“I need two more men covering the west garden.” The guard’s voice crackles through my earpiece just as I cross the foyer.
“Already done,” I answer, barely slowing my pace.
A waiter slips past me carrying a tray filled with champagne glasses and I grab one from the tray. If we’re going to do this tonight, I need alcohol. Two bridesmaids laugh as they disappear toward the terrace and somewhere upstairs a photographer is arguing with one of the decorators over poor lighting.
If someone had told me a year ago that the Kavanagh estate would be filled with wedding chaos, I would have not believed them. Yet here we are, and I’m not entirely sure if I prefer this or a gunfight. The stress seems to be quite similar and to be fair, this rehearsal dinner does carry the potential of becoming a blood bath.
As I step outside, the gardens are glowing beneath hundreds of string lights, every table already dressed for dinner. I notice Riley standing near the fountain with Mia, both of them laughing at something, while Zeke pretends he’s paying attention to whatever Levi is saying and not watch her from across the terrace.
He is failing miserably.
I cross the short distance between me and my brothers, and the moment they see me, they give me the same look, one that expects me to give them answers and solutions they didn’t even ask for.
“It’s all secure,” I say, bottoming up the champagne and leaving the glass on one of the tall tables on the terrace.
“Good,” Zeke nods, relief washing over his face. “The last thing we need is for someone or something to ruin this for Riley.”
“She shouldn’t have invited her mother then,” Levi points out and we both glance towards the woman sitting at one of the round tables in the garden. Looking at them side by side, I would have never guessed the two of them were related. They’re the complete opposite physically.
“It’s going to be fine, they buried the hatchet,” Zeke takes a sip from his glass.
Another thing I never saw coming was my brother drinking club soda on his now wedding rehearsal. To be fair, he did ask the waiter to add a slice of lemon in it so it’s not as obvious that it’s not alcohol. Apparently, he decided not to drink tonight because Riley doesn’t drink and he thinks it’s only fair if he doesn’t either. My brother has gone soft for this woman and even after watching them live together for the last six months since they got engaged, it still feels surreal.
“Well, Riley doesn’t seem very eager to hang around her,” Levi shrugs as he shares his observation. Leave it to our youngest brother to speak without a filter.
“She has her reasons,” Zeke glances at his soon-to-be-wife once again, the corners of his lips twitching, desperate to turn into a smile but he’s holding it back. “But it’s not my story to tell.”
“Speaking of stories,” Elijah joins us, completely out of breath. “The princess just arrived.”
We all turn toward the entrance, seeing the Moretti family walk in. Zeke wasn’t very happy about inviting them, but Elijah and I insisted, knowing how much it would help us to improve our working relations. After the blow the Eden suffered recently, we need all the connections we can get to get back on top, and the Italian family is the perfect candidate. Even though I wouldn’t go as far as calling them our allies.
We’ll need more security.
“Go and greet them,” I nudge Zeke’s arm and he gives me a very bratty look. One that’s nowhere near common for Zeke and means he’d rather eat sand than do it.
“Why me? You two insisted on inviting them.”
“Maybe because you’re the groom and the head of the family,” Elijah rolls his eyes, leaning against the table.
“Fine,” Zeke responds, shoving his drink into my hand, before heading to welcome the Morettis. “When one of you gets married, I’ll make sure to invite the Coluccis.”
A laugh escapes me at how ridiculous that threat is, but before I can say anything, Cain speaks. “You know their daughter, Jade Moretti?” He asks and I nod. “The little princess is getting married to the Devlin.”
I didn’t even notice when Cain joined us and he’s almost unrecognizable in his elegant suit, covering the scars and the tattoos on his large frame.
“Nolan?” Levi’s eyes go wide in surprise and I see my own surprise reflected on his face even though I don’t react myself.
“Yeah,” Cain nods.
“We’re screwed if that happens,” Elijah’s face darkens as he turns to look again at our brother politely chatting with the head Moretti family of the family and his wife. Jade is nowhere to be seen. Riley has joined them, once again leaving me amazed at how well she fits in into our world.
“That’s why we can’t let it happen,” I bottom out Zeke’s drink from my hand, regretting it the moment the lemon-y club soda hits my tongue. I needed a drink, not sparkly water. “We need to ruin that engagement one way or another.”
The conversation in Artyom’s study slowly dies down, and I know my brothers are finally done with their meeting.
I’ve been pacing outside the door for over thirty minutes, wearing a hole into the carpet with my nervous steps. My heart won’t stop racing. I can’t keep this inside anymore. I need to tell them. The sooner I get it out, the better.
I’ve had nightmares about this conversation for days. Sleepless nights wondering how they’ll react. But there’s no more putting it off.
The door opens, and Mikhail steps out alone. I’m relieved it’s him first. He’s always been the easier one to talk to. Hot-tempered but quicker to listen than Artyom.
He spots me and raises an eyebrow. “What’s up, kiddo? Why are you lurking out here? Is something wrong?”
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, twisting my fingers together. “Um… can we talk?”
He nods, stepping closer. “Yeah, sure. What’s the problem?”
We move a little further down the hallway, away from the study door. My mouth feels dry. I take a deep breath.
“So… I overheard you and Artyom talking earlier,” I start carefully. “About Adrian’s son Michael trying to get revenge for his father’s death. You were saying you might need to tighten security… maybe even move the women to a safe house if things get bad.”
Mikhail’s brow furrows. “Were you eavesdropping on us?”
“No!” I say quickly. “You were being loud. There’s no way I couldn’t hear you standing right here. If you didn’t want anyone listening, maybe keep your voices down next time.”
He crosses his arms, looking impatient already. “What is it exactly you want?”
I swallow hard, forcing the words out before I lose my nerve. “I was thinking… maybe I could move out.”
He stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Move out? Why the hell would you want to move out?”
“Well, since you’re already talking about security and keeping everyone safe… instead of sending me to some safe house, I thought… maybe going away completely would be better. One less person for you to worry about.”
Mikhail’s eyes narrow. “Where is this conversation going?”
I take another deep breath, my hands trembling slightly. “I got an admission offer from the University of Manchester. To study law. I want to take it.”
There’s a heavy silence.
Mikhail’s expression darkens. “What?”
“Before you say no,” I rush out, “just think about it. Leaving for Manchester would help. I’d be far away from all the trouble here in New York, away from whatever Adrian’s son is planning. It would be one less person you have to protect. One less security detail. I’d be safer there, you can send some men there with me.”
He runs a hand through his hair, looking like he’s about two seconds from exploding.
“What the hell are you talking about? Going to Manchester puts you at risk. You’d be across the ocean, away from us, away from protection—”
“Who is going to Manchester?” Artyom’s voice cuts through the hallway, calm and cold.
We both turn around. He’s standing there like he materialized out of thin air. I didn’t even hear the door open.
At this point, we need to tie a bell around his legs because he moves like a freaking ghost. His face is completely expressionless, as always. That’s probably why they call him the Ice King.
He’s looking straight at me.
Mikhail doesn’t miss a beat. “Milana got an admission offer to study law in Manchester. She’s considering taking it.”
Artyom’s expression doesn’t change, but his voice goes flat. “Hell no. There is no way she’s going.”
I step forward quickly. “No, wait, don’t knock it off yet. Just think about it for a second.”
He shakes his head, already turning away. “Manchester is across the ocean. You want to go all the way there while we have a security risk right now? No.”
“That’s exactly why I should go,” I argue, my voice rising. “If I’m in Manchester, no one would even know I’m there.”
Artyom stops, turning back with that icy stare. “Hell to the no. There is no way I’m allowing you to go to Manchester.”
I feel my frustration boil over. “You’re saying ‘allowing’ like I’m still a kid. I’m a freaking adult, Artyom.”
