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Chapter One

Riley

“Did you hear about the girl that went missing last week?” The conversation I overheard earlier in the subway keeps playing in my head, as if I hadn’t been second-guessing my decision already.

“Wasn’t she a stripper? It’s pretty common for night workers to go missing.” Her friend sounded as if it’s the most natural thing in the world for a stripper to disappear without a trace.

“I guess so… But it’s still scary.”

And it is scary. I happen to agree with the stranger on the subway. Yet here I am, waiting in a room with my friend Mia and six other girls, to audition for a stripper at the Gentlemen’s club Eden. The most elite club in the city.

“Riley, are you still worried? You look a little pale,” Mia hands me a bottle of water from her bag and I immediately take a sip.

“I just can’t stop thinking about that conversation from earlier,” I return the bottle to her, feeling a little better.

“Hey,” Mia gently places her hand over mine and when our eyes meet, I see how determined she is to go through with this. “We’re not doing that. We’re not that girl, you have nothing to worry about.”

I look over at the staff at the other side of the room. They keep leaving and entering in a rush, non-stop talking with someone over their walkie-talkies. “This place makes me nervous, and the auditions being late doesn’t help.”

I glance at my wristwatch. 10:37 PM. With my exam being tomorrow, I need to get back home and study. If the audition doesn’t start in the next few minutes, I’m screwed.

“That’s all normal,” Mia smiles. “I imagine it must be complicated to run an audition for such a big night club, and things tend to happen, like tech failure and stuff. Just try to remember why we’re doing this.”

She’s right. My course isn’t going to pay for itself, I really need this job. Maybe even more than I’m willing to admit. Besides, Mia managed to get us these auditions and I’m beyond grateful to her. I know she wouldn’t have brought us to audition in some hell hole.

“I guess you’re right.” I look myself in the mirror behind Mia. My dark blonde hair is in a neat high ponytail, allowing the golden straps of the stage costume to show on my fair skin. “And it pays way better than being a waitress.”

My only free time is at night; therefore I never had many options to choose from in the first place. A few nights ago, I went to a different club to interview for a waitress, but the pay was painfully low. After that Mia came with the news about the audition and the thought initially scared me. But I ended up agreeing to try it out.

My job as an intern at the hospital is unpaid, and I’m studying to be a paramedic. I can make use of any penny I can earn and the life I aspire to build requires sacrifices. Besides, I have a clear idea of what I’m willing to sacrifice and working as a stripper falls into the first category.

“God, you’re so gorgeous, you’ll drive everyone crazy,” Mia laughs, noticing that I’ve been checking myself out.

“As long as they just look and no one tries touching,” I try to make it sound like a joke, but on that long list of things I’m not willing to sacrifice for the money is my body. “If even one dude tries to lay a finger on me, I won’t even stop to think before quitting.”

“For that to happen, first you need to get hired, and only then can you kick everyone’s ass the moment they even look at you wrong,” Mia winks at me. “But jokes aside, that’s why I chose this place. Their reputation is solid and they really go above and beyond to protect the girls.”

What stands out the most from what I managed to find about Eden from a short googling session, is their “no touching” rule. They do offer private dances to their clients, but only with security present and even then, men are not allowed to touch the strippers. To make things even better, there isn’t a single corner in the club without cameras.

I notice the audition manager when she walks back into the room. “Excuse me, I really need to use the restroom. May I go quickly?”

“Of course,” she responds without ever lifting her head from the tablet. “Just go to the one near the private offices. The one here is broken.”

I take mental notes of her instructions and thank the audition manager and walk outside into a long, dark yet classy, hall.

“Turn left and then the second passage on the right,” the place looks like a labyrinth after my first turn and I have to remind myself of the directions. “It’s at the very end of the hallway. Fifth door.”

On my last turn, a few steps into the hall, the air gets a lot colder, as if someone has left the windows open in the middle of winter. I shake, immediately regretting not having taken my jacket.

Wait, didn’t she say the fifth door?

The fifth door is far from being the last door in the incredibly long dark corridor. If anything it looks like it’s somewhere in the middle. I still try opening it, hoping that I’ve somehow managed to come to the right place, trying not to think about the fact that I’ve probably gotten lost, but it’s locked.

I hate this.

Now I’m really regretting leaving my jacket behind. The place is eerie despite the expensive furniture and the fancy wallpaper. And with the lights off it makes me feel like I’ve walked into a horror movie rather than an elite club.

There is a murmur coming from one of the rooms down the corridor and I decide to follow the sound, hoping someone will help me find the restroom. The further I walk down the hallway, the darker it gets, with the only light coming from the room where the voice is coming from. I notice the voice is incredibly low.

The closer I get, the louder the voice becomes and I can now understand what the guy is saying. “I’m going to ask one more time,” the voice is cold, almost cruel. “Who is taking the girls?”

The room is barely lit, but I spot a tall, painfully gorgeous figure standing in front of another man in chains. The chained man is unrecognizable beneath the blood and sweat covering his body. His head hangs low, dark curls plastered to his forehead, chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths.

My eyes drift to the long metal rod in the handsome man’s hands. For a second, my brain refuses to understand what I’m looking at. The low lighting turns everything soft around the edges, making it appear unreal, until he suddenly swings it what I now think is a polished steel baton.

A loud thud echoes through the room as metal crashes against flesh.

I flinch so hard, I barely manage to keep my balance and avoid falling.

The sound the chained man releases is unlike anything I have ever heard. Completely broken and raw, dragged violently from deep inside of him, it’s the kind of sound that makes my stomach twist before my mind can even process it.

The man in chains jerks against the restraints, the metal rattling over his head, but he doesn’t say a word. I wonder if he was trained to endure torture. I remember once watching a documentary about Navy SEALs and how they all underwent a program called SERE. I don’t remember what the name stands for but it was a special training teaching them how to get through a not so friendly interrogation. Though the guy looks nothing like a Navy SEAL, and I’m pretty sure that this isn’t a military operation.

I notice the blood spatters everywhere around him, and I have to fight the urge to throw up.

The worst part is probably that the man torturing him doesn’t look affected by any of it.

His expression remains calm, almost as if he’s bored. I wonder how someone can be so beautiful yet monstrous all at once.

As he raises the steel baton again, my heart drops and I gasp.

“Oh shit…”

The words barely leave my mouth before he turns around and our eyes meet. I see my whole life flash before my eyes.

For a short heartbeat, he just stares at me from across the room. The look on his face is cold, terrifyingly calm, and that somehow manages to scare me more.

“Oh shit, shit, shit!”

I sprint down the hallway, my heart beating so fast, I’m worried it might jump out of my chest.

He’s at least 6’4 and being a petite who doesn’t do cardio, I don’t manage to get far before he catches up to me without even breaking a sweat. His hand lands on my shoulder and before I know it, I’m pinned against the wall, his tall figure towering me.

Up close, he’s even worse. Beautiful in a way that feels unfair. Dark hair and sharp jaw. Eyes so green, an emerald would be jealous of them.

But there is blood splattered across his collar.

Yet, his smell invites me in, a mix of smoke and expensive cologne, dangerously clean beneath all the chaos.

“Oh shit…” I release a breathless whisper, as his gaze drags over my face painfully slowly.

All the years of self-defense classes kick in and before I can lose my nerve, I drive my knee upward as hard as I can.

He curses sharply, his body folding just enough for me to bolt.

I don’t even know how, but I manage to return to the dressing room backstage, bumping into some of the staff members at the door.

“Finally!” Mia walks up to me. “They’ve been calling us, we need to go on stage like right now!”

“No, we need to leave this place immediately! Something’s off!”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, I don’t know,” I struggle to catch my breath. “But if we stay, we’re going to get in trouble and it’s the last thing we need.”

Mia nods, taking my hand as we, both step out into the corridor. However, the moment we step out of the room, a staff member grabs my arm.

“Your turn,” she says, coldly, dragging me in the opposite direction of where I came from just minutes before. I try to get out of her grip, but no luck.

Behind me, Mia is being dragged by another staff member. “I’m sorry…” She mouths as we are both lined up with the other girls on a small stage.

The lights are bright and my heart is still racing from earlier. I can’t even think straight.

“Whatever it is that scared you, try not to think about it,” Mia whispers next to me.

Maybe she’s right, I should just focus on doing what I came here for in the first place. Maybe I should forget about the handsome guy and the chained man and just dance the best I can and get hired. That’s why I came here in the first place, to get a stable income.

My attention goes to the man sitting on the couch on the right, but the stage lights are too strong for me to notice any of his features. I assume he’s the one we’ll have to impress in order to get hired.

Why did I ever think I could do this?

I wipe the sweat off my hands on the tiny skirt, hoping the guy won’t notice how out of it I am.

As we’re being introduced, I notice another figure joining the first guy, but he’s walking strange.

Are they looking for me?

“And now, we present to you the future of Eden!”

The music starts.

Chapter Two

Ezekiel

My brother has been waiting for me to start the auditions and when I finally join him on the couch, I have to sit down slowly, like a fucking 80-year with bad knees. Any wrong or sudden move results in a sharp reminder of the kick.

Wait until I have a word with you.

I’m still fuming after the encounter I had with that girl earlier. Not only did she wander somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be and witness me beating that guy senseless, but she also dared to kick me in the balls. No one kicks Ezekiel Kavanagh in the balls without paying for it.

“Is everything okay?” Malachi says, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Did the questioning go wrong?”

“It got us nowhere,” I try to make myself comfortable by spreading my legs and leaning forward but it doesn’t do much to ease the discomfort. “The guy doesn’t have a clue about who hired him. He doesn’t even know anyone above him.”

“So he just followed orders like a dog?” Malachi doesn’t even try to hide the disgust in his voice.

“Yeah, apparently he was in it for some easy cash,” I nod. “But don’t think I’m going to let him off so easily.”

“Never thought you would.” My brother, knowing me a little too well, hands me a cigarette and lights it up for me. “What the hell happened to you? You look like a car ran you over.”

Instead of answering, I give him a warning look and he backs off immediately. Malachi might be my advisor and strategist, as well as the second hand of the Kavanagh family, but he knows his place. Not even he gets to cross the line with me.

It’s one of the advantages of being the head of the Kavanagh family. Ever since I took over, the fear and the respect people have been showing me has been nothing short of amusing.

Nonetheless, every now and then, the thought of what life would look like if I hadn’t been born a Kavanagh slips in. Or if my parents were still alive and the crown hadn’t landed on my head.

But it’s useless.

The dead stay dead and there’s nothing anything can do about it. Being the head of one of the most feared Irish-American crime families in the city means that the city knows my name. And not just that, people fear me and they bend over backwards to please me. They show me respect and no one dares to even look at me in the wrong way. I have people doing the dirty work for me, even though I don’t hesitate to get my hands dirty when necessary. And right now, all I’m able to think about is how I made a mistake and allowed that girl to humiliate me.

The music starts and the first girl starts dancing. Objectively, she’s very good looking and knows her way around the pole. Her act ends quickly and the next one comes on stage immediately. Malachi writes something down in his notes.

I should be focusing on the performance and evaluating each girl alongside Malachi, but my head is in a different place entirely. It doesn’t help that the girls are far from the standard that we’re looking for, making it even harder for me to focus on their dance.

“They’re missing the spark,” I say and my brother nods.

“I liked the first one,” Malachi shares his notes with me and I see that he’s been scribbling down ratings for each girl and their performance. “But she doesn’t have the stage presence we’re looking for here.”

“I agree,” I lean back on the couch, regretting it immediately when the pain spreads through my crotch. The worst part isn’t even the pain. I’m no stranger to pain. What makes my blood boil is that every twinge is a direct insult and a reminder that she caught me off guard for half a second. That half a second was already half a second too long.

The other girls continue their performance, but not a single one of them stands out.

I make a mental note to have a chat with the person in charge of casting. Eden is an elite club; we don’t do mediocre. Whether it’s strippers or drinks, we only offer the best to our customers.

After some time, my mind goes to the incident from earlier again.

“There was someone in the corridor,” I tell Malachi and he leans in closer to hear me over the music blasting from the speakers. “She saw me, but she ran away before I could catch her.”

“Did you recognize her?” Malachi stops looking at the dancers and turns his entire focus on me.

“No,” I shake my head. “But we need to find her and see how much she saw. I gave an order earlier to keep the club under lockdown and not let anyone in or out.”

Before I came to join my brother and judge the auditions, I had a conversation with the head of security, instructing him to lock all the entrances and prepare the camera footage for me to check after the auditions. I’m not going to let anyone set foot out of Eden until I find the girl.

And maybe make her pay.

“Do you think she works for the Devlins?”

“It’s possible,” I nod. She could easily be a spy for the Devlin family, or anyone else foolish enough to try and go up against us. We all know what happens to those who try to challenge the Kavanaghs. “But whoever she is and whoever she might work for, she’s not going anywhere until I speak to her.”

A lot of people came to the club today because we are also holding interviews for service at the club. That’s what makes me uneasy, the girl could be just anyone. Even if I go through all the names, it might take a while until I find her. And if she’s smart enough, she w be terrified right now. But that’ll also make things harder for me and more difficult to find her.

“I can’t believe this!” My brother throws his notes on the couch a little too aggressively, making the girl closest to us look in our direction. He lowers his voice when he realizes that people are watching. “Wasn’t there supposed to be a security guard making sure no one walks down the corridor?”

“There was,” I crush my cigarette into the ashtray. “But there was another incident, so he was missing from his post to take care of it.”

“We will have to have a serious conversation with the staff here,” he picks up his notes again, and starts scribbling, though I doubt he’s writing evaluations right now judging by how pissed he is.

“Oh, absolutely,” I agree. “The incident is not a valid excuse. He’ll still get the punishment he deserves.”

“You have enough on your plate, I can take care of it,” Malachi suggests and I nod. If there’s anyone I trust with something like this, it’s the oldest of my younger brothers. He is the most strategic and organized one.

Another girl catches my attention briefly, but her short pixie cut and the polished looks still don’t make her seem like she’s on the level of Eden.

“Where are Cain, Elijah and Levi?”

“They’re in the private room,” Malachi explains. “Waiting for us to finish here so we can discuss everything.”

“Good,” At least something is still going according to the plan.

Eden is the crown jewel of the Kavanagh empire, though you would never guess it from the velvet ropes and the neon façade. To the outside world, it’s just an elite playground, but to my family, it’s the lifeblood of our operation. This is where the city’s most dangerous and powerful men come to shed their skin. They come to drown themselves in top-shelf liquor, buy expensive, temporary pleasure, and lose fortunes at tables hidden far from the public view.

More importantly, it’s where the real machinery moves. Behind closed doors, deals are signed, and millions of dollars in dirty, blood-soaked cash are quietly funneled through our legitimate books. It is, without a question, the most seamless, valuable laundering machine we own, all while being disguised beautifully as a den of sin.

But lately, Eden has started spiraling out of control. Tonight’s pathetic lineup of auditions is undeniable proof of that downward trend. People are scared to work here because of the many rumors going around. A large number of girls suddenly quit, while others have disappeared. And that’s something we cannot allow to keep happening.

Even though Malachi may be handling strategy and the family’s higher-level operations now, I still feel responsible for the club and this has been keeping me up at night. I’m under the assumption that someone is trying to weaken the club and my gut is never wrong, so whoever that is, when I find them, they will regret the day they were born.

“We need to find a solution quickly,” Malachi says, more as a broadcast of his thoughts than a continuation of our conversation. “If we don’t, we’re screwed.”

He’s right about that and I agree with him. While from the outside it might look like no big deal to just open another club, we will be losing a lot more than just the income.

