. Out through your mouth. With me. Now, Princess.”

He breathes in slowly. I watch his chest expand. Then out.

I try. My breath comes out shaky and too fast but I try again. In. Out. In. Out.

“Good girl.” His thumb brushes my cheekbone. “Stay with me. I’m getting you out of here. You understand? I’m not letting them touch you.”

The certainty in his voice breaks through the panic just enough. Enzo doesn’t make promises he can’t keep. If he says he’s getting me out, he will. Even if it kills him.

That thought should comfort me. Instead, it makes everything worse because I’ve already watched him nearly die for me once and I can’t do it again, I can’t—

No. Stop. Focus, Isabella.

I force myself to nod. Force my hands to stop shaking. Force my brain to shove all the memories back into their box and lock it tight.

I’m not thirteen. I’m twenty-two. I’m not helpless. I’m a Romano.

And the Romanos don’t break.

More gunfire. Closer. I hear someone scream and then the scream cuts off abruptly.

“Move!” A harsh voice shouts. “She’s here somewhere. Find her!”

Masked men flood into the ballroom. At least a dozen, all armed, all moving with military precision. They’re heading straight for the tables, overturning them one by one.

We’re running out of time.

Then Matteo is there. He moves through the smoke like death itself, my other brother Luca and Dante flanking him, Rafael already taking down two men with brutal efficiency. My brother’s face is cold fury, his gun in one hand, knife in the other.

His eyes find mine under the table and something in his expression cracks. Just for a second. Fear. Such raw fear in his eyes that it is almost as if he was in that basement with me all those years ago.

“Enzo.” Matteo snaps. “Take her. Now.”

Enzo doesn’t hesitate. “The others—”

“I have Alessia.” Matteo gestures and I see Dante pulling Bianca toward a side exit, his body shielding hers. “Luca’s got security. Rafael will cover your exit then double back with reinforcements.”

“Where?” Enzo asks.

“Not the mansion. They’ll expect that.” Matteo’s jaw clenches. “One of the hiding places. I don’t care which one. Just keep her alive. You’re the only man I trust with her life.”

The words steal my breath for a second. Because it’s true. Matteo trusts Enzo with everything that matters. With the family’s secrets. With the business. With me.

My life is always safe with Enzo. It’s my heart that isn’t.

Enzo’s hand tightens on mine. “I’ve got her.”

Then we’re moving. He pulls me out from under the table, his body still blocking mine, and we run.

The ballroom is chaos. Smoke everywhere, people screaming, bodies on the ground. I try not to look at them. Try not to see who’s bleeding, who’s not moving. Just focus on Enzo’s hand in mine, on staying upright, on not falling.

We hit the stairwell and immediately I realize the problem. My heels. The tight dress that looked beautiful two hours ago is now a death trap. I can barely move in it, can’t run, can’t—

My ankle twists and I stumble. “Oh!” I yelp.

Enzo catches me before I hit the ground. “The dress. Fuck.”

“I know.” My voice comes out sharp with frustration. “I’m trying—”

He doesn’t wait for me to finish. His hands go to the bottom of my dress and he rips, hard.

The sound of tearing silk cuts through the chaos. I gasp. The skirt splits up to mid-thigh, suddenly loose enough to move in. And Enzo is staring.

His eyes drop to my legs. To the expanse of bare skin now visible. To the way the torn fabric falls around my thighs.

Oh.

Heat floods through me, sharp and visceral. Wrong. This is the wrong time for this. We’re running for our lives and he’s looking at me like he wants to drag me into a dark corner and—

His eyes snap back to mine. Dark. Hungry. Dangerous.

I want it.

“Better?” His voice comes out rough.

I feel that roughness all the way down to my toes. “B-Better.” I find myself whimpering.

Then reality crashes back. More gunfire. Shouts getting closer.

Enzo looks at the stairs, at my heels, at the torn dress. Makes a decision.

“Hold on.”

Before I can ask what he means, he sweeps me up into his arms. One arm under my knees, the other around my back, and suddenly I’m pressed against his chest.

“Enzo!”

“Save it,” he mutters, already moving. He takes the stairs two at a time like I weigh nothing. Like there’s not a war zone behind us.

I have no choice but to wrap my arms around his neck and hold on.

The forced proximity is overwhelming. His heart is racing against my ribs. I can feel the hard muscle of his chest through his shirt, the controlled power in the way he moves. His cologne fills my lungs—smoke, whiskey and cinnamon.

This is bad. This is so bad. Because even with adrenaline screaming through my veins and gunfire echoing behind us, all I can think about is how good it feels to be in his arms. How safe. How right.

How much I want him to never let go.

We burst through a service exit into a corridor. Empty, for now at least.

Enzo sets me down but keeps one hand wrapped around mine. “Stay close.”

We run. The corridor is narrow, dimly lit. My bare feet slap against cold tile. The torn dress flares around my legs with each step. Behind us I hear a door slam open.

“There!”

Shit!

Enzo moves faster, pulling me around a corner. We’re in the service area now. Kitchen smells. Stainless steel. Another exit ahead glowing red.

Three men step out from the shadows.

Masked. Armed. O’Rourke’s men.

Enzo shoves me behind him so fast I stumble. Then he moves.

The first man raises his gun but Enzo is faster. His knife appears from nowhere, a flash of silver in the dim light. He closes the distance in two strides. The blade goes into the man’s throat so smoothly it barely makes a sound. Just a wet gurgle and then the man is falling.

Blood sprays. Hot and red.

My bones freeze.

The second man fires. The shot goes wide. Enzo is already moving, already inside his guard. His elbow cracks into the man’s jaw with a sickening crunch. Bone breaks. The man drops and Enzo’s on him, the knife flashing again. Once. Twice. Three times.

More blood. So much blood.