“Adult or not,” he says coldly, “until you’re married, you’re my ward. I decide where you go. You’re not going to Manchester. It’s too much of a security risk. End of discussion.”
He walks away without another word, muttering under his breath in Russian about how the women in this family are going to be the death of him.
I turn to Mikhail, pleading. “Mikhail… can you talk to him? Please?”
He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, kiddo. But no. There’s no way we’re letting you out of New York right now, let alone going all the way to Manchester.”
He walks away too, leaving me standing alone in the hallway.
I feel deflated, like all the air has been punched out of me. But I’m not giving up.
I pull out my phone and open the group chat I share with Calina, Irina, and Kira.
I was hoping not to do this, but unfortunately, my brothers have left me with no choice.
If there is anyone capable of getting through to Mikhail and Artyom, it’s their wives.
My fingers fly across the screen: SOS. I need backup.
And with that I know my mission will be successful.
The spring air is soft, smelling of wet earth and the first green buds on the oaks.
I’m sitting on the outdoor terrace of the estate, a cup of chamomile tea warming my hands, my legs curled up under a heavy wool blanket. From the lawn below, the sound of laughter drifts up, a high, childish giggle followed by a low, grunted roar that I’d recognize anywhere.
Oleg is running across the grass, holding a wooden toy plane above his head, his small legs pumping as he tries to outrun his father. Mikhail is chasing him, his bare feet heavy on the lawn, his arms outstretched like a monster in a bedtime story.
“I’m going to eat you, kid!” Mikhail roars, his voice a rough, playful rumble.
“You can’t catch me, Dad!” Oleg screams, his face bright and flushed as he takes a sharp turn near the rose bushes. “I’m too fast!”
Dad. The word still makes a soft, sweet pressure expand in my chest every single time I hear it. It took three months of quiet nights, of Mikhail sitting on the edge of his bed showing him how to clean his old wooden toys, and of silent, heavy reassurance before Oleg finally let the word slip. Now, he says it like he’s been saying it his whole life.
Mikhail lunges, scoop-tackling Oleg into his arms and lifting him high above his shoulders. Oleg shrieks with laughter, his small hands grabbing Mikhail’s dark hair as they both collapse onto the grass.
“You cheated,” Oleg pants, his chin resting on Mikhail’s shoulder.
“I didn’t cheat. I strategically cut the perimeter,” Mikhail grunts, his hand patting the boy’s back.
I let out a soft, happy sigh, taking a sip of my tea.
The glass doors of the terrace slide open, and Calina steps out.
She’s dressed in her usual black leather jacket and dark jeans, her silver hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She looks striking, beautiful in the way only a Morozov can be, but there is a sharp, dangerous tension in her shoulders today. She doesn’t look at the lawn. She walks straight to the stone railing, her fingers gripping the granite, her eyes fixed on the gray skyline of the city.
“You’re quiet today, Calina,” I say, setting my tea down. “Milana said you skipped the family lunch yesterday, even if Konstantin was around.”
“I was… busy,” she says. Her voice is a cool, flat rasp, lacking her usual dry humor. “I… I’ll be back.”
Before I can say anything else, she disappears down the steps, her leather jacket a dark streak against the spring green of the garden. I watch her go, a cold, familiar prickle of unease crawling up my spine. Calina is the quietest of the siblings, the one who likes the knives and the shadows, and right now, she looks like she’s about to light a match.
She’s got her own monster to fight, I think, a small sigh escaping my lips.
The sound of steps on the terrace steps breaks my thoughts.
Mikhail walks up, his gray t-shirt covered in grass stains, his face flushed and sweating. He’s carrying Oleg on his hip, the boy’s head resting sleepily against his shoulder. Oleg’s eyes are half-closed, his golden-brown hair damp against his forehead.
“He’s out,” Mikhail grunts, setting the boy down on the outdoor sofa and pulling the wool blanket over his shoulders. “Ran him into the dirt.”
“You run everyone into the dirt, Mikhail,” I say, standing up and wrapping my arms around his waist. I press my face against his chest, the smell of grass, sweat, and warm skin instantly filling my senses.
Mikhail’s arms lock around my waist, pulling me flush against him, his chin resting on the top of my head. “Where is Calina?”
“She just left. She looked like she was about to put her foot through someone’s skull.” I shake my head: “She’s dealing with something, I just hope she’s okay.”
“She’s got the teeth for it. If anyone tries to touch her, Artyom and I will handle it.”
I look up at him, my blue eyes tracking the lines of his face. He looks settled today. The rage is still there, just beneath the skin, but it’s quiet, harnessed by the family we’ve built in the ruins.
“Mikhail,” I say, my hand coming up to touch his collarbone.
“What?”
“I think we should have another one,” I whisper, my voice a quiet, provocative murmur against his skin.
Mikhail freezes. His blue eyes narrow as he looks down at my face, his grip on my waist tightening until I can barely draw a breath. The heat in his gaze is instantaneous—a dark, possessive fire that makes my blood run hot.
“Another child?” he rasps, his voice dropping into a rough, hungry register.
“Another child,” I say, a small, sassy grin touching my lips.
He doesn’t say a word. He just lifts me effortlessly, my boots leaving the stone floor of the terrace, and carries me toward the French doors of our suite. He kicks them shut behind us, the glass sliding into place with a quiet, final click that cuts off the sound of the garden.
Oleg is asleep on the sofa, the spring wind rustling the leaves of the oaks, and the city is quiet across the river.
“If any of you motherfuckers says one more word about my breathing, I am going to start shooting. I don’t give a damn if we’re in a hospital, I will turn this maternity ward into a goddamn cemetery.”
I’m pacing the length of the private medical wing like a caged tiger that’s been poked with a high-voltage cattle prod. The fluorescent lights are biting into my retinas, and the smell of antiseptic is making my stomach do a slow, sick roll. Every few minutes, a muffled scream rips through the double doors of the delivery suite, and every time it does, my heart stops.
Twelve hours. Twelve goddamn hours.
“Rafe, sit the fuck down,” Matteo says, leaning against the wall with a glass of scotch he definitely didn’t get from the cafeteria. He looks annoyingly calm, though I can see the slight tension in his jaw that tells me he’s just better at hiding the panic. “You’re wearing a hole in the linoleum. The floor tiles didn’t do anything to you.”
“She’s in there screaming her lungs out because of something I did to her!” I snap, running a hand through my hair until it’s standing in jagged peaks. I’m a mess. My tie is gone, my shirt is wrinkled, and I’m pretty sure I’ve reached a level of hysteria that would make an O’Rourke look like a zen master. “Why isn’t it over? The doctor said she was ‘progressing.’ Progressing to what? A goddamn heart attack?”
Dante snorts from the corner, where he’s sitting with Bianca. He’s flipping through a parenting magazine with a smirk that I really want to punch off his face. “Twelve hours? Rafe, you’re a rookie. Bianca was in labor for twenty-two. By hour fifteen, I was pretty sure she was going to use my own belt to strangle me. Rafael, look at your hands. You’re shaking like you’re in a goddamn withdrawal.”
“I am not shaking,” I growl, tucking my hands into my pockets. “Shut the fuck up, Dante.”
Enzo walks over, clapping a hand on my shoulder. He’s holding his daughter, little Sofia, who is fast asleep against his chest. He looks like a finished man—totally and utterly owned by the women in his life. “I remember when Matteo was in your shoes. The great Don of the Brotherhood, the man who consolidated the five families, was on his knees in the hallway of the clinic, practically sobbing into a paper cup because Alessia told him he was a ‘bastard who shouldn’t ever touch her again’ and that she wanted a divorce mid-contraction.”