That’s why I’m here tonight, overseeing the new round of auditions, which is not something I usually participate in. Even though officially I run things from my family’s main office building downtown, with Eden being our most profitable front, I spend a lot of time at the club. But my job is taking care of the money, not watch the girls audition for a stripper. Still, I can’t let things slip out of my hands. Not when so much is on the line. And if that means personally taking care of every little thing in this place, I will do it without hesitation.

Really wanting to catch the son of the bitch that’s been trying to bury me and my family is a great motivator.

“Cain has been getting really impatient,” Malachi continues. “You know how obsessive he can get, and with all of this, he’s becoming more and more anxious about catching this person.”

“I can’t say I don’t relate to that feeling,” I pour myself a glass of whiskey before briefly glancing at the current dancer on stage. She looks like another replica of every single girl that auditioned before her and I immediately lose interest. “But we can’t lose our heads with this. We have to play it smart.”

The hazel eyes staring straight into mine in that hallway earlier flash before my eyes and I take another sip of whiskey to calm myself down. I might not be able to catch whoever is trying to take us down tonight, but what I will make sure of is that I will take care of her.

“Agree,” I notice Malachi is still scribbling something down in his notes, evaluating the girls. His ability to multitask never fails to impress me.

He always thinks several moves ahead. Malachi doesn’t get distracted by minor inconveniences and his strategic mind has always been one of his strong suits. I would dare to call him a cold-blooded, psychologically ruthless genius, and even if we weren’t blood related, I would want someone like him to be my right hand. I do not envy those standing on the opposite side of him.

Just as I’m about to say something else, the music changes to a sensual song, one that I really like, and both Malachi and I look up at the girl dancing. She’s a little stiff at first, as if she doesn’t feel comfortable being here, but once her body starts moving to the rhythm, something takes over her and I can see her immerse herself in the dance, the song taking control of her body. It takes me a minute, but I recognize her as soon as I take a closer look, even with the lights dimmed.

Her features appear softer as she’s dancing, and I notice that her body is incredibly strong. She’s on the shorter side, but the taller girls who came before her pale in comparison to her natural talent and charisma.

My balls are what is making me eager to get her into my office and have a word or two with her. They aren’t so willing to forgive her for that kick earlier just because of her pretty face and hot body.

Her beauty is nothing like the practiced glamour of the girls in Eden, and it’s what makes her stand out even more. Suddenly my pants feel tight and I try looking away, but the way her hips move to the beat keeps me captivated, making me even more eager to be alone with her and question her to find out what she knows.

Our eyes meet briefly but I know she doesn’t recognize me under the stage lights. She continues moving to the slow beat, her blonde hair catching the red neon lights, making her look almost ethereal.

I grin, taking another sip of whiskey.

She thinks she escaped me, but she has no idea she walked straight into my cage.

“This one,” I tell Malachi when she finishes her dance. She’s the last girl to audition and we are supposed to take some time and discuss the decision before announcing it. “I want this one. What’s her name?”

“Riley Monroe,” He responds after taking a quick look at his notes. “But we need to hire two girls, so we still need to share our evaluations and…”

“Did she come with a friend?”

My brother checks his notes once again before speaking. “Yes, someone named Mia Bennett.”

“We need to hire both of them immediately,” I put my drink down. “You can let the other girls go home and inform the security that there is no need for a lockdown anymore.” But I will still take a look at that security footage and see what Riley has been up to since the moment she sat foot inside.

“All right,” Without questioning my orders, Malachi gets up from the couch and steps up on the stage, announcing who the two selected girls are. “We want to thank all of you for auditioning tonight and we hope you had a great time. Thank you!”

I watch the look on her face turn from neutral and composed into a complete terror as she recognizes me when I get up and join my brother on the stage. I grin, taking the microphone from him. “Riley Monroe, please head to the manager’s office to take care of all the paperwork and documentation. As for Mia Bennett, everything will be taken care of right here.”

My eyes never leave hers as I step down from the stage, and oddly enough she doesn’t break eye contact. I can still see the terror behind her eyes, that same fear that made her kick me in the balls earlier. Yet she remains composed and professional, making me wonder if she’s used to wearing a mask even when her entire world is crumbling.

I can’t wait to know more about you, Riley.

“What’s all of this about?” Malachi asks as I move past him, heading to the office.

“It’s her, Mal,” I turn around to face him as I put my hand on my brother’s shoulder. “The girl who saw me beating up that guy.”

My brother’s face turns pale. He doesn’t say anything, instead he nods, his eyes finding her. I can see him thinking and I recognize that look in his eyes. I would be willing to bet I have that same look.

“We need to find out how much she saw, who she really is and whether she’s just an unlucky girl who happened to witness something that she shouldn’t have,” I glance at her one more time. “Or if she’s another problem I have to bury.”

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Chapter One

Calina

Laughter spills out of me as Milana and I stumble through the club doors into the cool night air. The bass still throbs behind us, and I so badly want to go back in there and continue dancing but unfortunately, we have to leave.

I hook my arm through my sister’s. She stumbles a little in her heels as we make our way toward the valet stand.

Darn, it’s still so early. A long queue of people snakes down the sidewalk, dressed to kill, all of them eager to get inside.

I wish we could stay longer. But we really, really can’t. Milana leans into me, giggling. “Are you drunk?”

I grin. “No. I only had one drink a while ago. I’m fine.”

“Or should we just call a cab?” she teases.

“I can drive,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Unlike you.”

Milana chuckles, the sound light and carefree. “I’m not drunk. I only had two drinks.”

I look at her and something warm settles in my chest. It’s rare to see Milana like this. Loose. Happy. Laughing without any care in the world. Out of the two of us, she’s always been the more reserved one, the quiet observer who keeps her guard up, even at home. Tonight, for a few precious hours, she got to be twenty-three instead of a Morozov princess.

The valet finally pulls up with our car, the black Porsche 911 Carrera that Artyom gave me for my twenty-sixth birthday. I tip the valet quickly, snatch the keys, and slide into the driver’s seat. My sister drops into the passenger side, still smiling.

“I wish we didn’t have to go home,” she says wistfully as she buckles her seatbelt.

“Me too.” I start the engine and pull away from the curb. “But we have to get back before Artyom comes home and realizes we’re gone.”

Milana groans. “He’d be so pissed if he found out we snuck out.”

“That’s why he’s not going to find out,” I reply, keeping my voice light even as nerves twist in my stomach. Our brother’s control has only gotten tighter since everything that happened with our father. He means well, but sometimes it feels like we’re suffocating.

Milana leans her head back against the seat, staring at the passing lights. “It was fun though… dancing, being free for once.”

A small smile tugs at my lips. “I know. I enjoyed every second of it.” It was her first time ever stepping foot inside a club without a million guards, and God, it was great.

Milana turns to me, cheeks still flushed. “Do you think we can do this again?”

“Yeah,” I say, smiling. “We’ll just have to find another night when we can sneak out without Artyom finding out.”

She looks out the window for a moment, the city lights sliding across her face. Then her voice gets quieter. “We’ll really be in trouble if he finds out.”

I slow to a stop at a red light and turn to look at her. The carefree glow from the club is already fading, replaced by that familiar worried crease between her brows. I reach across the console and brush my hand over hers.

“Hey. Don’t worry. If he does find out, I’ll handle him.”

Milana’s lips twitch. “Imagine what he’ll say if he does.” She sits up straighter and drops her voice into a perfect imitation of Artyom’s cold, commanding tone. “I can’t believe you two, sneaking out like criminals. You will remain in this house until you are thirty.”

I burst out laughing. She keeps going, mimicking his stiff posture and icy glare, and soon we’re both cracking up, the sound filling the car until tears prick at the corners of my eyes.

For a short while, we feel like ordinary girls. Not Morozov daughters. Not sisters trapped inside a dangerous family name. Just two girls who snuck out for one night away from our brother’s iron control.

Artyom has always been protective of us. He rarely lets us out of his sight, and when he does, his men are never far behind. But ever since he became Pakhan, it’s gotten worse. He watches us too closely now, treating us like we cannot make a decision without his permission.

Not that I can blame him entirely. The past months have been brutal, between our father’s death, the attempts on Artyom’s wife Kira, and Irina, the wife of our other brother, Mikhail. I understand why he’s so concerned about keeping us safe.

Still… I wish he would let off sometimes. Stop treating us like fragile children.

We’ve been sheltered our entire lives. That’s why, at twenty-six, I still had to sneak out to go to a nightclub. The light turns green. I press the accelerator, still smiling.

“Should we tell Kira about this?” Milana asks, still grinning.

I shake my head immediately. “No way. She might tell Artyom.”

Milana snorts. “You’re right. That woman cannot keep a secret from our brother to save her life.”

We both burst into laughter again. I have never seen my eldest brother so completely whipped in my entire life. He and Kira are madly in love, and honestly, I’m happy for him. After everything he’s been through, he deserves that kind of happiness. We are close, but still, she’s loyal to him first.

My smile disappears when bright red and blue lights suddenly flash in the rearview mirror.

Milana’s laughter cuts off. “What’s going on?”

I ease my foot off the gas and pull over to the side of the road. I’m annoyed more than anything. We’re so close to home.

“Stay calm,” I tell her, keeping my voice steady. “I’m sure it’s just a normal traffic stop.”

“What if they arrest us?” Milana whispers, her earlier lightness gone.

“Why would they arrest us? We didn’t do anything wrong.” I glance at her and force a small smile. “Just stay calm and act normal. We’ll be out of here in a minute.”

In the rearview mirror, I watch one officer step out of the patrol car and walk toward us. He’s huge, built like a tank, broad shoulders straining against his uniform, thick arms swinging at his sides. The sheer size of him unsettles me.

Another figure remains inside their vehicle. I roll down my window, pasting on a polite expression.

“Good evening, officer.”

“Ladies,” he replies, his tone flat. “Where are you coming from tonight?”

“We were just leaving a club downtown,” I answer honestly. “Is there a problem?”

He doesn’t respond to my question. “License and registration, please.”

I reach into the glove compartment, pull out the documents, and hand them over. He studies them for a long moment under the beam of his flashlight.

“Have you been drinking tonight?” he asks.

“Yes, but only one drink at the start of the evening. Nothing to worry about.”

He looks at me for a beat, then says, “Step out of the car, ma’am.”

My heart kicks harder. “Officer, I’m fine to drive—”

“Out of the car. Now.”

I unbuckle my seatbelt and push the door open, still trying to explain as I step onto the asphalt. “I’m really not intoxicated. We just—”

The second officer gets out of the patrol car and moves straight to Milana’s side. He’s just as built as his companion, massive, and muscular.

“Ma’am, you need to step out as well,” he orders her.

The night air suddenly feels colder. I glance at Milana through the windshield and see the same flicker of fear I’m trying to push down in her eyes that.

The second officer yanks open Milana’s door and hauls her out before she can even unbuckle properly.

“Take it easy with her! I just told you we’re not drunk.”

This doesn’t feel like a normal traffic stop anymore. I notice immediately that they aren’t listening to a word I’m saying.

“What’s going on?” I demand. “What is your name and which precinct do you work for?”

They don’t answer.

That’s when the unease settles. I look around the empty street, we’re the only ones here. The officers are too tense, their hands hovering way too close to their weapons.

“What is this about?” I ask again, louder this time.

Still no real answer. The officer beside me suddenly grabs my arm in a bruising grip. At the exact same moment, the other man seizes Milana.

“Get your hands off me!”

I twist hard, slamming my elbow back into the man’s ribs with all the strength I have. He grunts but doesn’t let go. Milana screams and starts kicking wildly at the man holding her, her heel connecting with his shin.

“Get your hands off her!” I snarl, fighting like hell. I manage to wrench one arm free and strike the officer across the face. For a second, I almost reach Milana, our fingers brush, but I’m yanked back by my shoulders. Just then two more men pour out from the shadows. And they don’t have police uniforms on.

That’s when it hits me. These are not real cops. My blood turns to ice as they overpower us, dragging both of us away from our car, past the police car and toward a black limo waiting further down the shoulder.

“Milana!” I shout, still struggling, still clawing.

But it’s useless. They are too many, and we are completely alone. I shouldn’t have stopped; I should have kept on driving.

I scratch, claw, and swing with everything I have, nails raking down the arm of the man gripping me. Milana is right beside me, screaming and kicking, her heel connecting with someone’s knee hard enough to make him curse.

We twist and buck, trying to break free, trying to run back toward our car.

It’s useless.

My shoulder slams into the side of the black limo. “Get off me!” I snarl, still fighting as they shove the back door open.

Milana’s scream cuts through the night again, but they’re already forcing her inside ahead of me. I keep struggling, heels scraping the ground, until one of them lifts me off my feet entirely and pushes me forward.

I tumble into the cool, leather-scented interior. “Who are you guys and what do you want…” my words die in my throat as I see the man sitting across from me.

He’s sitting inside, one arm resting along the back of the seat, legs spread with lazy authority. He is not dressed like the fake officers or the other men who grabbed us.

Instead, he’s wearing a perfectly tailored black coat over a crisp black shirt, open at the collar, the fabric stretched across broad, powerful shoulders. Dark blond hair cropped short. Sharp, aristocratic features that look like they were carved from ice and stone. He is devastatingly good-looking in the most terrifying way possible.

Power rolls off him in waves. His presence fills the entire limo, thick and suffocating. Tattoos peek from beneath his cuffs and collar. His posture is relaxed, but there’s nothing soft about it. It’s the kind of stillness that feels dangerous, like a predator conserving energy before it strikes.

I know instantly that he’s in charge.

He looks at us, first at Milana, who is pressed against me, chest heaving, then slowly, deliberately, at me.

His gaze drags over my face, my disheveled hair, the way my chest rises and falls with each ragged breath. There is no heat in it. No obvious lust. Just cold assessment, like he is deciding exactly what exactly he’s going to do with me.

He doesn’t seem like some low-level thug or hired muscle. He seems like something far worse.

I hold his gaze, breathing hard. My arm aches where the man grabbed it, and I can already feel bruises forming. Milana is trembling beside me, but I refuse to let whoever these men are see me break.

I lift my chin and glare straight at the stranger.

“Who the hell are you?” My voice comes out a little shaky. “What are you doing? What do you want with us?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Those cold dark eyes slide from me to Milana, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world. Then he leans back slightly, the movement elegant and predatory at once.

“I’m here to collect a debt.”

Chapter Two

Calina

I stare at him, heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. No. This has to be a joke. Who the hell is this man? And what kind of debt is he talking about? How does any of this have anything to do with us?

“Debt?” I snap. “What are you talking about? We don’t even know you—how could we possibly owe you anything?”

He doesn’t answer. Just looks at me, slow and unimpressed, like I’ve said something painfully naive.

“I’m sure this is a misunderstanding. You’ve got the wrong people. So how about you let us go, and we can all pretend this never happened?”

His mouth curves, barely. Not quite a smile.

“Nice try,” he’s calm as ever. “But I don’t make mistakes.” His gaze flicks between us, deliberate. “I’ve got the right girls. Your family owes me.”

A beat.

“And I’m here to collect.”

It doesn’t take long for the pieces to click into place. This has to be about my brothers. Some old grudge, some unfinished business with Artyom or Mikhail. He probably couldn’t get to them directly, so he decided to strike at the easiest targets, us. Their sisters.

Who is he? When he spoke, I caught the faint Russian accent. What could have possibly transpired between him and my brothers?

My mind races with worst-case scenarios. What is he going to do to us? My pulse is frantic, slamming against my ribs. I force myself to take slow, deep breaths, trying to stay clear-headed.

I glance around the limo, at the two stone-faced men flanking us on both sides, and the other two sitting next to the dangerous looking man. Every single one of them looks dangerous. Lethal. There is no easy way out of this car.