The third man is backing up, gun shaking in his hands. “Stay back—”

Enzo doesn’t slow down, doesn’t hesitate. He moves like violence is a language he speaks fluently. The gun goes off but Enzo’s already dodged, already inside his reach. His hand closes around the man’s wrist. Twist. Snap. The gun clatters to the floor. Then Enzo’s knee comes up hard into the man’s stomach and while he’s doubled over Enzo grabs his head and slams it into the wall.

Once. Twice.

The man slides down the wall, leaving a red streak behind him.

Silence.

Just the sound of Enzo’s breathing. Steady. Like he didn’t just kill three men in under thirty seconds.

Me on the other hand—I can’t breathe.

My hand is over my mouth and I’m shaking so hard my teeth are chattering. The blood. The sounds. The way that last man’s head hit the wall. Crack. Crack. I’ve seen violence before. Lived through worse. But watching it happen now, watching Enzo’s hands covered in blood, watching the bodies on the ground—

My stomach heaves. I barely make it two steps before I’m bending over, retching. Nothing comes up but bile and champagne and fear.

“Isabella…”

Enzo’s voice. Gentle now. So different from the cold killer of thirty seconds ago.

I hear him move closer but I hold up one shaking hand. “Don’t. Just don’t, please.”

He stops. I can feel him there, just out of reach. Waiting.

I force myself upright. Wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. My whole body is trembling but I make myself look at him.

Blood on his hands. On his shirt. A spray of it across his jaw.

He’s a killer. I’ve always known that. But knowing it and seeing it are two very different things.

“I’m sorry.” His voice is rough. “I didn’t want you to see that.”

“You had to.” My voice sounds hollow.

“Yes.”

At least he doesn’t lie to me or try to make it pretty.

He takes a slow step forward, testing me and the situation. When I don’t back away, he takes another. His hands come up slowly, carefully, like I’m a wild thing that might bolt.

“I need you to trust me.” His dark eyes search mine. “Can you do that? Just for tonight?”

And I can. Because no matter how I feel, I trust this man with my life.

“Okay,” I nod.

Relief flashes across his face. “Come on. We need to move.”

He holds out his hand. After a second, I take it.

We run through the service exit into the cold New York night. The parking lot is chaos behind us but Enzo leads me into the shadows, away from the lights, away from the screaming.

A motorcycle sits in the darkness. Black. Sleek. Dangerous looking.

I stop dead and raise a brow. “You’re kidding.”

Enzo pulls out a helmet. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

“Enzo, I’m in a torn dress and no shoes—”

“And you’ll be dead if we don’t move.” He shoves the helmet onto my head, his fingers quick and efficient with the strap. Then he’s shrugging out of his suit jacket, wrapping it around my shoulders.

It’s still warm from his body. Smells like him. I pull it tighter and try not to think about how much I’ve missed that smell.

Enzo swings onto the bike, kicks it to life. The engine roars loud enough to wake the dead.

He looks back at me. “Get on.”

This is insane. Completely insane.

I climb on behind him. The torn dress rides up higher. The bike is powerful between my legs and Enzo is solid in front of me and I have to wrap my arms around his waist just to hold on.

The second I do, the bike takes off.

Oh shit!!!!!!!

I scream over and over and over. Too fast! The bike is too fast!

We weave through traffic like the devil himself is chasing us. Maybe he is.

I bury my face between Enzo’s shoulder blades and hold on tighter. The city blurs around us. Cold wind cuts through the jacket, through the torn dress. My hair whips behind me. The engine vibrates through my whole body.

All I can do is hold on. Press myself against Enzo’s back and trust that he knows where he’s going. Trust that he won’t let me fall.

Time loses meaning. Minutes. Hours. I don’t know. Just the cold and the speed and the solid warmth of Enzo in front of me.

Finally, the bike slows. We’re not in the city anymore. Trees surround us now. Darkness. The road narrows to barely more than a path.

And then I see it.

The cabin.

My whole body goes cold.

No. Not here. Anywhere but here.

Enzo kills the engine and the sudden silence is deafening.

I climb off the bike on shaking legs, pull the helmet off and stare at the small cabin nestled in the woods. The place I vowed never to return to.

Four years ago, I stood on that porch and told Enzo Bianchi I loved him. Eighteen years old and stupid enough to think he might love me back. He told me I was a kid. That I didn’t know what I wanted. That he was Matteo’s Underboss and I was the princess and some lines you don’t cross.

Then he walked away and I didn’t see him again for six months.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” My voice comes out flat. Dead. “Here? Of all places?”

He climbs off the bike, pulling out his phone. “It was the first place I thought of.”

“Why?” I snap. “Why this place?”

He looks up from his phone. The moonlight catches his face, makes his expression unreadable. “Because I come here. A lot.”

That stops me cold. “What?”

“When I need to think. When I need to…” He trails off. Looks away. “I come here. It calms me.”

To the place where I told you I loved you. You come here.

I don’t know what to do with that information. Don’t know how to process it without falling apart.

“So, what now?” I ask instead, wrapping his jacket tighter around myself. “We just wait here?”

Enzo looks back down at his phone. Scrolls through messages. His jaw tightens.

“What?” I move closer. “What is it?”

He looks up at me. “Matteo says we need to stay here. Together. For a while.”

“How long is a while?”

“However long it takes for them to secure the situation.” He shoves his phone in his pocket. “Could be days.”

Days. Alone. In this cabin. With Enzo. And my torn dress.

The universe is laughing at me. It has to be.

“Great,” I mutter. “Just great.”

“Isabella—”

“Don’t.” I hold up one hand. “Just don’t. Not tonight. I can’t do this tonight.”

I walk toward the cabin before he can say anything else. Before I do something stupid like cry or scream or ask him why he comes to the place where I broke my own heart.

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