Matteo glares at him, his ears turning a faint shade of red. “I was not sobbing. I was… reflecting on the miracle of life. While being verbally abused by a woman I adore.”
“You were a mess, Matteo,” Isabella chimps in, walking over with a tray of coffee and a sassy roll of her eyes. She looks at me, her expression softening. “Rafael, she’s doing great. She’s stubborn, remember? She’s currently telling the doctor that his forceps look ‘cheap and industrial’ and that she’s seen better equipment in a De Luca basement. She’s still Gia.”
I let out a breathy, dry laugh. Stubborn. My little Gia. “I just… I can’t lose her,” I mutter, the weight of the last nine months hitting me all at once. The peace, the nursery, the way she looks when she’s reading her books—it’s all balanced on the edge of a knife right now.
“You aren’t going to lose her,” Alessia says, appearing from the delivery room with a damp towel in her hand. She looks at Matteo, and the silent communication between them is enough to make the air hum. “But she wants to see you. If you aren’t inside that room in ten seconds, she says she’s naming the baby ‘Salvatore’ just to spite you.”
“Over my dead fucking body,” I growl, already moving.
I’m through those doors before the Brotherhood can even offer another insult.
The room is a blur of blue scrubs, beeping monitors, and the smell of sweat and effort. I find her in the center of it, looking pale, sweaty, and absolutely magnificent. She’s gripping the bedrails, her knuckles white, her eyes searching for me.
“Rafael,” she gasps as I reach her side.
“I’m here, baby. I’m right here.” I grab her hand, my fingers interlocking with hers. She squeezes so hard I think my metacarpals are actually grinding together, but I don’t care. I’d let her tear my arm off if it meant her pain was an ounce less.
“I… I hate you,” she moans as another contraction hits, her back arching off the bed. “I hate your suit, and I hate that you’re so goddamn handsome while I feel like I’m being split in half!”
“I know. I’m a bastard. I’m a monster.” I lean in, kissing her sweaty forehead, my heart hammering a staccato rhythm against my ribs. “Just a little more, Gia. You can do this.”
The next hour is a raw, visceral reality. I watch the woman I love fight a war with her own body, and I realize that the ‘Butcher’ doesn’t know shit about strength. This is strength. This is life. This is the only thing that matters.
“One more push, Gia,” the doctor says, his voice calm amidst the storm.
Gia screams my name with a raw, jagged sound that tears through my soul and then the world goes quiet.
I look around, confused. Gia looks like she’s slumped, the doctors have paused, everywhere is silent.
Too silent.
What has happened?? Has… no, no, no…
I’m about to start raging when a sudden cry, high, sharp, and demanding rings out and I freeze.
Wha—
The doctor is holding up a small, squirming bundle of red skin and dark hair. My breath hitches. The world stops spinning. Even Gia manages to lean up a little.
It’s… it’s our baby… our child.
Our… child.
My heart is beating so fast and I don’t know what to think, joy, panic and happiness warring in my stomach.
“It’s a boy,” the doctor says, placing him on Gia’s chest.
Gia collapses back into the pillows, her breathing ragged, her eyes filling with tears as she looks down at the tiny human resting over her heart.
Shit, I can’t stay paralyzed like this, I need to do something.
I lean over them both, my hand shaking as I reach out to touch a tiny, perfect finger that curls around mine instantly.
“He’s beautiful,” I whisper, my voice cracking.
“He looks just like you,” Gia breathes, a small, tired smile tugging at my lips. “Poor kid. He’s going to be a menace. We should probably start building his own basement now.”
“He’s not going near a basement,” I mutter, kissing the top of her head. “He’s going to be whatever he wants to be.”
A few minutes later, the doors open and the Brotherhood spills in. Matteo, Dante, Enzo, and their wives. They stand around the bed, a circle of steel and silk, looking at the newest member of the family. Laura is there too, standing on her tiptoes, her eyes wide with a wonder that makes all the blood I’ve spilled feel like a small price to pay.
“He’s so small,” Laura whispers, reaching out to touch the baby’s blanket.
“He’s a Caruso, that’s for sure,” Matteo says, his hand on my shoulder, his grip firm and steady. “He’s going to be the boss one day.”
Dante leans in, looking at the kid with a strange, soft look on his face before glancing at Bianca. “Kid looks like he’s already planning a coup. Watch your back, Rafe.”
Bianca slaps his arm. “Let them breathe, Dante. He’s perfect.” She turns to Gia, reaching out to squeeze her hand. “You did amazing, Gia. Welcome to the club. The club where we never sleep and we’re always covered in something sticky.”
“I think I’m already there,” Gia laughs weakly, her eyes never leaving the baby.
Enzo and Isabella are standing by the window, Enzo’s arm wrapped possessively around her waist. Isabella catches my eye and winks—a knowing, sisterly look that tells me everything I need to know about the future. They’ve built something real, just like we have.
“What are you naming him?” Enzo asks, his voice low and respectful.
Gia looks at me, a silent question in her eyes. We’d talked about it, but the reality of him makes the choice feel different.
“Vittorio,” I say, the name tasting like redemption. “Vittorio Rafael Caruso.”
The room goes quiet for a heartbeat. It’s a name that carries a legacy of blood, but today, in this room, it feels like peace.
“Vittorio,” Matteo repeats, a small, genuine smile touching his lips. “The Prince of the East. I like it.”
One by one, the couples begin to settle into the room, the tension of the day finally bleeding away. Isabella and Alessia are already debating which designer will make the baby’s first suit, while Dante and Enzo are arguing over which one of them will be the first to teach the kid how to throw a punch.
I sit on the edge of the bed, my arm around Gia’s shoulders, watching them. I look at Matteo and Alessia—the power and the passion that hold this Brotherhood together. I look at Dante and Bianca—the intensity and the fire that keeps it alive. I look at Enzo and Isabella—the fierce loyalty and the sanctuary they found in each other.
And then I look at Gia. My ghost. My quiet space. The woman who walked into a palace of blood and decided it was worth turning into a home.
“You okay?” I murmur against her ear.
“I’m perfect,” she whispers, her head leaning against my chest. “For the first time in my life, Rafael… I’m not waiting for anything. I’m just here.”
Laura climbs onto the bed, curling up at Gia’s feet, her eyes already starting to droop. “He needs a silver wolf, Gia. Like the one from the stories.”
“He has the real thing, Sweetie Pie,” Gia says, looking up at me. “He has the whole pack, just like you do.”
The afternoon sun begins to set over the Manhattan skyline, casting long, golden shadows across the room. I look at my brothers—the men who held me together when I was falling apart—and then back at my wife and my son. The war is a memory. The blood is washed away.
I look down at Vittorio, his small chest rising and falling in a rhythm of pure, unburdened potential. He doesn’t know about the warehouses or the snipers or the contracts. He only knows the warmth of his mother and the strength of his father.
And that’s how it’ll remain.
“Damn,” I mutter, a sense of absolute, terrifying love washing over me.
“Don’t swear near the baby, Rafael,” Gia chides, though her voice is full of affection.
“I wasn’t swearing,” I say, leaning down to press a kiss to her lips—a kiss that tastes like victory and a promise. “I just realised I have the best woman at my side.”
I look at my brothers, then back at my wife and my son. The war is a memory. The blood is washed away. And as the sun goes down over the hospital, I realize that the ‘Butcher’ finally has everything he ever wanted.
Damn. I really am the luckiest bastard in the world.
I know something’s wrong the second I walk into Matteo’s office and see everyone’s faces.
Enzo is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed looking like someone just told him his favorite gun got discontinued. Dante is sitting in one of the chairs doing that thing where he pretends to be relaxed but his jaw is too tight for it to be convincing.
And Matteo is behind his desk with a bottle of whiskey already open at eleven in the morning, which is never a good sign.