I turn to my sister. She is shaking beside me, small tremors running through her body. Tears glisten in her wide hazel-gray eyes. I slide my hand onto her thigh and squeeze gently. When she looks at me, I mouth the words slowly: Calm down.

She tries. She really does. But the fear in her eyes is so raw it makes my chest ache.

This is all my fault. I never should have pushed her to sneak out with me tonight. We should have listened to Artyom. We should have stayed safely inside the house like good little Morozov princesses.

We wouldn’t be here, if only we had listened. Now look at us, dragged into a stranger’s limo in the middle of the night because I wanted one taste of freedom.

I tear my gaze away from Milana and snap it back to the man watching us. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me.

“You won’t get away with this,” I say, forcing my voice to stay strong even though my hands are trembling. “Our brothers will come for us. And when they do, you’re going to regret ever laying a finger on us. You and every single one of your men will be sorry.”

He slowly crosses one long leg over the other, the movement relaxed, almost bored. The expensive fabric of his trousers shifts smoothly.

My gaze betrays me instantly, dragging lower before snapping back up. His hand curls around his knee, large and veined, the sleeve of his black shirt riding up just enough for dark ink to peek from beneath the cuff. My stomach tightens.

I can’t stop staring at his hands. At the tattoos disappearing beneath the fabric. At the slow flex of his fingers. And suddenly, horribly, I’m imagining those same hands on me, sliding over my waist, gripping my thighs, pinning me…

My eyes widen as the sensation spirals lower, soaking me through with heat. Jesus Christ, am I seriously turned on right now?

“Is that so?” his voice is low and steady.

I lift my chin higher. “Yeah,” I reply, trying to clear the fog in my head. “It’s not too late. Let us go right now and we’ll forget this ever happened. We won’t tell our brothers about this.”

“Nah, I want your brothers to know I took you.”

I swallow hard. “I’m not sure you want that, you really don’t want to know what my brothers are capable of.”

Something like dark amusement flickers across his sharp features. He doesn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth tilts just slightly, like I’ve said something mildly entertaining.

“How about we wait and find out what your brothers are going to do, huh?” He shrugs one broad shoulder, completely at ease. “I’m curious.”

His calm certainty is terrifying. And I realize with a sinking, icy dread that this man is not bluffing. He doesn’t look even slightly scared.

And it terrifies me. The dangerous aura rolling off him is unmistakable, but his complete lack of reaction confirms this man is in a completely different league. He isn’t some hot-headed thug acting on impulse.

I swallow hard. “Maybe you don’t know who we are,” I say, trying to sound intimidating. “I’m Calina Morozova. This is my sister, Milana Morozova. Our brothers are Artyom and Mikhail Morozov. You really don’t want to mess with them.”

He rubs his temple with two fingers like my voice is physically painful, eyes half-closed in irritation. “I know exactly who you are,” he says flatly. “And I’m not even a little scared of your brothers. Now shut up. Your voice is giving me a migraine.”

The casual dismissal stings. Anger flares hot in my chest. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have taken us in the first place,” I snap. “You wouldn’t have to listen to my voice if…”

The look he gives me is deadly. It cuts straight through me and steals the rest of my words. I clamp my mouth shut instantly.

I turn to Milana instead. She’s breathing hard, jaw clenched tight, and her free hand is fisted in her lap like she’s fighting the urge to swing at someone. I squeeze her hand tightly, trying to offer some comfort I don’t even feel. She grips me back, eyes begging me to do something. I wish I could.

“You’re not going to get away with this,” Milana grits. But he ignores her completely.

I look out the tinted window, searching for landmarks, trying to figure out where he’s taking us. We’re still inside the city. That’s something, at least.

“Where are you taking us?” I ask.

He ignores me completely.

I glance at my watch. Almost midnight. Artyom or the night guards will notice we’re not home soon. They’ll start searching. The thought gives me a small spark of hope.

But then the limo turns onto a familiar road. As I continue to look out the window, I realize this is the private access road that leads straight to Artyom’s office building.

What the hell?

I consider screaming for help the second we get close enough, maybe one of the guards stationed outside will see us through the window. But before I can even open my mouth, the limo glides to a smooth stop right in front of the office building.

He’s taking us to Artyom? This guy does really have some nerve. I turn to look at him, and still he’s as relaxed as ever.

The man beside Milana opens the door, and steps out. The man across from us tilts his head toward the exit in a silent command.

“Get down,” one of the fake police officers commands.

We obey and step out on shaky legs. The cool night air hits me. Two of Artyom’s guards patrolling the grounds immediately spot us and start walking over, confusion clear on their faces.

“Miss Calina? Miss Milana? Are you okay? What are you doing here at this—”

“Help us!” I scream, voice cracking with desperation. “They took us against our will! These men kidnapped us!”

Everything explodes in a single heartbeat.

Weapons are drawn on both sides, Artyom’s guards raising guns toward the limo and the men, the ones who dragged us here, instantly aiming right back.

One man clamps onto my arm, yanking me backward as another grabs Milana. Before I can even react, cold metal presses against my temple. I stand frozen between the two sides, heart in my throat.

And the dangerous man steps out of the limo behind us, like he’s arriving at a business meeting, completely unfazed by the dozen guns now pointed in his direction.

“Let the girls go,” one of the guards says, now pointing the gun at his head.

He doesn’t even flinch.

“Everyone calm the fuck down,” he drawls, his voice low and bored, carrying that faint Russian accent. He looks at Artyom’s guards with mild irritation. “Put your guns down.”

My brother’s men don’t move an inch. “Let the girls go,” one of them repeats.

The man mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like stupid. Then he sighs. “Instead of acting like idiots, why don’t you call your boss and tell him Maxim Orlov is here to see him?”

Maxim Orlov.

The name doesn’t ring any immediate bells. I search my memory, but nothing surfaces. Whoever he is, he’s clearly someone who expects doors to open when he says his name.

The guards hesitate, eyes darting between us and him. I can tell they know him. Maxim snaps his fingers impatiently. “Are you deaf?”

One of the guards finally pulls out his phone, while keeping his weapon trained on Maxim. He speaks rapidly in Russian into the phone. There’s a long pause on the other end. Then he ends the call and gives a stiff nod.

“Inside,” he says.

They march us into the building, still pointing guns at each other. Thankfully, the guns are no longer pointed at us.

We arrive the elevator, and only six of us go in: Maxim, one of his men, Milana and me, and two of the guards. The rest stay behind outside, still facing off with Maxim’s people, guns still raised.

As the doors slide shut, Maxim glances at the armed men and says calmly, “Try not to shoot each other’s heads off while I’m gone.”

The doors close. The tension inside the small metal box is suffocating. No one speaks. The air feels ready to ignite.

As we ride up to my brother’s office, that’s when I realize, what this abduction might be about. Him bringing us here instead of taking us to an abandoned warehouse, or somewhere far where our brothers can’t find us.

Maxim didn’t want to kill us or torture us in some dark warehouse. I think he needed a way to meet with Artyom. If he had simply asked for a meeting, my brother could have refused him. But he knows Artyom can’t ignore a man who shows up with both of his sisters in tow.

But what of the debt he was talking about? What does that mean?

Milana’s hand is ice-cold in mine. I can feel her trembling. Maxim stands relaxed against the wall, looking almost bored, like this is just another Tuesday night for him.

When the doors open on Artyom’s floor, we’re greeted by even more guns. At least six of my brother’s men are waiting, weapons raised and aimed directly at Maxim and his guard.

Maxim doesn’t even blink.

“Get those out of my face and lead the way to Artyom,” he says, voice smooth and commanding.

The guards exchange uneasy glances but comply, keeping their guns trained on him as they escort us down the hallway toward my brother’s office.

My heart is still racing.

Whatever this debt is, whatever Maxim Orlov wants… we’re about to find out. And my brother is about to get so pissed at us for sneaking off to a club.

It’s not long after we step into Artyom’s office and he arrives from home looking worried. His steel-gray eyes lock onto Milana and me first, scanning us from head to toe, checking for injuries.

“Calina, Milana, are you okay?”

“Yes,” we both answer at the same time.

The relief that flickers across his face is brief, and gone in less than a heartbeat. Then his expression hardens into pure ice. He draws his gun in one smooth motion and points it straight at Maxim’s head.

“Give me one good reason not to put a bullet in you right now,” Artyom says, voice deadly calm.

Maxim doesn’t look even a bit bothered. He drawls, “That would be a very stupid thing to do, considering I currently have your sisters.”

“They’re here now,” Artyom replies coldly, finger steady on the trigger. “I could end you before you even blink.”

Maxim lets out a low, almost bored sigh and walks straight past the guns pointed at him. He drops onto the leather couch like he owns the room, crossing one leg over the other with casual arrogance.

“Why don’t you and your men put your toys away so we can talk about why I’m really here?”

Artyom’s jaw clenches so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t crack. I can see the fury rolling off him in waves. He wants to shoot Maxim. Badly. His knuckles are white around the grip of the gun.

“You have some fucking nerve coming in here like this, Maxim,” Artyom growls.

Maxim waves a dismissive hand. “You talk too much. Now I see it runs in the family.”

Artyom looks like he’s about to burst an artery. He takes a threatening step forward. “You have one minute. Start talking.”

Maxim leans back against the couch, completely relaxed, and finally speaks without emotion, like he’s discussing the weather.

“Vladimir Morozov owed my family a blood debt. He killed my adoptive father, Oleg Orlov. After the murder, a contract was signed between Vladimir and my father’s remaining allies. The debt was to be paid whenever the Orlov family decided to collect it. That contract is still valid. The debt was never settled.”

Artyom’s brows pull together in genuine confusion. “What the hell are you talking about? My father never mentioned any blood debt with the Orlovs.”

Maxim’s dark eyes narrow slightly. “Because your father was a coward who preferred to bury inconvenient truths. The contract was signed in blood. It states clearly that the Morozov family owes the Orlovs one bride as payment. I’m here to collect.”

The words land like a bomb in the room. I feel the blood drain from my face. Milana’s hand tightens painfully around mine.

Artyom stares at him, gun still raised, but I can see the calculations running behind his eyes. “You’re lying.”

“Don’t insult me Arytom,” Maxim replies flatly. “The contract is ironclad under our laws. And I have chosen my bride.”

Everything is happening so fast. What blood debt is he talking about? Why would our father have gotten into a blood debt with him without letting Arytom know?

“The youngest one will do,” Maxim drawls, his cold gaze shifting from Artyom… straight to Milana.

The room goes dead silent for half a second.

“What?” Did I just hear correctly? No. This has to be some sick joke.

“No,” Artyom snarls, the single word sharp enough to cut glass. His gun stays locked on Maxim’s forehead, finger twitching like it’s taking every ounce of control he has not to pull the trigger right now. “Over my dead fucking body.”

Maxim shrugs. “That can be arranged.”

Shock slams into me so hard my knees almost buckle. Marriage? He wants to marry Milana? My younger sister, who we’ve all spent our lives trying to shield from exactly this kind of monster?

Milana makes a small, broken sound beside me. Her hand squeezes mine so tightly I feel the bones grind together. I can feel her terror vibrating through her fingers, raw, choking panic.

I expect Artyom to do something. To shoot Maxim. To throw this bastard out of his office in pieces. He’s the Pakhan. He’s supposed to be untouchable. He’s supposed to protect us.

“Get yourself off my couch and out of my office!”

But instead doing that, Maxim reaches into the inside pocket of his coat and pulls out a folded document, holding it up between two fingers.

“I came prepared. Here’s a contract signed after my father’s death. Between Vladimir Morozov and the remaining Orlov allies. Just as I already said, it states the blood debt between our families will be paid whenever the Orlovs choose to collect. The payment is one Morozov bride.”

He pauses holding Arytom’s gaze. “You dismiss this and you risk open war… your choice.”

Artyom snatches the document and unfolds it. I hold my breath as I watch him read it. I’m dying to know what it says. Do we really owe his family a blood debt?

I watch as Artyom’s face twists with fury, and I catch the exact moment something shifts behind his eyes. The gun in his hand doesn’t waver, but his jaw clenches so hard I hear his teeth grind.

He looks up and our eyes meet. I don’t see victory in his gaze. The realization crashes over me like ice water. My brother, who has ruled this city with an iron fist since our father died, is trapped. And Milana is the one who will pay the price.

Fear for my sister claws up my throat until I can barely breathe. Milana is only twenty-three. She doesn’t deserve this. She doesn’t deserve to be handed over to a man like Maxim Orlov, a man who looks at her like she’s a chess piece instead of a person.

I can’t let this happen.

“Artyom,” I say, my voice cracking with desperation as I step forward, pulling Milana half behind me. “Do something. You can’t… you have to stop this. Please.”

My brother’s eyes flick to me for a split second. I see the storm of rage and helplessness there.

Maxim watches the whole exchange with that same bored, predatory calm, and he knows he’s already won.

My heart is pounding so violently I feel sick at the thought of Milana being forced to marry this man, of her being taken away, locked in his world.

I take another step forward, positioning myself directly between Maxim and my sister.

“You can’t marry Milana.”

“Calina, stay out of this,” Arytom drawls, his tone dripping with annoyance.

“I’ll take Milana’s place,” I say, the words leaving my mouth before I can even think them through. “I will marry you instead.”

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Chapter One

Irina

Mexico, six months later…

The humidity in Cancun doesn’t just stay stagnant, it clings to you like a desperate lover you’ve been trying to dump for months.

I wipe a bead of sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand, the salt stinging a tiny scratch on my knuckle. Outside the tinted glass of Oasis del Sol, the Caribbean is a flat, mocking sheet of turquoise. Tourists are out there drinking watered-down margaritas and getting sunburns they’ll regret by dinner, but inside, the air conditioning is cranked high enough to preserve a corpse.

It’s been six months. Six months of being Elena Sokolov.

Six months of kneading the knots out of the shoulders of middle-aged men from Ohio who have no idea that the woman touching them was once destined to be the Queen of the New York underworld.

I’m not the best at being a masseuse. Honestly, my technique is mostly just aggressive poking fueled by ten years of suppressed rage, but the pay is in cash and the location is a goldmine for the kind of information that doesn’t end up on Google. In this world, the powerful talk when they think the help is invisible. And I’ve become very good at being invisible.

I’d like to say I’m enjoying this life, but at least I’m not married to a mad man.

“Elena? Stop staring at the ocean and get the lavender oils ready,” Sofia, my boss, calls out as she bustles past the reception desk.

She’s a sharp-eyed woman who knows I’m lying about where I came from, but she likes my “firm hands” and the fact that I don’t gossip with the other girls. In this town, a woman who can keep her mouth shut is worth her weight in gold.

“I’m on it, Sofia!” I call back, my voice smooth, the Russian accent I hide softened into something unidentifiable.

“Don’t give me that look,” she adds, pointing a manicured finger at me. “You look like you’re plotting a murder again. Smile. It’s good for business.”

“I am smiling,” I mutter, though the muscles in my face feel like they’re made of lead. “On the inside.”

I head toward the staff breakroom, my heart picking up speed. It’s Thursday. Mateo should be here.

I slip into the dim room, the scent of stale coffee and cheap floor cleaner replacing the hibiscus-scented air of the lobby. Mateo is leaning against the vending machine, looking perpetually confused with that scar through his eyebrow. He’s my only link to the world I left behind, a low-level runner who knows how to navigate the murky waters of international private records. “Mateo,” I whisper, my eyes darting to the door. “Please tell me you have something.”

He sighs, a heavy, defeated sound, and taps a cigarette against his palm, though he knows he can’t light it in here. “Elena, I told you. The leads you gave me, they lead to a dead end. I checked the registries in Mexico City. I checked the private hospitals. There is no record of anyone being transferred under that name ten years ago.”