“Well this looks fun,” I say, closing the door behind me. “Are we planning a funeral or just having one?”
Nobody laughs.
“Wow. Tough crowd.” I drop into the empty chair next to Dante. “Okay, what happened? Did someone die? Are we at war?” I look at Matteo. “So what’s the emergency? Your text said it was important.”
Matteo pours himself a drink, then pours one for me without asking, which means whatever this is requires alcohol.
Not good.
“The De Lucas,” he says finally.
“What about them?” I take the glass he offers. “I thought we were handling that situation. Vittorio’s death was tragic but accidental. We’ve been negotiating for months. Salvatore’s calmed down.”
“He has,” Matteo agrees. “Because he thinks we’re going to give him what he wants.”
“Which is?”
“An alliance. A marriage.” Matteo looks at me directly. “Between you and his daughter.”
I throw my head back and laugh, waiting for everyone to join in and then Luca will say it’s a prank, then Matteo will say what he really called me here for.
Except no one else is laughing though.
Weird.
“Wait.” I sit forward. “You’re serious.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Matteo, I’m not—I can’t—” I stop and try again. “I’m not getting married. To anyone. Ever again. You know that.”
“I know.” His voice is quiet and careful. “Believe me, Rafael, I know. I wouldn’t ask this if there was any other way.”
“There’s always another way.”
“Not this time.” He leans forward. “Salvatore won’t accept anything else. He wants the alliance he was promised. He wants a marriage into our family. And since Isabella is now married to Enzo—” He gestures vaguely. “You’re the only one who makes sense. I’ve given you your own power, your own territory. Luca is too closely tied to me as my consigliere. An alliance through him would still be seen as mine and with the circumstances Salvatore won’t agree. But you… you stand on your own. Salvatore gets a partner, not a shadow.”
The room goes very quiet.
I take a drink because I need something to do with my hands that isn’t putting my fist through Matteo’s desk.
“His daughter,” I say finally. “I don’t even know her name.”
“Gia,” Dante supplies quietly. “Gia De Luca. She’s been in Paris for the last six years. Boarding schools, finishing schools, whatever the hell rich mafia families do with daughters they want to keep sheltered.”
“So she’s a child.”
“She’s twenty-four,” Matteo says. “Old enough.”
“Old enough for what? To be bartered like property? To marry a stranger because her father says so?”
“Yes,” Matteo says flatly. “That’s exactly what she’s old enough for. Because that’s how this works and you know it.”
I do know it. I’ve known it my whole life. But knowing it and accepting it as my reality are two very different things.
“When did you agree to this?” I ask.
“I haven’t yet. Not officially. I wanted to talk to you first.” Matteo’s expression is serious. “This is your choice, Rafael. I’m not ordering you. I’m asking. And if you say no, I’ll find another way. I will speak with Luca and try to persuade Salvatore to consider this option.”
“But if I say yes, the De Lucas are satisfied. The alliance holds. No war.”
“Yes.”
I look around the room at the faces of the men I’ve worked with for years, fought beside, bled with.
Enzo looks guilty, which is fair since this whole situation started because he fell in love with Isabella.
Dante looks resigned.
And Matteo looks tired in a way I’ve never seen before, like the weight of keeping everyone alive is finally showing on his face.
“What’s she like?” I ask. “This Gia.”
“I’ve never met her,” Matteo admits. “Salvatore keeps her away from the business. Protected. Sheltered.” He pauses. “Innocent, probably. Naive about what this life actually looks like.”
“Great. So I get to marry a princess who doesn’t know what blood smells like.” I drain my glass. “This just keeps getting better.”
“You don’t have to say yes,” Enzo says from the wall.
I look at him. “Don’t I though? Because if I say no, Matteo has to find another solution than ask Luca. And another solution probably involves more bodies and more problems and I’m tired of watching people die because we can’t figure out how to play nice with the other families.”
“Rafael—”
“I’m not done.” I stand up because sitting still is impossible right now. “We all know about my wife.” I turn and face Matteo. “Now you’re asking me to marry someone I’ve never met. Someone I will never love?”
The silence that follows is heavy.
“I know,” Matteo says quietly. “And if there was any other way—”
“But there isn’t.” I laugh but it comes out bitter. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t ask me to do it.
“I’m sorry.”
I nod slowly, running the numbers in my head, weighing options I don’t actually have.
A naive sheltered mafia princess who’s probably never held a gun.
A marriage that’s purely political.
A wife I’ll never love because I already buried the only woman I ever will.
It should be an easy no. It should be the simplest decision I’ve ever made.
But then I think about Isabella almost dying six months ago. About Vittorio bleeding out in the car. About all the bodies we’ve stacked up trying to keep this family safe.
And I think about doing it all over again if I say no.
“When does she arrive?” I ask.
Matteo’s eyebrows go up slightly. “You’re saying yes?”
“I’m saying when does she arrive.”
“Two weeks. The wedding will happen immediately.”
“Two weeks.” I laugh without humor. “Well, that gives me plenty of time to prepare for a lifetime of married bliss with a stranger.”
“You don’t have to do this,” Luca says quietly.
“Yes, I do.” I look at him. “Because the alternative is war and I’m tired of war. So, I’ll marry the girl and I’ll keep her safe and I’ll do my duty to this family like I always have.” I turn back to Matteo. “But let’s be clear about something—this is a political arrangement. Nothing more. I’m not going to fall in love with her. I’m not going to pretend this is anything other than what it is. She gets my name and my protection and that’s it.”
“Understood,” Matteo says.
“Good.” I move toward the door. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go drink until I forget this conversation happened.”
“Rafe,” Enzo says.
I stop at the door and look back.
“I’ll be fine.” My voice comes out harder than I intend. “Just leave me be for a while.”
I leave before anyone can say anything else.
In the hallway I lean against the wall and close my eyes and take a breath.
Two weeks.
In two weeks I meet Gia De Luca, sheltered mafia princess, and we start pretending this is anything other than a business transaction.
It’s fine.
I’ve done harder things.
I’ve survived worse.
I can survive being married to someone I don’t love, because I already know what love feels like and I know I’ll never feel it again.
A naive innocent sheltered heiress who probably thinks the mafia is romantic.
Mikhail has been gone for three days, and the city always feels different when he’s not in it, like the balance is off by a few degrees. Maybe that’s why my patience is running thin tonight as I step out of the car and motion for Lev to follow me down the narrow side street behind the bars on the east end. The air smells like wet concrete and old cigarette smoke, and somewhere a dog is barking at nothing, which usually means someone is up to something.
Lucas Jones has been a problem for a long time—a small problem, but consistent, the kind that grows if you give it too much air. I didn’t mind him skipping payments or being late once or twice. People make mistakes. But stealing from me is something else entirely, and when I learned he’d been skimming off sales and pocketing cash, selling to people outside the routes we allow, I knew I’d need to deal with him myself, because Mikhail is too soft on him.
Lev walks half a step behind me, silent, steady, watching the shadows the same way I do. “You think we’ll catch him tonight?” he mutters.
“Doesn’t matter if we do,” I say, turning the corner. “I want to see who he’s meeting.”
“And if it’s nobody?”
I smirk. “That scum never meets nobody.”
We reach the mouth of the alley and the sound hits first—light footsteps, a nervous bounce in the rhythm. He’s pacing in the middle of the alley, hands shoved into the pockets of a jacket that looks too big for him. He keeps looking over his shoulder, muttering to himself, and for a moment I think he’s alone, which would annoy me because it means this trip was a waste.
But then someone steps out of the darkness behind him, and everything in me stills.
A woman walks toward him, small, light on her feet, her hair pulled back in a messy knot like she got ready in a rush. She’s not dressed for this part of the city, not dressed for meeting a dealer in an alley, not dressed for anything dangerous at all, and the second she reaches Lucas, she grabs his arm with both hands and pulls him close like she’s trying to hold him still.
“Where were you?” she demands, her voice low but sharp enough that it reaches me, trembling with anger that’s fueled by fear. “I waited for you. You said you were coming home. Why didn’t you answer your phone?”
Lucas tries to pull away but she doesn’t let him. She steps in front of him, blocking his path, her small frame angled like she’s ready to fight him if she has to, and for a second I forget why I came here. Because her voice, her eyes, her entire presence hits me in a way I’m not prepared for, in a way that shuts out the rest of the alley, leaving only her and the tremor of her fingers around Lucas’s sleeve.
“She shouldn’t be here,” Lev murmurs behind me.
I don’t answer because I already know that. I already feel something cold slide between my ribs at the sight of her in this place, with this idiot, in the middle of what could easily become an ambush if anyone else knows Lucas is dealing on my territory tonight. She doesn’t move like someone who belongs in this world, like someone who knows what’s hiding in alleyways. She shouldn’t be anywhere near him.
“Let go,” Lucas snaps, jerking his arm, but she only tightens her grip.
“No,” she says, and her voice cracks halfway through the word. “Not until you tell me what you’re doing. You promised me you’d stop. You promised.”
There is something so painfully sincere in her voice that it knocks the breath out of me for a second, something I haven’t heard in years, something that feels too clean for this place. Lucas pulls back again and she finally releases him, her hands falling to her sides, and she exhales in a slow, shaking breath like she’s been carrying fear for hours and trying to hide it.
“Who is she?” Lev whispers.
I shake my head once. “No idea.”
But I want to know and that thought alone irritates me.
Lucas runs a hand through his hair, pacing again. “I told you, I’m fine. Go home.”
She steps closer, lowering her voice but not softening it. “You’re not fine. You look terrified. And you’re lying to me again.”
Lucas flinches.
I narrow my eyes. She knows him and worries for him, and that means she isn’t here for drugs or money. And that, more than anything, pisses me off. She deserves better than Lucas or this alley.
“Should we interrupt?” Lev asks quietly.
“Not yet,” I say, because I want to see more. I want to hear more. I want to understand why the hell Lucas brought someone like her here.
Lucas hisses under his breath, checking over his shoulder. “You don’t understand anything. I have to finish something. Then I’ll come home.”
“What are you finishing?” she demands. He freezes and she sees it instantly. “Lucas… what did you do?”
Lucas mutters something and tries to walk past her, but she steps in front of him again and pushes at his chest, not hard, just enough that he actually stops. She looks like she’s been crying. She looks like she’s been begging him for weeks, like she’s breaking her own heart trying to save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.
And suddenly there’s something tight and sharp inside me, something protective that I don’t understand and don’t want to understand, because it feels wrong. It feels intrusive. It feels like the beginning of something I should crush before it starts.
But I don’t, because Lucas leans in close to her and snaps, “I said go home,” and she doesn’t even flinch.
She lifts her chin, her jaw shaking with effort, and says quietly, “Not without you.” Her voice breaks on the last word.
“Why do you care?” Lucas snaps, pushing at her hand, his voice sharp enough that it echoes off the damp brick walls.
She lifts her chin, her jaw trembling with effort as she steadies herself, and when she speaks again her voice fractures right down the center.
“Because you’re my brother,” she says, and the word lands like something heavy. “Because you’re my family. Because I love you and I don’t want you to die out here trying to be someone you’re not.”
My breath slips out in a slow exhale I don’t plan.
Brother. So she’s not his girlfriend, just a sister who thinks she can save him. And the relief that moves through me is fast and irrational and makes absolutely no sense, because I shouldn’t care who she is to him, yet something inside me loosens anyway before tightening all over again for reasons I can’t explain.
Lucas groans, rubbing his face with both hands. “I don’t need saving. I need you to go home before you make everything worse.”
She steps in front of him again, blocking his path, shoulders squared even though she’s shaking. “I’m not leaving without you.”
Her voice breaks and something in my chest shifts uncomfortably, like a muscle I haven’t used in years suddenly waking up and not knowing what to do.
Beside me, Lev mutters under his breath, “She’s too soft for this place.”
He’s right, but I don’t like hearing it.
I stay in the shadows, watching the way she stares at Lucas with this mix of fury and heartbreak that feels too raw for a man like him to deserve, watching how she wipes at her cheek quickly when a tear slips out, watching how she doesn’t run even when he’s cruel, even when the alley feels colder because of the lies hanging between them.
Lucas tries again. “Kira, go home.”
Kira. Her name stays in my head longer than it should, lingering in a way that irritates me because it shouldn’t.
She pushes back. A girl like her, with her soft voice and trembling hands, pushes him back and refuses to move. He doesn’t deserve to be protected by someone who clearly loves him more than he loves himself. He doesn’t deserve her at all.
Lucas finally drags her into a shaky, uneven hug, whispering something into her hair that I can’t hear, and even then her posture doesn’t soften completely, as if some part of her is already preparing for the next lie, the next excuse, the next night she will spend wondering if he is alive.
When he takes her hand and pulls her toward the street, she follows him slowly, each step reluctant, her shoulders still tight, and just before they disappear around the corner she turns her head and looks back into the alley as though she senses somebody watching, somebody she can’t see but can feel in the dark.
She never spots me, but I see her clearly—the fear in her eyes, the confusion shadowing her expression, the brief moment where she searches the darkness as if expecting an answer. That look lingers in the air long after she’s gone, settling in the space she left behind, staying with me in a way I can’t shake, no matter how hard I try.
Her absence changes something in the alley, and when the silence folds in around me again, I realize I am still standing exactly where she last looked, as if part of me hasn’t quite stepped back into myself yet.
Enjoyed this bonus chapter? Dive back into the adventure and continue the journey on your e-reader. Happy reading!
If you want to be notified of all future releases, ahead of everyone else… Please follow me on Amazon.
I never thought a month could feel both impossibly long and impossibly short at the same time, but that is what the last four weeks have been—every day felt fuller than anything I’ve lived before.
Artyom and I have barely gone a single night without falling asleep tangled together, some nights exhausted, some nights still whispering things neither of us would have dared say a few months ago, and even though the world around us hasn’t gotten any quieter, I have. Something in me finally unclenched after everything that happened in that park, after Lucas left, after Artyom held me and told me I wasn’t alone anymore.
Maybe that’s why today feels less like a wedding and more like a beginning I never imagined I’d get to have.
Calina is fussing with my hair for the third time, pinning another strand back even though she already knows it’s perfect, while Milana sits cross-legged on the floor, watching. The room smells like perfume and hairspray and faintly like the roses Calina insisted we have everywhere, and the noise of last-minute preparations hums through the hallway like a heartbeat.
“Stop touching your hair,” Calina scolds for the tenth time, swatting my hand away gently. “You look like a dream. Don’t ruin it.”
“I’m not ruining it,” I protest weakly, though my fingertips are still hovering near my curls. “It just feels strange. I’ve never worn anything like this before.”
“That’s because no one else was ever worth dressing up for,” Milana says from the floor, lifting her brows at me before smirking. “And trust me, he’s going to lose his mind when he sees you.”
My face warms instantly. “You think so?”
Both sisters look at each other and then at me with the exact same expression—fond, amused, and annoyingly certain.
“Kira,” Milana exclaims, fastening the last button on the back of my dress with careful fingers, “he looks at you like the world finally makes sense.”
Calina nods, standing to adjust the thin silver necklace she insisted I wear, her hands gentle. “He’s been pacing since dawn. Lachlan texted us this morning saying Artyom refused breakfast, threatened to throw out the tailor who tried to fix his tie, and almost shot a photographer who took a picture before he was supposed to.”