Not again, I’ve been searching for so long…

I feel like someone just tipped a bucket of ice water down my spine. “The record exists, Mateo. My father doesn’t lose things. He doesn’t make mistakes. If he said there was a transfer, he meant he buried the paper trail so deep the devil couldn’t find it. Search the Jersey files. Look for anything that looks too clean.”

“Do you know how dangerous it is to even say that name out loud?” Mateo hisses, finally looking at me, his eyes wide with genuine fear. “The Russians in this territory… they don’t play, chica. They don’t have a sense of humor. If they think I’m digging into Petrov business, I’m dead before the sun sets. And you? You’ll be right next to me.”

I step closer, my stubbornness bubbling up, hot and sharp. “I’ve been dead for six months, Mateo. I’m living in a one-bedroom shack that smells like damp wood and rubbing oil on strangers until my wrists ache. I’ve paid my dues. I’ve earned this. You’ve got to help me find them.”

“I will try,” he mutters, pulling his cap lower over his eyes. “But don’t count on it, it’s like this person doesn’t exist at all.”

He slips out the back door without another word. I stay there for a moment, my forehead pressed against the cool glass of a soda machine. Six months. I’ve spent every spare peso, every waking hour of my “freedom,” looking for any trace of what I lost.

I will find what I am looking for. I must.

The grief is a dull ache in my stomach, competing with the physical reminder of the scar hidden beneath my white tunic. My father’s gift to me.

A sharp rap on the doorframe makes me jump. Sofia is standing there, her arms crossed over her chest, a look on her face I don’t like.

“Elena? I thought I sent you in here for lavender oil five minutes ago.”

I scramble, my face heating up as I reach for a blue bottle on the shelf. “I know, I was just… I was checking the inventory on the eucalyptus too. We’re running low.”

“Forget the inventory,” she says, her expression shifting from annoyance to something greedier. “Your shift was over, but a client just walked in. He didn’t want anyone else. He asked specifically for you.”

I freeze, the air in my lungs suddenly feeling thin. “Specifically? I don’t have regulars on Thursdays, Sofia. You know I like to leave on time.”

“He said he heard you have the ‘firmest hands’ in Cancun,” Sofia says, sliding a thick roll of bills onto the counter. It’s more than I make in a month, easily. My eyes widen at the sheer volume of cash. “He’s in Room 4. He paid for the premium package, and he told me I could keep the change if I made sure you were the one to handle him. He didn’t seem like the type of man you say no to.”

My stomach does a slow, nauseating roll. “I don’t do ‘special’ requests, Sofia. I’ve been very clear about that since the day you hired me.”

“He didn’t ask for that,” she says, though she looks a little worried now, her gaze flickering to the hallway. “He just… he looked like a man who gets what he wants. He’s big, Elena. And he’s rich. He’s in Room 4. Go. I’ll pay you double for the overtime. Think of it as a bonus for being so popular.”

I stare at the money. I think of Mateo’s face, of the Jersey records, of the one I can’t find because I don’t have enough leverage to make people talk. I need the cash. I need every cent if I’m going to find him.

“Fine,” I say, my voice a bit too sharp, my stubbornness winning over my instinct. “But if he so much as breathes on my neck, I’m walking out. I don’t care how much he paid.”

“Just give him the massage, Elena. He looks like he could use the relaxation. He looks like a man who hasn’t slept in a week.”

I grab a bottle of neutral oil and head toward Room 4. The hallway feels different now—longer, narrower, as if the walls are leaning in to watch me pass. The scent of hibiscus is suddenly cloyingly sweet, like the perfume at a funeral for someone you didn’t particularly like. I take a deep breath, smoothing my hair under my cap and adjusting the collar of my tunic.

I push the door open. The room is bathed in a low, amber light from a few flickering candles. It smells of sea salt and something else—something cold, metallic, and strangely familiar that makes the hair on my arms stand up.

A man is lying face down on the table. He’s massive. Even under the white sheet draped over his waist, his shoulders are a broad expanse of hard, defined muscle. He’s a landscape of power, his skin tanned and stretched tight over a frame that looks like it was built for war.

I stop. My breath hitches in my throat.

Tattoos snake up his arms, peeking out from beneath the headrest. I can see them in the dim light—intricate, dark designs. I see serpents. I see stars. I see the brutal, geometric language of the criminal underworld.

What in the world is a man like this doing… here?

Is he Bratva? Probably. Cancun is crawling with Russian pigs looking for a place to wash their money and bury their sins. I’ve seen dozens of them in the last six months. They usually smell like cheap vodka and expensive cigars. But they don’t come into the massage parlor. This one… this one is different.

Nobody found you. You’re just Elena. A girl from nowhere with nothing to hide.

I stand there, the door handle still warm in my hand. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to turn around, to walk out, to run until my lungs burn. But then he moves. It’s a slow, languid stretch of his neck, and that’s when I see them.

Scars.

Long, jagged white lines across his lats. They aren’t from an accident. They’re the kind of marks left by a knife held by someone who knew exactly where to cut to cause the most pain.

Oh my goodness, what is going on?? I start before I immediately stop myself. Stop it, Irina. Stop overthinking.

I tell myself it’s just business. Just a Russian thug who tracked down a rumor of a girl with “firm hands.”

“Are you going to stand there all night, señorita? Or are we going to begin?”

The voice is muffled by the headrest, his face buried in the hole, but the vibration of it hits me like a physical blow to the chest. It’s deep, rough, and carries a cadence that travels through the air and vibrates in my very marrow. A jolt of electric heat zips down my spine, leaving my skin tingling in a way I haven’t felt in… ever.

I swallow hard, my throat dry. I can’t run. If he’s who I fear he is—just another Russian looking for trouble—running will just turn this into a game. And I’ve seen enough of those games to know that the predator always enjoys the chase.

“I apologize, sir,” I say, my voice steady, my “Elena” mask firmly in place. I move to the counter to pour the oil. “I was just checking the lighting. Would you like the deep tissue or the Swedish?”

“I like it deep,” he rumbles. The smirk is audible in his voice, even through the padding. The sound of his voice is like gravel and velvet, rubbing against my nerves in a way that makes my breath catch. “I’ve never been one for half-measures. And don’t be shy with the pressure. I’ve been told you don’t mind a little struggle. That you’re… efficient.”

I want to ask him who told him that, but I can’t because customers are Gods and you don’t question Gods. Something Sofia reminds me of on a daily basis.

I move to the side of the table, my fingers slicking with the neutral oil. My hands are trembling, a fine, frantic vibration I can’t control, but the moment I press my palms into his skin, the tremor stops.

He’s hot. Not just warm from the sun, but radiating a staggering amount of heat, like a furnace. As I lean my weight into the first stroke, pressing my palms into the base of his neck, a spark zips through my fingertips.

My fingers are tingling. It’s an involuntary, crazy reaction to the contact. It’s a pull, a magnetic attraction so intense it scares me. I’ve touched hundreds of men in the last six months—fat men, thin men, men who smelled like cheap gin and men who smelled like expensive soap—and I’ve felt nothing but a vague sense of disgust. But this? This is different.

Something is wrong. Very wrong.

My hands move down his spine, and I can’t help but notice the way his muscles shift and roll under my palms. He’s solid, like granite covered in silk. My traitorous mind starts to wonder what those muscles would look like when they’re tensed in a different way. I imagine those scarred lats flexing under me, the weight of him pressing me into a mattress instead of a massage table.

Stop it, Irina. He’s a pig. A criminal. He probably has a wife and three mistresses back in the Motherland.

But the “Elena” in me doesn’t care. She just wants to keep touching him. I find myself lingering on the curve of his lower back, where the sheet dips low enough to reveal the top of a V-line that disappears into the shadows. My thumbs trace the ridge of his spine, and I feel a low, thrumming ache start to build in my own lower belly. It’s a heat I haven’t felt in years, a hunger that makes me want to rip the sheet away and see exactly what he’s hiding.

“Y-Your muscles are very tight,” I say, my voice sounding far away, as if I’m watching myself from the corner of the room. I dig my thumbs into the thick knots near his shoulder blades, leaning into it, using the strength of my whole body. “You carry a lot of tension here. It’s like you’re waiting for a fight.”

“I carry a lot of things,” he grunts, his voice a low vibration beneath my hands that I feel in my own bones. The sound of it travels through my palms and straight to my chest, making my breath hitch. “Tension is the least of them. Most people find my company… stressful.”

My mind is racing, flashing images of those large, calloused hands gripping my waist, pulling me against that furnace of a chest. I can almost feel the phantom pressure of him on top of me, his rough voice whispering filthy promises in my ear.

What in the world is wrong with me??

God, I’m pathetic.

I slide my hands up the sides of his neck, my fingers brushing the hair at the base of his skull.

A few months of celibacy and I’m ready to jump the first Russian who looks like he could snap me in half.

But goodness. The way he smells. Like ozone and expensive leather and something purely masculine that calls to a part of me I thought was dead. I wonder if he’s one of those men who like to do weird things. The ones who buy silence and skin.

Irina! What the hell are you thinking about?

Every time my skin brushes his, every time my fingers trace the edge of a tattoo or the ridge of a scar, my heart hammers harder.

He has such a massive presence. He takes up all the space in the room, making me feel small, exposed, and strangely, terrifyingly alive. My fingers are still tingling, the sensation spreading up my arms and settling into a heavy, wet heat between my thighs.

“How long have you been in Cancun, Elena?” he asks.

The name sounds like a joke coming from him. A secret he’s humoring because he finds it amusing. The gravelly depth of his voice sends a fresh wave of shivers over my skin.

“J-Just a couple of months,” I answer, lying easily, focusing on the curve of his neck, trying to ignore the way my tunic feels suddenly too tight across my chest. “It’s a good place to work. People are generous.”

“Are they?” He turns his head slightly in the headrest, though I still can’t see his face. I can see the sharp line of a jaw that looks like it was carved from obsidian. “I find that people only come to a place like this when they want to forget who they were. Or when they want to hide from someone who hasn’t forgotten them.”

“I’m not hiding from anyone,” I say, the sassy, stubborn Petrov pride I’ve been trying to kill for months suddenly flaring up in my chest. “I just prefer the sun to the New York winters.”

I freeze. I didn’t say New York. Why did I say New York? My heart is a drum now, beating a frantic rhythm that I’m sure he can feel through my hands.

“New York,” he repeats, the words tasting like a threat. “I’ve heard it’s a beautiful city. Very cold. Very… unforgiving.”

My skepticism about this “client” is turning into genuine alarm.

Is he a debt collector? One of Boris’s men?

“Why did you ask for me? There are girls here with years more experience.”

“I’ve heard many things about you,” he says, his voice dropping to a predatory whisper that makes my knees feel like they’re made of wax. “I heard you had a certain… fire. I wanted to try it for myself. To see if the rumors were true.”

The innuendo in his words is clear now, dripping with a dark, mocking intent. He isn’t here for a massage. He’s here for me. I become more and more agitated, my movements becoming jerky, my breathing shallow. The tingling in my fingers has turned into a dull, thumping heat. My mind is a chaotic mess of fear and a shameful, desperate curiosity. I want to know who he is.

I need to get out of here.

“Rumors are just talk,” I say, my voice trembling. “I’m just a girl working a shift.”

I step past him to reach for more oil, and that’s when it happens.

He shifts, his hand coming out from beneath the table with a speed that makes me gasp. His large, calloused hand brushes firmly against my thigh, his fingers lingering on the skin just above the hem of my tunic. The touch is like a brand, searing through my clothes and leaving a trail of fire in its wake. It’s a deliberate, suggestive move—a claim of possession that shatters my mask into a thousand pieces.

Of course, it’s just one of those stupid men who don’t take no for an answer. You chose the wrong person to mess with.

The agitation in my chest turns into pure, incandescent rage.

I don’t think. My stubbornness and my pride, the only things my father couldn’t take from me, explode. This man thinks he can buy me? Thinks he can touch me just because he threw some money at Sofia?

I reach down, my fingers tangling in his dark golden hair, longer than it looks.

“I told you,” I growl, my voice low and dangerous, the Russian heiress returning in a heartbeat. “I don’t tolerate anyone harassing me at my workplace. I couldn’t care less for this job, so I will kick your ass and leave you bleeding on this floor if you touch me one more time. Do you understand?”

The man doesn’t flinch. Instead, for my absolute surprise, he lets out a low, dark laugh. It’s a sound of pure, unadulterated triumph.

“If you like it rough, you should have stayed back home, dorogaya,” he says, the voice finally clear, no longer muffled by the table. “We would have been the perfect match.”

The blood drains from my face so fast the room tilts. My hands are still tangled in his hair, but my fingers are frozen. I don’t understand. I can’t breathe.

No, no, no, no.

“Back home?” I whisper, the words barely audible over the roar of the blood in my ears. “What are you talking about?”

I yank his head back with everything I have. I force him up, pulling his face out of the hole, forcing him to look at me. I’m ready to scream, ready to scratch his eyes out.

He shifts, his eyes catching the amber light of the candles. Dark blue. Wild. Glinting with a terrifying amount of amusement and a possessiveness that makes my lungs seize.

“New York, Irina,” he says, his voice dropping to a growl that settles deep in my marrow.

My heart stops. The world collapses into the space between us. I look at the face I tried to erase from my memory. I look at the dark blue eyes that haunted every dream I’ve had in this tropical purgatory. I look at the man I left standing at the altar.

“I want what should have been mine for six months now,” he says, his hand closing over my wrist with the strength of a steel trap. “I’m done playing, I want my wife.”

Chapter Two

Irina

No no no no… please no. This can’t be happening.

The air in Room 4 is 90% eucalyptus oil and 10% my impending cardiac arrest.

Mikhail doesn’t move. He just watches me with those dark blue eyes, his hand still clamped around my wrist like a shackle. I can feel his pulse against my skin—steady, rhythmic, and terrifyingly calm. Mine, however, is a mess, a bird trapped in a cage of ribs that feel too small for the amount of oxygen I’m failing to pull in.

“L-Let go,” I whisper. It’s meant to be a command, but it comes out as a plea. My throat is so tight I’m surprised any sound escaped at all.

“You’ve had six months, Irina,” Mikhail rumbles, his voice vibrating through the small space between us. He doesn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightens, drawing me an inch closer to the heat radiating off his bare chest. “That’s enough of letting go.”

I yank my arm back with a surge of desperate strength, and to my surprise, he lets me go. Not because I won, but because he’s already decided the game is over. He sits up fully on the massage table, the white sheet sliding dangerously low. I see the hard, tanned expanse of his thighs. I should look away. I’m a Petrov; I was raised with a sense of propriety that is currently being set on fire by the sheer, unapologetic masculinity of the man in front of me.

But I can’t look away. My eyes trace the ink on his skin, the scars that tell stories of a life I tried to leave behind, and the way his dark golden hair falls over his forehead. He looks like a god of war who took a wrong turn and ended up in paradise.

Goodness.

“Put some freaking clothes on,” I snap, trying hard to maintain my composure. I gesture vaguely at his lack of clothing. “Or is being a public nuisance part of the Morozov charm these days?”

Mikhail lets out a low, dry laugh as he stands up. He’s six-foot-three of pure, predatory grace. Even naked, he’s the one in control. “The only nuisance here is the wife who thought a fake passport and a bottle of coconut oil would be enough to hide from me.”

“I am not your wife!” I hiss, backing toward the door. “We never signed the papers. We never finished the ceremony. You’re just a man I left standing in a room full of expensive flowers.”

He reaches for the knot at his hip, and with a flick of his wrist that is unnecessarily graceful for a man with shoulders that wide, the towel hits the floor with a soft, mocking thud.

What the hell?!