I blink. “He did not.”
“Oh, he did,” Milana says, laughing. “He’s nervous.”
“He’s Artyom,” I say, shaking my head. “He doesn’t get nervous.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Calina says, sliding my veil into place, “he does now.”
My stomach flips and settles at the same time, and when I look in the mirror again, I barely recognize myself. Not because of the dress, or the veil, or the soft makeup that makes my eyes look impossibly bright, but because I look… calm. Happy.
Calina steps back and clasps her hands dramatically. “Okay. We’re late. If we stay here any longer, he’ll break into the room himself.”
I laugh, breathless, and gather the skirt of my dress as we move toward the door. The fabric swishes around my legs and the sound makes something warm expand in my chest, something soft and almost unbearable, because I am about to marry the man who once walked into my apartment like a storm and somehow became the only place I feel safe.
The limo waits outside with the door open, dark and glossy, and when we climb in, I tuck the dress around my legs with shaking hands. Milana squeezes my knee once, Calina holds my hand, and the car starts moving through the quiet morning streets.
The city looks softer today, gentler, like it’s holding its breath for us. Snow from last night clings to the edges of the sidewalks, glittering under the winter sun. People on the street glance at the limo as we pass, unaware of the chaos and violence and love that brought us here, unaware of how close I came to losing everything before I even knew what it meant to have it.
“You’re very quiet,” Calina says.
“I’m trying not to faint or cry.”
Milana laughs, sliding her arm through mine. “Well, don’t. It’ll ruin your makeup.”
We pull up in front of the church and my breath catches. It’s a Russian Orthodox church, tall and white, its dark domes rising into the clear sky, the gold cross at the top catching sunlight in a way that feels like blessing and warning at once. Candles flicker in the windows, and the faint scent of incense drifts through the open doors where guests are already gathered.
The sisters step out first. Then Milana turns back and extends her hand toward me.
“Ready?” she asks.
I nod. “More than I thought I’d ever be.”
I step out of the limo, and the cold air rushes over my skin, making the veil flutter around my shoulders. People turn to look at me immediately—friends, distant acquaintances, members of the Bratva standing formally near the entrance—and somewhere above all the murmuring, I hear a low hum of approval.
Milana and Calina walk ahead, their dresses swaying with each step, and then the music begins. I take a deep breath, as the doors open wider.
I walk alone.
Artyom stands at the front of the altar and, for a moment, everything inside me stops. He looks… unreal. He’s not wearing his usual dark clothes or the expensive suits he uses like armor. He’s in a black shirt, formal and structured with ornate silver embroidery at the collar and cuffs, his hair pushed back, jaw tense, his hands clasped in front of him as if he’s trying very hard not to come get me himself.
When his eyes meet mine, something hot and overwhelming floods through me so quickly my knees almost buckle.
His lips part, just slightly. His whole body shifts and his eyes darken in that unmistakable, raw way he looks at me when he lets himself feel everything.
I can’t breathe.
When I finally reach him, he doesn’t wait for permission. He reaches out and takes my hand, his fingers sliding through mine with such certainty that my breath catches again.
“You look…” His voice cracks quietly, something rare. “Kira, you look… ach, I don’t even have the words.”
I smile, lifting my free hand to touch the side of his jaw. “You’re shaking.”
He leans closer. “Not from nerves.”
The priest begins the ceremony, and we turn to face him together. The old chants echo through the church, deep and solemn, the kind that make your chest vibrate. Artyom stands beside me like a wall and a shelter all at once, his thumb brushing small circles against the back of my hand as if he can’t stop touching me even for a second.
Two crowns are placed above our heads, the priest blesses us in slow, rhythmic motions, and the incense smoke curls upward like a soft gray ribbon.
We drink from the same cup. Every move feels sacred, every breath like a vow.
When the priest finally says the last words, Artyom turns to me, lifts my hand to his lips, and kisses the ring he just placed there, slowly and reverently and so full of meaning that my throat closes.
His hand rises to my cheek. “You’re my wife,” he says quietly, like the words are too important to speak louder. “You’re my family. My life.”
My eyes burn. “And you’re mine.”
The applause swells around us, but it feels distant, blurred. All I see is him.
The terrace at Matteo’s penthouse overlooks Manhattan like a promise wrapped in gold.
Strings of bulbs cast a warm glow across the space, and inside through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I can see the party in full swing. Rafe’s telling some story that has Luca doubled over laughing, while Enzo stands near the bar looking characteristically brooding until Isabella says something that makes his mouth twitch into an almost-smile. The penthouse is filled with people I’ve come to love over this past year—the Brotherhood and their partners, colleagues from the foundation, friends who’ve become family.
But out here, it’s quiet. Just me and the city and the weight of thoughts I can’t quite shake.
I lean against the railing, watching the sun sink behind the skyline, and press my hand against my stomach. Still flat. Still empty. Still waiting.
“You’re brooding.”
Alessia appears beside me, two glasses of sparkling water in her hands. She passes one to me with a knowing look.
“I’m not brooding. I’m thinking.”
“Same thing with you.” She clinks her glass against mine. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
I take a sip. The bubbles tickle my throat. “We’ve been trying for six months.”
“Ah.” She leans against the railing beside me. “And?”
“And nothing. Every month, the same disappointment. The same negative tests. The same trying to pretend it doesn’t gut me.”
Alessia is quiet for a moment. Inside, through the glass doors, I can see Dante and Matteo at the bar. Dante’s laughing at something—actually laughing, head thrown back, shoulders relaxed. A year ago, I didn’t think he was capable of that sound.
“Have you talked to a doctor?” Alessia asks.
“Next week. We have an appointment.” I twist my wedding ring—the one without the tracker, Dante assured me—around my finger. “It’s probably nothing. We’re just impatient.”
“Or stressed. You’ve had a hell of a year.”
That’s an understatement.
Mom’s death. The scandal. Adrian. Caterina. Building the foundation from nothing while grieving everything I’d lost.
But also—Dante. Our wedding. The life we’ve built together. The way he holds me at night like I’m something precious instead of something owned.
“You know what I see when I look at you?” Alessia says softly. “I see someone who’s become so much stronger than she realizes. A year ago, you were drowning. Now you’re running a foundation that’s changing lives. You’re happy. You’re loved. You’re exactly where you’re meant to be.”
My throat tightens at her words.
“The Elena Fund helped seventy families this quarter,” I say, my voice thick. “Seventy women who didn’t have to choose between treatment and survival.”
“That’s incredible.”
“It’s not enough.” I watch the last sliver of sun disappear. “It’s never enough. But it’s something.”
“It’s everything to those seventy families,” Alessia says firmly. “Stop minimizing what you’ve built. Your mom would be so proud.”
My throat tightens even more.
“I know.” I touch the gold cross at my throat—still there, always there. “I just wish she could see it. See what we built from her pain.”
“She can,” Alessia says with certainty. “I believe that.”
The terrace door slides open. Dante steps out, his eyes finding me immediately like they always do. Like I’m the only thing in any room worth seeing.
“Matteo’s opening the good whiskey,” he says. “Which means he’s about to make a speech. Fair warning.”
“God help us all,” Alessia mutters, but she’s smiling as she heads inside.
Dante crosses to me, and I notice the way he moves—confident, predatory, purposeful. His hand finds the small of my back, possessive and familiar. Home.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” I lean into him. “Just thinking.”
“About?”
“Babies. Foundations. The fact that Matteo probably has a forty-minute toast prepared.”
Dante laughs. That sound again—warm and real and mine.
“He definitely does. I saw note cards.”