My gaze is currently locked onto a very specific, very safe mole on his left shoulder blade. I am staring at that mole like it holds the secrets to the universe.

“We’re going,” he says, ignoring my jab. He reaches for a pile of clothes I hadn’t noticed in the corner—a sharp, Italian suit that probably costs more than this entire building. He pulls on his trousers with a fluid ease that makes my mouth go dry. “Move, Irina. Unless you want me to carry you through the lobby.”

“W-What?! I’m not going anywhere with you! I have a life here. I have… things I’m doing!”

“You have a boss who just sold you for the price of a mid-sized sedan,” Mikhail says, sliding into a crisp white shirt. He doesn’t look at me as he buttons it, but I can feel his attention fixed on me like a laser. “Your ‘life’ ended the second I walked through that door. Now, move.”

Fuck no!

I reach for the door handle, intent on sprinting for the back exit, but Mikhail is there before my fingers can even touch the metal. He looms over me, one hand resting on the door above my head, his shadow swallowing me whole.

The scent of him wraps around me. My heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs, and that traitorous tingling returns to my fingertips. I want to hit him. I want to scream, I want to run, but I can’t. I bite my lips hard to stop the tears from rolling.

“Don’t create a scene, dorogaya,” he whispers, his breath warm against my ear. “It would be such a shame for Sofia to have to explain to the police why she allowed a kidnapping in her establishment. Especially when I’ve already paid for her silence.”

“You- You’re a monster!” I breathe, glaring up into those dark blue depths.

“I’m a Morozov,” he corrects, his eyes flashing with something dark and possessive. “And you’re mine. Let’s fucking go.”

He opens the door and steps back, gesturing for me to precede him. I walk out, my spine stiff, my head held high despite the fact that my knees are shaking. As we walk through the lobby, I see Sofia. She’s standing behind the desk, her face pale, her eyes fixed on the floor. She won’t look at me. She won’t help.

This is really happening!

Mikhail doesn’t say a word. He just gives her a single, sweeping look that makes her shrink further into her chair. His posture, the set of his broad shoulders, the way he moves—it all screams power. He doesn’t need to create a scene. He is the scene.

Fucking madman.

No one interferes. No one calls out. I am being stolen and the world is letting it happen.

“You won’t get away with this,” I mutter as he steers me toward the door, his hand firm on the small of my back. “The second I get a chance, I’m calling my father. He’ll have your head.”

I know I’m literally grasping at straws but I’ll do anything.

“Your father is the one who gave me the coordinates, Irina,” Mikhail chuckles. He is lying—or maybe he isn’t. With Boris Petrov, you never know.

We step out into the humid Cancun night. The strip is alive with neon lights—pinks, blues, and yellows reflecting off the wet pavement from a recent sun-shower. A black SUV is idling at the curb, its tinted windows looking like two voids in the middle of the neon chaos. A tall scary looking man stands by the door, opening it the second we approach.

“Get in,” Mikhail says.

“I have rights, Mikhail! I have… I’ll scream! I’ll tell everyone who you are!”

“Go ahead dorogaya,” he says, leaning down so his lips are a hair’s breadth from mine. “Scream. Let them know the Morozovs are in town. See how fast this street empties out.”

His arrogance is infuriating, but the way his eyes drop to my mouth makes my heart skip a beat. I want to bite him. I want to slap the smirk off his face. I climb into the car, mostly because I don’t want him to see how much he’s affecting me.

The door thuds shut, sealing us in the cool, leather-scented interior. The driver pulls away immediately, the lights of the street blurring past the windows. I sit as far away from Mikhail as possible, hugging the door, trying to stop the tremors that are finally taking over my body.

My life is officially over.

“You’re a coward,” I say, because I need to find something to say before I start crying. “Hiding behind your family name and your thugs. Is this the only way you can get a woman to stay in a car with you? Kidnapping?”

Mikhail leans back, his long legs stretched out, looking entirely too comfortable. He’s watching me with a predatory intensity that makes my skin itch. “You stopped having choices the moment you humiliated me in front of both families and vanished.”

“I saved us both!” I snap, turning to face him. “You didn’t want me. You were probably relieved I ran.”

“I was many things,” he rumbles, his voice turning into ice. “Relieved was not one of them. My pride doesn’t like being a punchline at the social clubs. You made me look weak. You made my family look weak. And in our world, weakness is a death sentence, you know that.”

“Oh, please. Your pride is fine. You just wanted a reason to go on a hunt.”

“And look how well it turned out,” he mocks, his hand reaching across the seat to trail a finger along my jawline. I flinch, but I don’t move away. The touch is electric, a spark of heat that makes my breath hitch. “You’re sitting in my car, going to my plane, to live in my house. You’re exactly where you were supposed to be six months ago. Only now, the terms have changed.”

“The terms haven’t changed! I’m still the woman who hates you!”

Mikhail’s hand moves from my jaw to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair, pulling my head back until I’m forced to look at him. His eyes are dark, a storm of blue. “Then you’ll hate me in New York. Because you’re never leaving my sight again.”

The drive to the airport is an agonizing blur. We arrive at a private hangar where a sleek, white jet is waiting. Mikhail leads me up the stairs, his hand firm and possessive. The moment we cross the threshold and the heavy door seals shut, the full reality of what is happening settles into my bones.

We are alone.

The cabin is a temple of excess, cream leather, polished mahogany, and a bar stocked with enough liquor to drown a fleet. The flight attendant gives Mikhail a quick nod and disappears into the cockpit, leaving us in a silence that is anything but peaceful.

Mikhail heads straight for the bar, pouring himself a finger of amber liquid. He doesn’t offer me any— bastard. He just stands there, swirling the glass, his eyes fixed on me. I pace the length of the cabin like a trapped animal, my sneakers silent on the thick carpet.

“How did you find me?” I demand, stopping near the window as the jet begins to taxi. The roar of the engines matches the roar in my head. “I was invisible. I didn’t use the name. I didn’t use the cards. I was gone.”

Mikhail takes a slow sip of his drink, his gaze never leaving mine. “I’ve been looking for you from the second you touched the grass outside that hotel, Irina. Did you think I’d just shrug and move on? That I’d let the insult stand?”

“I thought you were too busy being a Morozov to care about one runaway bride.”

“Once I decided to stop letting the world laugh at me, there was nowhere in the world you could truly hide,” he says, his voice low and absolute. “You could have gone to the moon, and I would have found a way to drag you back.”

I let out a dry, sassy laugh. “Is this really about the alliance? Or is your ego just that fragile? Did your pride really not survive a woman leaving you at the altar?”

“Both.”

Bastard!

“You should have been grateful I ran,” I scoff, stopping near the window as the jet begins to taxi. “I saved you from a wife who would have hated you every day of your life. You could have married someone who actually wanted the Morozov name.”

Mikhail takes a slow sip of his drink, his gaze never leaving mine. “I don’t want a wife who wants my name, Irina. I want a wife who fears it. And as for hating me? Hate is just love with a different coat on. You were never indifferent to me. Even back in New York, when you were supposed to be Artyom’s, you couldn’t stop looking at me.”

“Are you crazy? I was looking at you because you were a train wreck!” I lie, my heart rate spiking. “You were the volatile brother who couldn’t stay out of trouble. You were the madman, I didn’t want to be anywhere near you! I was looking at you to make sure you didn’t set the curtains on fire.”

“Oh? Is that what you were doing in Room 4 tonight, dorogaya?” he asks, stepping toward me. He moves with that same slow, predatory grace, pinning me against the bulkhead without even touching me. “Were you checking for fire when your fingers were trembling against my skin? When you were digging your thumbs into my shoulders like you wanted to climb inside me?”

The memory of the massage, of the tingling in my fingers and the heat in my belly, rushes back, making my face flush. “I was doing my job.”

“You were hungry,” he murmurs, stopping inches away. He smells like whiskey now, sharp and sweet. “You’ve been starving yourself for six months, trying to pretend you’re someone else. But I felt it, Irina. I felt the way your body reacted to mine. You can lie with your tongue all you want, but your touch? Your touch is very honest.”

“Stop it,” I whisper, my hands coming up to rest on his chest to push him away, but they just stay there, feeling the steady thud of his heart through his expensive shirt. “You’re just doing this to humiliate me.”

“Then you shouldn’t have run,” he says. He reaches out, his hand covering both of mine, pressing them harder against his chest. “Artyom is the Pakhan, and he’s soft for his nurse. You were supposed to be the balance. And you ran.”

“I ran because I wanted a choice!” I shout, my stubbornness finally breaking through the fog. “I don’t want to marry someone like you!”

Mikhail’s expression hardens, the amusement vanishing. “The world doesn’t care about your choices, Irina. It cares about power. And right now, the power is in this room.”

He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble that vibrates in the small space between us. “You want to know how I’m going to punish you? I’m going to make you stay. I’m going to make you stand by my side at every gala, every meeting, every dinner. I’m going to make you play the perfect, devoted wife until your jaw aches from smiling. And every night, when the doors are closed, I’m going to remind you exactly who you belong to.”

“Y-You think you can force me to love you?” I ask, my voice shaking with a mixture of rage and a heat I can’t name. I refuse to let him see the fear—or the arousal—fluttering in my chest.

“I don’t need your love,” he says, his thumb tracing the curve of my lower lip, dragging it down until I’m forced to part my teeth. “I need your submission. I need the world to see that a Petrov tried to run, and a Morozov brought her back to her knees.”

I feel the heat of his body through my thin tunic. My fingers are tingling again—that same traitorous attraction I felt at the spa. I want to push him away, but I also want to see how far he’ll go. My stubbornness, however, is the one thing I have left.

“I’ll never do that,” I hiss, though the nearness of him is making it hard to think. “I’ll never be on my knees for you.”

“We’ll see,” he murmurs. He leans down, his lips brushing against my ear, his voice a promise of fire. “You’ve spent six months escaping me, Irina. Now, you’re going to learn the difference between escaping me and belonging to me. And I promise you, the second one is much, much harder to survive.”

He pulls back, leaving me breathless and reeling against the bulkhead. He finishes his drink in one swallow and walks toward the back of the jet where the bedroom is hidden. He stops at the doorway and looks back, his dark blue eyes glinting with a terrifying, beautiful light.

“Try to get some sleep, wife. We land in four hours. And the second we touch the ground, the ‘Elena’ act is over. You’re Irina Morozova now. And I’m going to make sure you never forget it.”

He disappears into the room, leaving me alone in the cabin. I sink into one of the leather chairs, my legs finally giving out. I look out the window at the dark expanse of the Atlantic, the stars mocking me with their distance.

I’m back in the cage. Only this time, the hunter is right next to me.

I touch my lip where his thumb rested, the skin still tingling, still burning. I hate him. I hate what he’s doing, I hate what he represents, and I hate my father for starting this. But as the jet screams toward New York, I realize the gravity of his words. He doesn’t want a bride. He wants a conquest.

I close my eyes, the hum of the engines a low-frequency vibration that matches the thrumming in my own blood. Mikhail thinks he’s won. He thinks he’s brought me back to the board as his pawn.

He has no idea that the second we land, I’m going to start playing my own game. And if he thinks I’m going to be a “dutiful wife” after what he just threatened, he’s clearly got the wrong person.

I lean my head back against the leather, a slow smile spreading across my face despite the tears prickling my eyes.

I hope you’re ready for the fire, Mikhail. Because I’m going to burn your entire world down before I let you own mine.

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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.

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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.

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Chapter One

Artyom

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

Your father wants to see you.

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

The old unease has already settled in my gut.

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

God, how much I hate all of this.

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

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

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

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

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

“I learned from the best.”

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

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

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

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

“Can’t a father ask to see his son?”

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

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

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

“Always.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I shrug. “No. Just not as rotten.”

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

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

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

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

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

That lands, making a vein pulse in his temple.

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

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

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

“I’ve picked up a few habits,” I say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His head snaps up. “To whom?”

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

“Don’t make a fool of me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Da, boss.”

“Find me a woman.”

There’s a pause. “Specifics?”

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

He whistles low. “Short list.”

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

“What is this about?” he asks.

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

“Understood.”

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

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

Chapter Two

Kira

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Days off are expensive.”

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

“I like reading,” I say defensively.

“You like medical journals.”

“And old movies.”

“On your couch. Alone.”

I sigh. “You’re relentless.”

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

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

“Did you call him?”

“Twice. Straight to voicemail.”

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

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

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

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

“Or some new trouble.”

“You worry too much.”

“I have reason to.”

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

“He’s my brother.”

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.” I try to smile. “Just tired.”

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

“I will.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

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

The air feels colder once she’s gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The candle sputters.

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The joke lands flat in the dark.

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

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

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

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Chapter One

Dante

I shouldn’t be here.

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

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

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

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

I hate drunks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, but—”

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

“I was going to win it back—”

“But you didn’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait—wait, no, please—”

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

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

“Please don’t—”

The pliers close around his left pinky nail.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I pick it up.

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

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

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

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

“How long have you been together?”

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

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

He doesn’t answer.

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

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

Of course, she does.

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

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

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

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

The room goes quiet.

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

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

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

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

But it doesn’t come.

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

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

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

I am too.

But I’m also intrigued.

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

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

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

“You seem very confident about that.”

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

There it is. The leverage.

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

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

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

He’s even more worthless than I thought.

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

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

“I know, I—”

“It transfers to her.”

His face pales. “What?”

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

“But—”

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

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

Too late.

“Sal, cut him loose.”

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

“Go,” I say quietly.

He goes.

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

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

“I am.”

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

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

“No,” I say. “But she will.”

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

Chapter Two

Bianca

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

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

“Miss Mancini!”

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

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

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

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

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

The presence I never had.

“Miss Mancini?”

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

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

He nods but doesn’t move.

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

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

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

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

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

My heart squeezes.

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

His face lights up. “Really?”

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

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

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

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

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

But I can barely keep my own life together.

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

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

“Hello?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Miss Mancini!”

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

I manage a smile, but my heart is racing.

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

“I will. Thank you.”

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

Even when she’s not.

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

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

“Bianca.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My stomach flips. “What do you mean?”

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

“Adrian, I don’t—”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m fine to—”

“Keys, Adrian. Now.”

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

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

“Where am I going?” I ask.

“Take the expressway toward Newark.”

“Newark? Why—”

“Just drive, Bianca. Please.”

So, I drive.

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

“Adrian, what’s going on?”

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

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

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

Or lying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trust him.

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

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

“Turn here,” Adrian says suddenly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just… don’t freak out, okay?”

“Adrian—”

He opens the door.

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

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

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

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

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

Like he already knows exactly why I’m here.

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

But Adrian doesn’t answer.

And the man in the perfect suit smiles.

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Chapter One

Alessia

I shouldn’t be here.

The thought hammers through my skull as I stand on this godforsaken Chicago Street, surrounded by crumbling buildings and broken dreams. Graffiti tags cover every surface like infected wounds, and the smell of piss and decay hits me like a physical blow, making my stomach clench and bile rise in my throat. This isn’t the kind of neighborhood a Moretti wife should be caught dead in…

Which is exactly why I’m here.

I pause near a rusted fire escape, pretending to check my reflection in a shop window that’s completely cracked. The movement lets me scan the street behind me without being obvious about it. Old habits die hard, and paranoia has kept me alive this long. A black sedan idles at the corner, exhaust puffing gray clouds into the autumn air. The driver’s been there since I arrived twenty minutes ago. Too long for it to be a coincidence.

My phone buzzes against my ribs, the vibration sharp enough to make me flinch. Only three people have this number, and one of them is dead. Has been for forty-five days now.

The caller ID makes my stomach clench: Don Emilio Moretti.

My father-in-law. The man who owns half of Chicago’s politicians and all of its fear. I can’t ignore him—no one ignores Don Emilio and lives to regret it. But answering means lying, and I’m so fucking tired of lying.

“Papà,” I say, forcing warmth into my voice as I accept the call. The Italian rolls off my tongue like honey, sweet and practiced. “How are you feeling today?”

“Alessia.” His voice cuts through the phone line like broken glass—sharp, cold, unforgiving. Even through the speaker, it carries the weight of absolute authority. “Where are you?”

My free hand finds the small knife tucked inside my purse, fingers curling around the familiar weight. Lorenzo gave it to me on our wedding night, a pretty little thing with a pearl handle. For protection, he’d said, not knowing I’d learn to sleep with it under my pillow. Protection from him.

“At the doctor’s office,” I lie smoothly, my eyes never leaving the street. A man pretends to read a newspaper across the street, but the pages haven’t turned once since I’ve been watching. “Getting some routine tests done. Nothing to worry about.”

“Tests.” The word hangs in the air like smoke. “What kind of tests, daughter?”

Daughter. He only calls me that when he wants something, or when he’s about to deliver bad news. Sometimes both.

“Just follow-up care, Papà. You know how doctors are—they want to monitor everything, especially with…” I let my voice trail off, leaving the implication hanging. The pregnancy that doesn’t exist. The grandchild that will never be born. The lie that’s kept me alive for forty-five days.

“Sì, of course.” His tone softens fractionally, and I can picture him in his study, surrounded by the dark wood and darker secrets that define the Moretti legacy. “The memorial is in one hour, Alessia. You will be there.”

It’s not a request. Don Emilio doesn’t make requests—he issues commands, and smart people follow them. The forty-day memorial for Lorenzo. Catholic tradition demands it, and the Morettis bow to tradition when it suits them.

“Of course,” I say, checking my watch. The appointment inside will take ten minutes, fifteen at most. Plenty of time to get this done and make it home to play the grieving widow. Again. “I’ll be back within the hour.” “Good.” A pause, long enough for me to wonder what he’s thinking, what he knows. “And Alessia? Take care of yourself. That baby is precious to all of us.”

The line goes dead, leaving me staring at my reflection in the cracked window. Dark auburn hair pulled back in a neat chignon, golden-brown eyes that have learned to hide too much, skin that’s finally lost the sickly pallor it carried for months. I look like a respectable mafia wife. The perfect widow.

If only they knew the truth.

I turn away from the window and face the building that is the reason I am in this neighborhood. The Chicago Family Health Center squats between a check-cashing place and a store that definitely doesn’t sell the kind of merchandise advertised in its blacked-out windows. The clinic’s sign flickers on and off, the ‘H’ in ‘Health’ strobing like a dying heartbeat. Paint peels from the door frame, and the single window facing the street is covered with bars that have seen better years.

It’s perfect. No one from my world would ever set foot in a place like this, which makes it invisible. And invisibility, I’ve learned, is its own kind of power.

The door sticks when I push it, requiring actual effort to get inside. The waiting room is a study in despair—worn linoleum floors in a color that might have once been white, fluorescent lights that flicker and buzz like dying insects, and the kind of furniture that’s designed to be uncomfortable. The air tastes of antiseptic and something fouler underneath, something that speaks of too many desperate people passing through these doors.

A receptionist sits behind bulletproof glass, her eyes the color of old pennies and just as lifeless. She doesn’t look up when I enter, doesn’t acknowledge my existence until I tap my knuckles against her window.

“Name?” she asks, voice flat as roadkill.

“Smith,” I say. “I have an appointment with Dr. Carter.”

She consults a schedule that looks like it was typed on a machine from the Carter administration, running one chipped fingernail down the page. “Room three. He’ll be with you shortly.”

I take a seat in one of the molded plastic chairs, crossing my legs carefully and keeping my purse close. The knife inside feels heavier now, more necessary. Two other people wait in the small space—a teenager who can’t be more than sixteen, staring at her hands with the kind of desperation that makes my chest tight, and an older woman whose face tells stories I don’t want to read.

This is where hope comes to die, where desperate people make desperate choices. Where Mrs. Lorenzo Moretti can become just another woman with a problem that money can solve.

“Smith?” A voice calls from the hallway, and I stand smoothly, years of finishing school posture serving me well even here. Dr. Carter stands in the doorway to room three, and he’s exactly what I expected—sleazy smile, receding hairline, and gold teeth that catch the fluorescent light. His white coat has seen better days, and there’s a stain near the pocket that I choose not to identify.

“Doctor,” I say, extending my hand with the kind of cool politeness that comes naturally after years of charity galas and political dinners. He takes it, his palm soft and damp.

“Come in, come in,” he says, gesturing toward the examination room. It’s cleaner than the waiting area, but not by much. “Please, have a seat.”

I remain standing, my chin lifted in the way that used to make Lorenzo’s eyes go dark with rage. Power pose, my mother called it, back when she was alive to give advice. Back before the Morettis decided the Ricci family had outlived their usefulness.

“That won’t be necessary,” I say. “We both know why I’m here, Doctor.” The words taste bitter—I’d had to take an enormous risk calling him, speaking in careful euphemisms about ‘documentation’ and ‘discretion.’ “You know this isn’t a medical consultation.”

His smile falters for a moment, revealing something calculating underneath. “Of course, of course. Though I do usually recommend at least a brief examination, for authenticity’s sake—”

“No.” The word cuts through the air like a blade. I let my smile turn sharp, the kind that used to make servant girls scatter when I was still naive enough to think I had power. “I’m not here for your medical expertise. I’m here for your flexible morals.”

He actually laughs at that, a sound like gravel in a blender. “You’re certainly more direct than most of my… patients.”

“I find directness saves time,” I say, setting my purse on his desk and opening it with deliberate care. The knife catches the light, and his eyes track the movement. Good. Let him wonder if I’m desperate enough to use it. “Time I don’t have to waste on pretenses.”

Inside my purse, beneath the knife and next to the compact mirror I never use, is a thick envelope. I remove it carefully, feeling the weight of necessity and desperation.

Fifteen thousand dollars in cash, money I’d scraped together from jewelry sales during my carefully orchestrated shopping trips, skimming from the household accounts, and a small emergency fund my mother had made me promise to keep hidden for exactly this kind of desperate moment.

I set the envelope on his desk, the bills making a soft sound against the scarred wood. “For this amount,” I say, meeting his eyes steadily, “you’ve never seen me. You never will again. And the documentation you provide will be flawless.”

Dr. Carter lifts the envelope, feeling its weight with the practiced touch of someone who’s made this trade before. He doesn’t count it, we both know I’m good for it, but he opens it enough to see the bills inside. Hundreds, mostly, because fifties and twenties would make the stack too thick.

“Understood,” he says, tucking the envelope into his desk drawer. From the same drawer, he produces a manila envelope, sealed and official-looking. The clinic’s letterhead is printed across the top, the kind of detail that makes forgeries convincing. “Your results, Mrs… Smith.”

I take the envelope, feeling the weight of my future inside. “Pregnancy test?”

“Positive.” He settles back in his chair, looking pleased with himself. “Lab work confirms high hormone levels that match about ten weeks of pregnancy.” He pauses, studying my face. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” I slip the envelope into my purse, next to the knife that’s kept me safe and the phone that connects me to my cage. “This transaction is complete.”

“Of course.” But he doesn’t look away, and something in his expression makes my skin crawl. “Though I do hope you’ll remember where to find me, should you need any… future services.”

I’m already moving toward the door, my heels clicking against the linoleum with sharp sounds. “Doctor, for both our sakes, I hope I never see you again.”

The waiting room feels smaller now. I nod once to the receptionist, who still doesn’t look up, and push through the sticky door.

The air outside tastes like freedom and fear in equal measure. I’ve done it—bought myself another month, maybe two, of protection under the Moretti umbrella. As long as they think I’m carrying Lorenzo’s child, I’m valuable. Untouchable. But the moment they discover the truth…

I don’t let myself finish that thought.

My car sits where I left it, a modest sedan that doesn’t attract attention. I chose it specifically for that reason, the Maserati would have marked me as clearly as a neon sign in this neighborhood. As I walk toward it, my heels clicking against broken concrete, I feel eyes on me. The same sensation I’ve lived with for forty-five days, the weight of being watched.

The black sedan is still there. The newspaper man has moved closer, his position shifting just enough to keep me in sight. My fingers find the knife again, and I adjust my grip on my purse, making sure I can reach it quickly if needed.

I’m almost to my car when it happens.

Footsteps behind me, moving too fast, too determined. I spin, my hand already reaching for the knife, but I’m not fast enough. A hand clamps down on my shoulder, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and I jerk away with practiced desperation.

“Don’t…” I start to say, but the word dies as a black SUV screeches around the corner, tires screaming against asphalt. The door flies open before it even stops moving, and hands—multiple hands—grab for me.

I twist, my body moving on instincts learned through months of survival, but there are too many of them. My fingers close around the knife’s handle just as something sharp bites into my upper arm. A needle, I realize with crystal clarity, even as warmth spreads through my veins like honey.

“No,” I whisper, but my voice sounds distant, hollow. The knife falls from suddenly numb fingers, clattering onto the concrete like a death knell. My legs give out, and I’m falling, the world tilting sideways as strong arms catch me.

The last thing I see before darkness swallows everything is the envelope from the clinic, scattered papers drifting across the dirty street like snow. Like the ashes of all my carefully laid plans.

Then nothing.

Chapter Two

Matteo

She’s beautiful, even like this.

The thought hits me as I watch the surveillance footage for the third time, my fingers drumming against the steel table in my Manhattan warehouse. On the screen, my men carry an unconscious woman from the SUV, her dark auburn hair spilling over strong arms like silk. Even drugged and limp, there’s something about her that commands attention. Something dangerous.

Alessia Moretti. Lorenzo’s widow. The woman who started a war.

I check my watch. She’s been out for a few hours. The sedative should be wearing off soon.

“Boss.” Marco appears at my elbow, young and eager, still trying to prove himself worthy of the Romano name. “She’s stirring.”

I push back from the table and straighten my suit jacket. Armani, black as my reputation, tailored to perfection. Details matter in this business. Power is in the presentation as much as the action.

“Time we had a conversation.”

The room where we’re holding her is exactly what it needs to be. Windowless, dark, with only the faintest light seeping in from under the door. No decoration, no comfort, nothing to distract from the reality of her situation. Just concrete walls, a single chair, and the kind of silence that makes people want to talk.

I position myself in the deepest shadows and wait, watching her slowly return to consciousness. There is a single, dim lightbulb shining over her. She’s already awake, though she’s trying to hide it. Her breathing is too controlled, too measured for someone truly unconscious. Smart, but I’ve seen enough people come around from drugs to know the difference.

I can see her testing her restraints carefully, the zip ties around her wrists, trying to piece together what happened. Her head must be pounding from the sedative—it always does—but she’s fighting through it, thinking, calculating.

After three minutes of this charade, I decide to end it.

“Awake at last.”

She jerks toward my voice, and I watch her strain her eyes trying to see me in the darkness. Her heart rate picks up—I can see it in the pulse jumping at her throat—but she doesn’t cry out. Doesn’t beg. Interesting.

“What’s a woman like you doing in such a bad neighborhood?” I ask, keeping my voice neutral. The kind of tone that makes smart people nervous.

“My business is none of your concern,” she snaps back, and I’m impressed that her voice barely shakes.

“Well-bred girls like you shouldn’t wander into neighborhoods like that, principessa. It invites trouble.”

“That still doesn’t give you the right to kidnap me,” she fires back, lifting her chin in defiance. “And my name is not principessa. ”

I chuckle, genuinely amused. Most people in her position would be sobbing by now. “Bold words for someone tied up and alone.”

I start moving, circling her in the darkness, my footsteps deliberate against the concrete. She tries to track the sound, turning her head to follow my voice, but in the complete blackness that surrounds her, she’s blind.

Her vision adjusts when I walk out of the darkest shadow, her golden-brown eyes find me immediately. I’m standing just outside the circle of light, but she can make out enough. I watch her catalog details with quick intelligence—my height, my build, the expensive cut of my suit.

To my surprise, she doesn’t cower. Instead, she lifts her chin in defiance, meeting my stare with more backbone than most men show me.

I step into the light, letting her see me clearly for the first time. The scar along my jaw catches the light, a reminder of the night my father died.

My tattoos are visible at my wrists, dark ink that speaks of a world she’s only glimpsed from the protected heights of Moretti society. I know I carry myself with the controlled presence that has made grown men piss themselves.

Yet she doesn’t look away.

I can see her mind working, trying to piece together what’s happening. “How long was I unconscious?” she asks, her voice steady despite her situation.

“Long enough,” I say simply.

Her eyes narrow as she processes this. “The Morettis will be looking for me. They’ll tear Chicago apart—”

“They’ll have to expand their search,” I tell her, watching understanding dawn in her eyes. “Welcome to New York. My territory.”

The color drains from her face as the implications sink in. The kind of operation this represents, the resources required to move someone across state lines without detection. Her breathing quickens slightly, but she fights to maintain composure. “Do you know who I am?” I ask.

She studies my face intently, looking for clues. “Should I?”

“Most people would say yes.”

We stare at each other, me patient as death, her trying to put pieces together. I can practically see the wheels turning—Chicago to New York, the kind of operation this represents, the casual way I talk about territory.

Then recognition clicks, and her face goes pale.

“Romano,” she breathes.

I smile, and it’s not a nice expression. “Getting warmer.”

“Matteo Romano.” Her voice is barely a whisper now. “Il Diavolo.”

“Clever girl.”

“What do you want from me?” she asks, and I catch something breathless in her voice.

“You’re the reason the Morettis declared war,” I tell her, watching her face carefully for tells.

Her eyes widen with what looks like genuine shock. “I don’t know what you mean…”

“Sure you do.”

She’s quiet for a moment, processing my words. “I told them Lorenzo was murdered by unknown attackers. If they declared war on you, that decision was theirs, not based on anything I said.” I study her with the patience of a predator, weighing her words, looking for the lies underneath. But there’s something in her denial that rings true. Or maybe she’s just a very good actress.

“Someone so small and gentle shouldn’t cause such problems,” I murmur, moving closer.

I reach out slowly, making sure she can see the movement coming. Her eyes track my hand but she doesn’t pull away when I trace one finger along her cheek. Her skin is soft, unmarked by the kind of violence that shapes people like me.

“Don’t touch me,” she says, jerking her head away from my touch.

But I don’t stop. I let my finger trail along her jawline, curious to see what she’ll do.

Quick as a snake, her teeth close on my finger—hard, sharp, aiming for bone. I pull back just in time, genuinely impressed by her speed and viciousness.

I laugh, I can’t help it. When was the last time someone tried to bite me? “There she is. I was wondering when the real Alessia Moretti would show up.”

The sound of my laughter makes fury blaze in her eyes. “You think this is funny?”

“I think you’re far more interesting than I expected.”

“Interesting enough to let me go?” she shoots back.

“Interesting enough to keep you alive.”

Her jaw tightens. “How generous.”

“I can be.” I circle her chair slowly, and her head turns to follow my movement, cataloging every step. “Tell me about your husband’s enemies.”

“I wouldn’t know. Lorenzo didn’t discuss business with me.”

“Of course not. Good wives don’t ask questions.” I pause behind her chair, and her shoulders tense. “But smart wives listen.”

“Maybe I’m not that smart.” Her shoulders lift in a small shrug, but her eyes cut away, lashes lowering as if to hide something she doesn’t want me to read. Her fingers curl tight against the armrest, betraying nerves her voice tries to disguise.

“Oh, but you are.” I move back into her line of sight. “Smart enough to survive four months of marriage to Lorenzo Moretti. That takes considerable skill.”