I turn in his arms, look up at him. The city lights catch his eyes, turning them silver-blue, and I’m struck by how much has changed. How this man who once terrified me now makes me feel safer than I’ve ever felt in my life.
“What if it doesn’t happen?” I whisper. “The baby. What if we can’t—”
“Then we figure it out.” His hand cups my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. “Together. Whatever happens.”
“You say that like it’s simple.”
“It is simple.” He presses his forehead to mine. “You. Me. Whatever comes next. That’s all that matters.”
I want to argue. Want to list all the complications, all the fears that keep me up at night. But when he looks at me like that—like I’m worth everything he sacrificed to keep me—the words dissolve.
“I love you,” I say instead.
“I know.” His lips brush mine, soft and teasing. “I love you too. Even when you’re brooding on terraces at dinner parties.”
“I wasn’t brooding—”
He kisses me properly this time, cutting off my protest. But this isn’t the gentle kiss from a moment ago. This is possessive, demanding, the kind of kiss that makes my knees weak and my breath catch. His hand slides into my hair, angling my head exactly how he wants it, and I melt into him.
When he finally pulls back, I’m breathless and flushed.
“What was that for?” I manage.
“Because you look beautiful tonight.” His voice drops lower, rougher. “Because I’ve been watching you all evening in this dress and thinking about taking it off you later. Very, very slowly.”
Heat floods through me. “Dante—”
“I’m going to lay you down in our bed,” he murmurs against my ear, his lips brushing the sensitive skin there, “and I’m going to make you forget every worry in that pretty head. I’m going to make you scream my name so loud the neighbors complain. And then I’m going to do it all over again.”
My breath hitches. “We’re at a party.”
“I know.” His smile is wicked. “Which means you have to behave yourself for the next hour. Think you can manage that, Mrs. Vitale?”
The way he says my married name sends a shiver down my spine.
“You’re terrible,” I whisper, but I’m smiling.
“You love it.” He kisses me again, quick and possessive, before stepping back and offering his hand. “Come on. Let’s go hear Matteo’s speech before he sends a search party.”
We walk inside, fingers intertwined, and I’m still dizzy from his promises.
The living room has filled up even more. Matteo stands near the fireplace, glass raised, waiting for everyone to settle. When he sees us, his grin widens.
“There they are! The guests of honor finally decided to join us.”
“We were admiring the view,” Dante says smoothly.
“I bet you were,” Rafe mutters, and Luca elbows him.
Matteo clears his throat. “Before this night ends and we’re all too drunk to remember it—except Dante, who remains annoyingly sober—I want to say something.”
He looks at Dante and me, his expression turning serious.
“A year ago, we stood in a cathedral and watched two people who started as strangers become something extraordinary. We watched a contract become a marriage. A transaction become love. And honestly? We weren’t sure it would work.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Dante says dryly, and the room chuckles.
“But you proved us wrong,” Matteo continues. “You built something real. You took pain and loss and grief and turned it into The Elena Fund. Families have hope because of you two. Because Bianca refused to let her mother’s death be meaningless. Because Dante chose love over reputation.”
My eyes sting.
“So here’s to Dante and Bianca,” Matteo raises his glass higher. “To choosing each other every day. To building something that matters. To proving that even in our world, love can win.”
“To Dante and Bianca!” the room echoes.
Dante pulls me close, presses a kiss to my temple. “See? You’ve made me sentimental.”
“I’ve made you happy,” I correct.
“Same thing.”
When the party finally winds down and we say our goodbyes, Dante keeps his hand on the small of my back, that possessive touch that says mine. In the car ride home, his thumb traces circles on my thigh, a promise of what’s waiting when we get there.
And for the first time in months, I stop counting what I don’t have.
Start counting what I do.
A husband who chose me over everything.
A foundation that saves lives.
Friends who became family.
Nights where he makes good on his promises.
Days filled with purpose and love and laughter I didn’t know I was capable of.
And time. However much we get. However it unfolds.
Same mahogany desk. Same leather chairs. Same smell of expensive scotch and cigar smoke that used to mean safety when I was a kid.
Now it just means another negotiation I didn’t ask for.
“The Bellandis have agreed.” Giulio pours himself a drink, not offering me one. He knows I don’t touch the stuff. “Caterina is eager. Massimo is pleased. The wedding can happen within six months.”
I stay seated. Keep my expression neutral. Give him nothing.
“No.”
His hand freezes on the crystal decanter. “Excuse me?”
“I said no.” I cross one ankle over my knee, settling deeper into the chair. “I’m not marrying Caterina Bellandi.”
“This isn’t a request, Dante.”
“And that wasn’t an answer.” I let a smile touch my lips—the cold one, the one that makes men twice my age step back. “Find someone else to auction off.”
The glass hits the desk hard enough to slosh scotch over the rim. Good. I like him rattled.
“You’re being childish.”
“I’m being strategic.” I stand, move to the window, look out at the gardens Mom used to tend before the scandal broke her. Before the bottles took over. Before I found her on the bathroom floor. “Caterina doesn’t want a husband. She wants a steppingstone. Someone to climb on her way to more power.”
“And what’s wrong with that? She’s ambitious. Connected. Beautiful—”
“She’s a viper in Prada.” I turn to face him. “And I refuse to be her ladder.”
“The alliance would strengthen both families—”
“Your family is in ruins because of your choices. Don’t pretend this is about strategy.” I take a step closer. Watch him flinch. “This is about you clawing at relevance. Using my position to rebuild what you destroyed.”
His face goes red. “Everything I did was for this family—”
“Everything you did backfired.” The words come out flat. Controlled. I learned long ago that rage is a weapon best served cold. “And Mom paid the price.”
Silence.
The clock on his desk ticks too loud in the quiet.
“She would have wanted this,” he says finally. “An alliance. A proper wife. Grandchildren—”
“Don’t.” My voice drops to something dangerous. “Don’t you dare tell me what she would have wanted. You weren’t there. You weren’t holding her hand while she choked on her own vomit. You weren’t watching her die because she couldn’t survive the shame you brought on this family.”
He goes pale. Good.
“I loved your mother—”
“You loved what she represented. Status. Respectability. A pretty face at your political dinners.” I straighten my cuffs. Adjust my jacket. Armor back in place. “When she needed you, you were too busy saving yourself from the scandal to notice she was drowning.”
“Dante—”
“This conversation is over.” I head for the door. “I’ll marry when I choose. Someone I choose. For reasons that benefit me, not your desperate attempt to stay relevant.”
“If you refuse this, you’re on your own.” His voice follows me. Desperate now. Pleading underneath the threat. “I won’t help you when Matteo’s enemies come calling. When the other families question your judgment—”
“I’ve been on my own since I was twenty-three.” I pause at the door. Don’t turn around. “Since I became the man you were too weak to be.”
I walk out.
The hallway is cool and quiet, my footsteps echoing on marble floors that used to feel like home. I’m halfway to the front entrance when I see her.
Caterina Bellandi.
She’s leaning against the banister at the top of the stairs, perfectly posed like she’s been waiting for her cue. White dress—virginal, calculated. Dark hair swept over one shoulder. Red lips curved into a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Dante.” She descends the stairs with practiced grace, each step deliberate. “I heard raised voices. I take it the meeting didn’t go well?”
“You were listening.” Not a question.
“I was concerned.” She reaches the bottom step, close enough now that I can smell her perfume—something expensive and cloying that makes my jaw tight. “Your father means well, you know. He only wants what’s best for you.”
“What is best for him. And what he wants is irrelevant.” I move to step past her, but she shifts, blocking my path.
“We could be good together, Dante.” Her hand comes up, fingers trailing down my lapel. “Think about it. The Vitale and Bellandi families united. The power we’d wield. The empire we could build.”