Something flickers across her face—too quick to read, but not quick enough to hide.

“You’re fishing,” she says.

“I’m conversing.”

A sound from the darkness makes her eyes dart toward the shadows where my men wait—shapes she can sense but not see. Her breathing changes, just slightly, as she counts the invisible presences surrounding us.

I see the moment it truly hits her. Her knuckles go white around the arms of the chair, her breath stutters, and her throat works in a hard swallow she can’t quite finish. Her pupils dilate, eyes darting to the shadowed corners, as if she’s counting threats she can’t see. Her composure slips in that fraction of a second, enough to show she’s realized the truth: this isn’t some street kidnapping — she’s sitting in the grip of power itself.

Before I can push further, the door opens. Light spills in from the hallway, and Enzo enters first, lean and deadly, his serpent tattoo visible in the dim light. Behind him comes my brother Luca, younger, softer-featured, but carrying the Romano name with quiet authority.

“Matteo,” Luca says, and something in his tone tells me we have a problem. I glance between my men and the woman tied to the chair. She’s watching this exchange with curious eyes; no doubt cataloging names and faces and power dynamics even in her helpless state.

I’m about to leave when she speaks up.

“Are you planning to keep me tied up forever?”

The question is pure defiance, thrown at me like a challenge. Not a plea from a broken woman but a demand from someone who refuses to accept defeat. Even now, even helpless, she’s trying to seize some small measure of control.

I turn back to her fully, and for a moment, I feel something almost like admiration for her unbreakable spirit.

“You belong to me now, principessa, ” I tell her, letting the Italian endearment carry both promise and threat. “What happens to you will be decided by me alone.”

I leave her in the chair. The door shuts behind me, the lock snapping into place.

Luca and Enzo are waiting in the hallway, faces tight.

“The head injury isn’t serious,” Enzo reports, rolling up his sleeves, serpent tattoo catching the light. “No fracture, no bleeding. She’ll have a headache, but nothing lasting.”

A hostage with a broken mind is useless and we both know that. Relief flickers through me, though I bury it.

Luca shifts uneasily, the way he always has before delivering bad news. “We searched her belongings. Purse, keys, phone. The usual. But there was also an envelope from the Chicago Family Health Center. Pregnancy test results. Positive. Ten weeks old.”

I take this in without surprise. Of course, she’s pregnant. It explains everything—their desperation, Emilio’s recklessness. A widow carrying the Moretti heir is worth starting a war over.

“Expected,” I say flatly. “Emilio wouldn’t spill blood over a barren widow. The child makes her invaluable.”

That should be the end of it. Yet something gnaws at me. That clinic—wrong part of town, the kind of place the Morettis would never send their women. And her denials during interrogation… not fearful.

“I want Dr. Reeves to confirm the pregnancy,” I decide. My tone leaves no room for argument. “If we’re going to use her as leverage, I need certainty. I don’t deal in assumptions.”

Both men nod, and I turn away, already thinking about my next move.

War isn’t won on luck. It’s won on information. And Alessia Moretti’s truth is about to become mine.

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Chapter One

Isabelle

I was in a terrible mood. I knew it, my friends knew it, hell, even the noisy kid who sat behind me on the flight knew it.

The moment the plane landed, I pulled out my phone and sent a message to my family to let them know that my plane had landed safely in Italy.

“My valium didn’t kick in, can you believe that? I’m so stressed out that even Valium couldn’t calm me.” I texted my mom, who had been trying to get me to back out of this trip for the past two weeks.

Half a second later, my phone rang. “Hi mom.” I said.

“You know, it’s not too late to turn around and get on a plane back home.” She suggested, and that made me laugh.

“I can’t do that, and you know why.”

“I know, I know, you’re the maid of honor. Honestly, I don’t know why you accepted. If she’s going to have a destination wedding, the most she can do is provide for your transportation.” I sighed. It was a topic that mom had a lot to say about.

“Mom, I’m already here. I just want to make the best of it.” I responded in a tired tone, feeling resigned. Already, my mind was running through the checklist of things I had to do. As the maid of honor, I had some tasks and although I told them I would be late, I was still responsible for helping the bride.

Once the call ended, I considered switching my phone off. My attention was drawn to the carousel, where I spotted my bag. In one swift motion, I stepped forward and pulled it off. From the corner of my eyes, I could see a hand reach for my bag too, but I swiftly moved it out of the way. I didn’t bother looking at the person because I believed it was probably a mistake and I was in a hurry to take a shower and take a nap.

“Hey! Signorina!” I heard someone yell behind me alongside a pair of frenzied footsteps running in my direction. The voice was in a thick Italian accent, and although I hadn’t seen the speaker, I could practically feel the magnetism rolling off the low voice.

I looked around briefly, but the crush of the crowd made it hard for me to see anything, so I quickly put it out of my mind.

My arm felt weighed down a bit by my bag, but I didn’t think anything of it. I was tired and cranky, and no doubt that made my luggage feel heavier than it had when I had checked it in.

“I just need to get to the hotel and rest.” I mumbled to myself, feeling quite exhausted from both the trip and the crush of people all around me.

As I walked, I kept my head down, relying on spotting the feet before me to avoid bumping into anyone. It proved to be an efficient method until I spotted a pair of black leather shoes blocking my way. Without looking up, I moved to the left, intending to sidestep the person, but the person moved to the left too. When I moved to the right, the person did the same. Finally, I lost my temper and looked up so I could face whoever it was squarely.

At first glance, I was stunned. A man stood before me with tanned skin, broad shoulders, dark hair and even darker eyes. He had a sharp look in his eyes, like an eagle looking at its prey. He was wearing a dark suit that sat on his body so well that I had no doubt it was tailored. A had a gold watch on his wrist, and his hands were clenched into fists.

“Who sent you? Where are you going with my bag?” He asked, making me raise an eyebrow. I turned my gaze to the bag I was pulling behind me. It was black with a bright red tag dangling from its handle. It was a distinctive thing, so I knew that I was not mistaken. It felt like the interruption from the man before me was some kind of scam.

“This is my bag. You need to get lost and try your scam somewhere else.” His eyebrows raised at my words, and the look in his eyes grew even sharper, like an unsheathed blade.

“American?” He asked in a thick Italian accent.

“What’s it to you?” I asked.

“Lady, you have my bag and you’re refusing to give it back,” he said as in one swift motion, he stepped forward and grabbed the bag.

“Lady? Buddy, I’m saying you’re trying to scam the wrong girl. You think I don’t know what my bag looks like? I just had it on the carousel.” I felt like the unreasonable one as my voice grew louder, but I didn’t take kindly to being called lady.

Something about how loud I was being must have frightened him because he took a step back before looking around. However, he couldn’t move too far because we were both clutching the bag.

“Let’s be reasonable, why would I want your bag?” He asked after taking a deep breath.

“I could ask you the same thing, pal.” Him telling me to be reasonable just managed to piss me off even more.

“I’ve tried to be nice but I don’t have time for this, lady, let go of my bag now.” All traces of patience were gone as he spoke. Something about his aura shifted as he looked angry and dangerous. The shift scared me for one moment before I felt a quick rush of courage.

“This bag is mine, and since you’re not going to listen, I’m just going to prove it to you.” I finally snapped, tired of going back and forth with him.

I swiftly pinched the zipper before pulling it open so he could see the contents of the bag.

“All the stuff in here is mine…” My words trailed off as my gaze fell on the contents of the bag.

Money. Stacks of it. Clear bags of white powder. Maybe drugs. And worse, four black handguns. There was no mistaking them for anything else.

I could feel the blood drain out of my face. Immediately after I saw those things, I let go of the bag as fast as I could. My hands started trembling and I slowly lifted my gaze from the bag to the man holding it. I couldn’t see the expression on his face through the blur of the tears that were forming in my eyes.

“See? Definitely not my bag.” I managed to stammer. However, I didn’t need to see the look on his face to tell that I was in serious trouble.

Chapter Two

Vincenzo

I had just met this woman, but she was already getting on my nerves in ways that I couldn’t have imagined. I could see the fear in her hazel brown eyes and I couldn’t help but sigh. All of this could have been avoided if she had not been so stubborn. I had started to get suspicious when she had been so adamant to claim that the bag was hers. Who had sent her?

I looked into her eyes and I thought I saw a hint of a plea there, but I knew I couldn’t let her go. This woman might not have just been a random stranger. Who knows which one of my enemies may have sent her?

I zipped up the bag quickly, making sure not to take my eyes off of her. She had already seen its contents, who knew what she would do next?

With one hand I picked up the bag and slung it over my shoulder, with the other, I pulled her close to me, her brown curls coming loose from her updo and cascading down her back. Quickly, I brought out my gun from my jacket and held it firmly against her small waist. I could feel her whole body go stiff the moment she felt the cold metal against her side.

“Don’t make a scene,” I whispered, moving even closer to her. I took in a whiff of her scent. She smelled amazing. I could feel every hair on my body standing straight. Who the fuck was this strange woman, and why did she have such an effect on me’ I liked it and hated it at the same time.

“Focus,” I thought, snapping myself out of it. Now was not the time to bask in this strange woman’s scent, or even admire how beautiful her hair sat in soft curls on her shoulders.

Her eyes were now as wide as golf balls and looked like they were about to pop out of their sockets. I could see that she was scared and it almost made me smile; what had happened to the confident woman from a minute ago? It was then that I noticed that her eyes were not just hazel brown, they also had emerald green specs in them.

“You’re coming with me,” I whispered, pulling her close and taking in more of her scent. She smelled like roses with a hint of chocolate, and it was slowly becoming addictive.

“One wrong move and I’ll make sure you regret it.”

I could tell that she understood the gravity of the situation then.

“Walk,” I said, holding her tighter. I made sure there was enough force in my voice that she would take me seriously.

I ignored the looks of people around me and continued to move towards the entrance. I couldn’t tell what they were thinking, but I knew that my face and my demeanor was keeping them at bay. They dared not approach. When we got there, I signaled to my driver to bring the car closer. He nodded and moved the car in front of us.

“Where…?” she started to ask, but a look from me shut her up immediately. She was practically shaking, but I didn’t care. If she was really my enemy, she deserved what was coming to her.

My driver stepped out and opened the back door for me to enter. I kept ignoring the inquisitive looks of those around me and shoved her into the back of the car.

“Get in,” I said. She seemed like she was about to resist, so I pushed her harder until she was fully seated. I couldn’t afford for her to make a scene in a place that was as crowded as the airport, it would not end well.

I didn’t need to tell my driver what to do, because as soon as the door closed, he sped off, away from the airport, leaving the bustling terminal behind. I didn’t take my eyes off her for a second. I had a feeling that if I let my guard down, she would do something stupid. I watched her, waiting for her to make a move, but she didn’t; she just sat there, looking like a deer caught in headlights. I kept the gun trained on her still, unwilling to give her any chance; who knew what she was capable of. I no longer had to hide it, so I lifted it a little bit higher, directly above her chest.

All of a sudden, she started breathing heavily, casing the gun to move up and down. She was looking around frantically, as if she suddenly realized how much danger she was in.

“Keep quiet and behave,” I said, lifting the gun so that it was now pointed at her head. She calmed down instantly, raising her hands a little as if trying to tell me that she was up to nothing. I let my grip on the gun relax, not because I trusted her, but because I knew that I could overpower her if she tried anything. The car was now very silent, the tension so thick that it was palpable. I cleared my throat and began to speak.

“We are heading to my estate. There, we will have a little chat about your involvement in all of this.”

She said nothing, she just continued to stare into the distance. She was now gripping her thighs. I could tell that she was scared. Even though she was scared, she clenched her jaw, staring stubbornly ahead.

I suddenly became curious about her. Who exactly was she? If she had been sent to spy on me, at this point she probably would have started begging for her life and spilling the secrets of the master that sent her, but instead she was quiet. She said nothing, she didn’t even look at me. She looked scared and stubborn at the same time. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of her.

She then turned to look out the window, gazing at the sights around us. It was like she was looking at everything except me. I shrugged, thinking that it was probably because I was her captor.

I looked outside and saw that the sun was already setting over Palermo. Though it was beautiful, it meant I had to hurry and get to the bottom of the situation that I found myself in.

Her eyes were now darting nervously around, I just watched her. It was good that she was nervous, that was more of a normal reaction than her staring straight ahead. She was probably reacting that way because of the opulent gate we were driving into.

The estate, a sprawling villa nestled among the trees sat ominously at the top of a hill. I glanced at her and I could see that she was still looking around nervously. Her face was now pale, and her knuckles white as she gripped her seat.

The tall gates were open, revealing meticulously maintained gardens and

the imposing mansion that served as the Caruso family’s stronghold.

“Out,” I ordered, as soon as the car came to a stop.

She hesitated for a moment before she finally stepped out. She took one hesitant step after the other before she stood, looking around her in awe and a little bit of apprehensiveness.

I quickly grabbed her by the arm and pulled her towards the entrance. She got the message and started to move, matching my steps. Soon we passed the foyer and went up the staircase. I could tell that she was trying to hide her emotions, I could tell that the house was very impressive to her. I had lived there all my life so I was no longer moved by the grandeur of the mansion.

Soon, we reached the guest room and I dragged her to the bed, waiting for her to snap out of whatever she was feeling.

“You will stay here,” I said, in a calm tone. I wanted her to understand that I was serious, “Don’t even try to escape,” I said, looking straight at her.

I could see a flash of defiance in her eyes, but I ignored it. She would realize soon enough that there was no escape. Even if she tried to run, she wouldn’t get far. The room was far too high for her to use the window, and if she ran, one of my staff members would shoot her before even letting me know, because that was just standard practice, and they were always watching.

I closed the door behind me and locked it. I waited a moment, knowing I would hear her try to open it. When she did, I almost laughed, then I shook my head and left. She just doesn’t listen.

“Pietro!” I called, putting as much volume behind my voice as I could. I knew he was around the house, and I needed him now.

He appeared soon enough, with an eyebrow raised, as if asking me what I needed. Pietro and I had always been different. He was a calmer, more relaxed version of me, but that didn’t mean that he was any less dangerous. We had received the same training, we had had to, for our survival. Even now, he was wearing blue jeans and a white t-shirt with sunglasses while I was in a dress shirt, pants and dress shoes. He was my second in command, the one I asked to do almost everything when I wasn’t available. I trusted my brother with my life.

“Take the suitcase to the buyer,” I said, giving him the box, “make sure everything goes smoothly.” Pietro already knew about the suitcase so I didn’t need to explain too much. He also understood how important the suitcase was and why it had to get to the buyer. Pietro nodded, not needing an explanation.

After he left, I went back to the guest room and unlocked the door, taking a moment to prepare myself for the interrogation ahead.

When I entered the room, she was pacing nervously. She was moving so fast that it was almost dizzying. She also didn’t notice that I had entered the room until I stood in front of her. She stopped immediately, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and determination. I stood on the tips of my toes like a cheetah about to pounce. I didn’t know what to expect from her.

“What is your name?” I asked.

She looked confused and then shocked.

“I said what is your name, do you not speak English?”

“Isabelle,” she said. She looked both confused and shocked that she had spoken..

“Sit, Isabelle,” I commanded, pointing to a chair by the window.

She looked like she had something to say, but she moved quietly to the chair, albeit reluctantly.

“Why are you in Palermo?” I asked, standing directly in front of her. I made sure to sound as serious as possible, so that she knew I wasn’t playing.

Isabelle took a deep breath then started talking. She was talking about a lot of things but at the same time she wasn’t saying much. I realized that she had started rambling out of nervousness. I let her speak, perhaps I could find something useful if I listened well.