I look down at her hand on my chest. “Remove it.”
“Don’t be like that.” She presses closer, and I can see the calculation behind her eyes. The same look a predator gets when it thinks it’s cornered prey. “I know your reputation. Cold. Controlled. Untouchable. But everyone has needs. I could satisfy those needs. Give you everything you want.”
“You have no idea what I want.”
“Don’t I?” Her voice drops, attempting sultry but landing on rehearsed. “I’ve done my research. I know about your… preferences. The control you like to maintain. I can be whatever you need me to be.”
The presumption of it—the arrogance—makes something cold settle in my chest.
“Let me be very clear.” I take her wrist and remove her hand from my chest with enough force to make my point. “I don’t want you. I don’t want your family’s connections. I don’t want an alliance built on ambition and manipulation. And I certainly don’t want a wife who thinks she can mold herself into whatever she thinks I’ll fuck.”
Her smile falters. Good.
“You’re making a mistake,” she says, voice hardening. “My father—”
“Your father is a means to an end. Useful for now. But if you think I’ll tie myself to you to maintain that usefulness, you’re more delusional than I thought.”
Color rises in her cheeks—anger finally breaking through the practiced seduction. “You’ll regret this.”
“I doubt it.”
“You need me more than you know.” She steps back, composure cracking at the edges. “The other families talk. They question your judgment. Your legitimacy. A marriage to me would silence those doubts. Give you the respectability—”
“I don’t need respectability from people whose opinions I don’t value.” I straighten my cuffs, dismissing her. “And I certainly don’t need a wife who views marriage as a business transaction.”
“That’s what all marriages are in our world.” Her laugh is bitter. “Love is a liability. Sentiment gets people killed. You know that.”
“I know that settling for someone I despise is worse than being alone.”
The words land like a slap. I see it in the way her eyes flash, the way her perfectly manicured hands curl into fists.
“I could make your life very difficult, Dante.” The threat is barely veiled now. “My family has resources. Connections. Ways of making problems for people who refuse us.”
“Is that supposed to scare me?” I take a step toward her, and she actually backs up. “I’ve rebuilt my family’s name from ashes. Survived scandals that would have destroyed lesser men. Carved out power in a world that wanted me to fail. Do you really think I’m afraid of a spoiled mafia princess whose biggest accomplishment is looking good at charity galas?”
Her face goes white with rage.
“You’re going to regret rejecting me,” she hisses. “I’ll make sure of it.”
“Get in line.” I move past her, done with this conversation. “There are plenty of people who want to see me fail. You’ll have to wait your turn.”
I don’t look back as I walk out the front door.
Enjoyed this bonus chapter? Dive back into the adventure and continue the journey on your e-reader. Happy reading!
If you want to be notified of all future releases, ahead of everyone else… Please follow me on Amazon.
My father calls me into his study at ten in the morning, and I know something is wrong because he never wants to see me before noon.
He’s a man of habits—late breakfasts, later drinks, and a general disdain for anything that interrupts his own routine. So when Marta, the housekeeper, knocks on my door and tells me that “your father requests you, now,” I already know whatever’s coming isn’t good.
The hallway outside his study feels colder than usual. I can hear the low hum of his favorite jazz record playing behind the door, the one he puts on when he wants to seem calm. I hesitate for a heartbeat before I push it open.
He’s sitting behind his desk with a glass of whiskey in his hand, even though it’s barely past breakfast. The curtains are drawn, shutting out the daylight, and the air is thick with the smell of cigars and stale liquor. The ashtray beside him is already full.
“Sit down, Alessia.”
He doesn’t look at me when he says it, just stares at the amber liquid in his glass like it holds the answers he’s been searching for his entire life.
I sit in the chair across from him and fold my hands in my lap to stop them from shaking because I already know this conversation is not going to be good. My father doesn’t call me into his study for good news.
“I’ve made an arrangement.” He still won’t look at me and that tells me more than his words do. “With the Moretti family. You’re getting married to Lorenzo Moretti, Don Emilio’s son.”
The words hit me and for a second I can’t process what he just said because surely, he didn’t just tell me he’s arranged my marriage without asking me. My stomach drops and my hands go cold but I keep my face neutral because showing fear around my father only makes situations worse.
“When?” The word comes out steadier than I feel.
“One month.” He finally looks at me and his eyes are tired and empty in a way that makes him look like a stranger. “The wedding is in one month.”
One month to prepare for marriage to a man I’ve never met, never even heard of beyond the Moretti name that everyone in Chicago knows means danger. I can feel panic trying to claw its way up my throat but I swallow it down because breaking down in front of my father will only make him angry.
“I don’t know him.” My voice is still steady but my heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my wrists. “I’ve never even met him.”
“You’ll meet him before the wedding.” My father pours himself another drink and I watch the bottle shake slightly in his hand. “This is not a discussion, Alessia. This is already decided. Don Emilio has agreed to clear my debts and bring me deeper into the family business in exchange for the marriage.”
And there it is. The real reason he’s marrying me off to a stranger. Not because Lorenzo Moretti is a good match or because this will benefit me in any way. Because my father gambled away money he didn’t have and now he’s paying his debts with me instead of cash.
“I’m twenty,” I whisper. “I don’t want to get married to a stranger.”
“I know, my dear.” His words sound almost gentle, which makes them worse. “But there’s nothing else I can do.” He drains the glass and stares past me. “This is the world we live in, Alessia. You should be grateful I was able to arrange this instead of something worse.”
Something worse. Like there’s something worse than being sold to a man I’ve never met to pay off debts I didn’t create, debts from my father’s gambling problem that he’s never been able to control. I want to scream at him, but I know it won’t change anything. The deal is already made.
I leave his study and go to my room and sit on my bed staring at nothing. One month until I marry a stranger. One month until my life stops being mine and starts belonging to Lorenzo Moretti.
***
The wedding happens exactly one month later, in a church I’ve never seen before. The flowers smell expensive, like roses imported from a country I’ll never visit. The guests are all strangers—men in tailored suits, women dripping in diamonds. My father’s arm is locked around mine as he walks me down the aisle. His grip is so tight it feels like a warning. Don’t run.
At the altar stands Lorenzo Moretti.
He’s tall, broad-shouldered, perfectly put together. Handsome, in a way that’s almost cruel. His dark hair slicked back, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass. The kind of man who could make a room go quiet by walking into it.
If I didn’t know better, I might think he looks kind. But I do know better. His eyes are cold, controlled, studying me like he’s already memorized what he’s bought. When our gazes meet, something in my chest twists.
The ceremony passes in a haze. The priest’s voice echoes in the vaulted ceiling, but I barely hear him. I repeat the words I’m told to repeat. I nod when I’m supposed to.
My hands don’t stop trembling until Lorenzo takes them. His palms are warm, his touch firm. Possessive. He slides the ring onto my finger—it’s heavy, gleaming, too tight—and it feels less like jewelry and more like a lock clicking shut.
When he leans in to kiss me, his hand curls around the back of my neck, forcing me to stay still. His lips are soft, but his grip is hard. I can’t move even though every part of me wants to pull away.
The reception is endless. People congratulate us and Lorenzo keeps me glued to his side with his arm tight around my waist. Every time I try to move away or speak to someone his grip gets tighter. He introduces me as if I am his property. The way he clasps me makes me feel like his plaything.
I look at my father across the room, laughing, surrounded by men whose loyalty he’s just bought with me.
And I know, in that moment, that whatever debt he thought he was paying…
I’ll be the one who keeps paying it.
Enjoyed this bonus chapter? Dive back into the adventure and continue the journey on your e-reader. Happy reading!
If you want to be notified of all future releases, ahead of everyone else… Please follow me on Amazon.