“I’m here for my best friend’s wedding. I didn’t even want to come, but she insisted. My ex-boyfriend is the groom, and it’s just… it’s a nightmare, honestly. I thought your suitcase was mine. It was an honest mistake!”

I raised an eyebrow, watching her speak. For someone who seemed so quiet, she certainly talked a lot. It was a bit comical, the speed at which she was talking. If not for the seriousness of the situation, I might have laughed.

“You really expect me to believe everything you just said?” I asked, folding my arms across my chest.

“Yes!” She answered immediately. I just continued to stare at her, really studying her. I searched her eyes and saw that there was nothing but earnestness there. In my line of business, you had to be very good at reading people, and I was not sensing a single bit of deceit from her.

“Do you understand what you saw in that suitcase?”

I was leaning down now, making sure that my eyes were on the same level as hers.

She nodded, swallowing hard, so hard that I could see the lump go down her throat.

“Ye-yes, I’m not stupid,” she was stuttering now, just like that, her confidence has evaporated, “I know what it is, I also know that it’s illegal.” She paused, searching my eyes. She was trying to figure out if she had said something wrong.

“Oh really?” I asked, raising a brow, “do you understand what happens to people who get involved in things like this?”

She froze. Leaning back a little, I could tell that I had scared her. Good. I maintained my stance, making sure not to look away from her eyes. I saw see fear in them for a second, then it faded away, she now looked defiant.

“You can’t kill me,” she said, her voice firm at first, then trembling. “I’m supposed to be at the wedding. If I don’t show up, people will notice. Authorities will be alerted. I’m the maid of honor. It’s the wedding of the year.”

I leaned back, looking at her, trying to figure out if she was lying. She never once looked away from my gaze. She was telling the truth.

If she was right, then I really couldn’t get rid of her. I couldn’t afford to draw attention from the American police right now. It could jeopardize my position in the election for the Cupola, I needed to be careful.

“Fine,” I said, with a long sigh. I was going to play along, for now, “if your story checks out, you can go to the wedding.”

I rolled my eyes when she mumbled a weak “Thank you.” She must’ve thought she’d be free to go.

She didn’t know I had a condition.

“But, I’m coming with you. And I won’t let you leave my sight, not even for a second.”

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Chapter 1

Virgilio

This devil is out to bargain.

After being cleared by some bodyguards just outside the door, I step into the VIP section of this Bratva-owned club.

I stop at the entrance and scan the room. It is not my turf, and while I do not feel uncomfortable in any way, I know it’s better to study the environment you are entering, just in case.

That is why I also brought along four bodyguards.

I finally spot Mikhail, the Bratva Pakhan I’m here to see, sprawled on a semi-circle French rose lounge couch, with fairy lights in the same color hanging down from its headrest to the floor.

This will be a simple and quick negotiation.

I take a step in Mikhail’s direction. At the same time, a girl in a glimmering, deep-colored, very skimpy bikini with fairy-like feathers strapped to her, saunters elegantly on strappy heels to his table with a champagne bucket and bottle, and flutes.

She is an exotic dancer, and I’m fully aware that after this meeting, this place will be crowded with men who come here to have their pick for the night.

I know these are girls who no longer own their lives. They have been kidnapped and reduced to nothing but objects. This bar is exclusive for a reason. The girls have nowhere to go and are at the mercy of the Bratva until they outlive their use.

“Ettore Russo,” Mikhail calls to me. “Welcome.” The man has always blended perfectly with all the trends.

I already hate more than half the human population, so my hatred for him is just a grain of sand on the beach.

I strut to him. No rush.

“Champagne?” Mikhail asks as I approach him, hand pointing for me to take the seat beside him. It is another semi-circle lounge couch with a better view of the cubicles.

“Water,” I sit. “Thank you.” I ignore his drawn-together eyebrows at my request for water, and after contemplating it for a while, he snaps his fingers at the girl who brought the champagne.

She tips her head, and then with the same grace, she saunters to the large, stretched bar under the hanging cubicles to a bartender dressed in the same slutty fairy costume.

“The bartender makes a good mix with eh…” he circles his forefinger, trying to remember, and then snaps his finger when it comes to him, “bourbon, scotch, or whiskey,” he smiles, leaning into his seat with satisfaction for remembering and thinking he sounds classy.

Never seen a man with so much access to class and yet no class of his own.

It is not how he dresses; he pays to look good and he mostly does look put together. He is buffed, tall, and very lousy.

Other than his appearance, though, every single thing that comes out of his mouth that isn’t business-related is classless. It speaks of the rottenness inside the man.

The girl returns with a tray holding a glass of water with a slice of cucumber. She stops by the table beside my seat, and without meeting my eyes, she drops the tray.

“She is beautiful,” Mikhail swells. “All my fairies are.” He taps his lap, and the girl goes over to him, but instead of sitting on it, she kneels beside him and drops her head on his lap, tilting her head in a way that one side of her cheek is on him, making her look like a loyal dog.

I’m bored. “Business?”

“Sure,” he clears his throat, “you never hover, Ettore. Always business, business, business,” he sways, like he is making music with the word, thickening his accent, “All work and no play…” I scowl at him, and he grunts, “Fine, business.”

I’m here to discuss an anti-trust agreement concerning our mutual supplier—the Colombian Cartel. There’s enough cake for both clans; we only have to figure out how to slice it.

“Good enough?” Mikhail asks after stating the conditions of our agreement that he thinks will be favorable to both parties.

“Good enough,” I will give it to him when it comes to business. He knows just how to handle things. He is practical, and I admire that.

“Good,” he claps his hands and pours himself some champagne. “We should do this more often,” he lifts his glass. Life shouldn’t be about business alone; men need to have fun,” he strokes the ponytail of the girl, who is still kneeling on the floor. “Too many toys for a grown man,” he chuckles. “Am I right?”

I won’t dignify his words with an answer. Because if I do, I might just undo whatever truce this meeting has done for both clans.

“I was told you are no fun,” he leans forward, bringing his stoned dark eyes to a snit.

“I have no time for fun while dealing with business matters, and I’m here for work, Mikhail,” I haven’t touched my glass of only the fucking devil knows what, so I pick it up for the sake of courtesy, and stroke the cold glass, enjoying the condensation. “But thank you for…”

My following line of words drowns as I catch a shocking sight in my peripheral vision.

I snap my head in the direction of what feels like a hallucination.

But it is not.

Zoe.

Hell, it is her. Unmistakably her. The light and heavy glitter makeup has done enough to mask her, but I would recognize her anywhere.

The exotic dancers in the cubicles retire, and Zoe, along with another lady dressed in the same fairy costumes, saunters elegantly up the stairs to the cubicles. I watch, unable to tear my eyes off her as she climbs in, waits for the song to cue her, and then starts to dance around the pole like a diva.

She is alive.

I sit straight but then remember where I am and regain my composure.

Zoe is alive. After fifteen fucking years, she is alive and has been under my nose all this while. A slave, stripping at the Bratva club for men who will buy her for the night and use her as a toy.

“See something you like?” Mikhail sips from his champagne.

“How much is she?” I cut to the chase, “The one on the left.”

“For the night or the weekend?” Mikhail leans forward, eager to sponsor this new side of me he sees for the first time, “I can let you have her for a night for free.”

“I want to keep her,” I lean back on my seat, masking my eagerness. I would raze down the club to get her out of here with me if possible. “Forever.”

“No,” Mikhail tuts and shakes his head, “She makes the costumes for the fairies, and people love that shit,” he sips his champagne and then shakes his head again as if he is still thinking about it, “Too valuable.”

“Everyone has a price, Mikhail,” I keep calm, but I want to rip him apart thinking of the inhuman ways Zoe must have been forced to survive, “Name it.”

She has been declared dead for fifteen years now. Was it he who took her and declared her dead to the press?

Fifteen fucking years of being a fucking sex slave.

I grit my teeth harder as I realize she wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t meddled. She wouldn’t have had to fucking live this life if I hadn’t fucking intruded.

I brought this on her.

I can’t fucking leave here without her.

“A price, Mikhail,” fucking damn it, just say your fucking price, for fuck’s sake.

“Still no,” he says as he chugs his champagne, some of the liquid spilling on his beard and suit jacket. “Save your money. I can give you any other girl, but she is too valuable.”

I observe him, “Would six figures be a good start?” I lean forward, resting one elbow on my knee, and in this position, I can see him breaking. Ultimately, they got these girls to make money off them, “On top of it, I will allow you an open request for personal business in the future.”

Now, that one piques his interest, and he sets his champagne flute down on the table. He unbuttons his suit jacket and then harrumphs lousily.

He knows I’m quite influential in our world and very beneficial to anyone who has me on their side. I can give him access to the people he has spent all his bitter years trying to access.

“Five million dollars,” he thinks the amount will make me back away.

“Two million dollars,” I’m determined to bargain. But I’m all too aware that I’m willing to give him whatever he wants if he refuses. I want her. And I’m not leaving this club without her, “Two million and my influence, starting from getting you an invitation to the underground gala next month.”

“There is an underground gala happening next month?” He taps the cheek of the girl kneeling beside him, and she stands, taking that as a dismissal. She saunters away.

“Yes,” I know no one would invite him, especially not the host, but the host owes me a favor, and he can stand Mikhail for a few hours if I tell him to.

“And that’s just one thing I will be getting out of this?” He asks curiously, and I nod.

“Two more invitations and you can tell by the first that they will be completely worth it,” I wait for him to break.

It’s simple.

Being accepted means something to him. He has a wounded ego from being stereotyped. He wants to be accepted because, in truth, we are all made from the same soil. The men who won’t accept him are no lesser evil than he is.

“Three million,” he doesn’t mean it. He can take the two million. It’s an outrageous amount, but I know she is worth it.

I try not to look at her as I make my bargain so he doesn’t see my desperation. I can tell by the look in his eyes that he wants this deal more than anything.

“Two million, but if you want three, I take back the invitation…”

“Two million is fine,” he shrugs, “I can let her go for two million,” he makes a sad face, putting up a caricature show as if he is losing something of irreplaceable value. To me, she is that and more. To him, he can cut the bullshit.

“So?” I lean back in my seat.

“I will get the paperwork ready; let her entertain you while I do that,” he says, reaching into the inner pocket of his suit and bringing out his phone. “I didn’t know you were into slaves.” He smiles as if he has just found a buddy in me.

“I’m not,” I set the glass of shit down on the table, then turn my eyes to stare at her as she spins around the pole, then slides down to do a split.

I’m not into slaves.

I’m into her.

Chapter 2

Virgilio

I try not to touch Zoe as I open the door of my car outside the VIP parking lot for her to go in.

I can’t help staring down at her. The same blue eyes that remind me of the glistening ocean on a sunny day. The same mousy brown hair, chin-length, a little duller than I used to remember, but still the same.

She stands by the door. Her hesitation is like a slingshot aimed at the door of my mind’s dungeon, where I locked up the memories that now make up all of my nightmares.

The last time I saw her, she hesitated. And maybe I should have listened.

She didn’t want to follow through with it, even though a part of her knew it was for her own good.

“Are you sure?” Zoe stuffs her mouth with peanuts like she always does whenever she is anxious, and right now, she is a wreck of nervousness.

“Yes,” I answer again. It doesn’t matter that she has been asking the same question since we got here; I will keep giving the same answer until we get out of here and for good. “You will love Milan,” I add because I have seen pictures, but it’s not that we are leaving just for the love of Milan.

Zoe is pursuing her dream of becoming a fashion designer, and I am pursuing my dream of watching her succeed.

We are so close to putting everything and everyone behind us, and each step we take, hands interlocked, leading to the airport terminal feels like a step into the promise of a new beginning for both of us.

She is leaving her abusive father behind, and so am I.

All the hard work she has put into designing and having me model for her became fruitful when she got picked to be part of the breaking-out designers to showcase their collection in this season’s Milan Fashion Week.

“We are never coming back,” she smiles, and then more peanuts get poured into her mouth directly from the pack.

No more covering up her bruises with makeup. No more masking her pain, pretending to be happy. Now, she can truly live and live freely. She has been given a shot and I’m grateful just to be a part of it.

We breeze through the crowd, and I can feel the excitement inside her just by glancing at her face from the corner of my eyes.

“Did you remember to get the toothbrush?” She asks, not stopping like she normally does when she remembers something she has forgotten.

“Yes,” I chuckle, “But I told you we don’t need to fly across countries with toothbrushes,” I resist the pinch to suck my teeth, “No one does that.”

“It’s better to be safe, to be prepared,” she ruffles through the pocket of her faded copper hoodie, my hoodie that she is never giving back. With her hand holding the pack of peanuts, she brings out a rumpled paper that is our to-do list: “You get rashes when you don’t use your soap. Did you bring a bar at least?”

I laugh now, loving that she remembers so much for both of us, “I will take a rash anytime in Milan with you…”

“Did you bring it, Virgilio?” She frowns, and I come in front of her, walking backward to give her my best reassuring smile that everything will be fine, but then, in the distance, I see him.

Cold skates through my veins and goosebumps rise on my skin, visible through the parts of my lower arms that aren’t covered by the folded sleeves of my ivory sweater.

Officer Joseph Gray.

Her father and, what’s worse, he is in his cop uniform, meaning he will be unstoppable. All he has to do is flash a badge and alert airport security that Zoe is his daughter.

I can’t let him win. We are so close to freedom. Maybe not we, but she is. She can go to Milan. I can always catch up with her. But if he gets her now, I doubt he will let her out of his sight ever again.

“I need to use the restroom,” I shrug out of my backpack and shove it to her, making her halt from the weight and force, “Zoe,” I keep my cool as best as I can, observing that Officer Gray is now standing and talking to airport security, “You go and never look back.”

She snorts, “You want to use the restroom, why would I not wait for you?”

I smile at her, then tenderly brush her cheek with the pad of my thumb. “Board the plane,” I say, leaning down to kiss her on the lips. I savor the moment, knowing it will never be like I dreamed it to be. I wanted our first kiss to be in Milan.

She follows my gaze to see her father behind me, and her blue eyes go wide in panic, “No, I’m not leaving you behind, Virgilio, we are doing this together, please,” she grips my sweater, my backpack smothering between us, “You can’t be here alone with him. He will kill you.” 

“Listen, he must not see you. If he does, all of this will go to waste,” I drop my hands on her shoulders. “Get to Milan, and I will be right behind you, I promise.” I know I might never be able to keep my promise, but I make it anyway. “Go, now,” I bark.

She clasps my backpack to her chest, the one with all our savings, hesitation waving in her now teary eyes. She nods and then dashes past me to slip into the crowd.

I take a detour in case Joseph sees me so he doesn’t look straight behind me and find her. I aim towards him, and he lifts his eyes from the airport security to me.

“Where is she?” He thunders, his brows weaving in a straight line, his forehead beaded with sweat. Brown eyes like his hair, the same color as hers. Aside from that, they have nothing else in common. I have seen pictures of her mother and thank heavens she took after her.   

He closes the distance and tries to move past me, but I tackle him to the ground with all the strength I can muster.

Right now, the best form of defense is to attack him.

He is a big man, and I’m a tall kid, but I do not stand a chance with his build and height.

He switches, turning me over, and then the punches come down like a gush of wind. Everywhere he hits hurt like shit, and I’m screaming my guts out, spurting blood. He keeps hitting.

The pain is not unfamiliar thanks to my father but this feels different because, with every blow, I think of how she has had to endure this.

Even when someone tries to get him off me, he still manages to get them off to continue with his assault.

I’m fighting back as much as I can. Crowds gather, chaos breaks out, and it’s the perfect mix to keep buying her time. Just a little bit more and…

The announcement for our flight comes on, and I cave in, allowing my bruised body to rest before I push it too far and get dragged out of this airport as a dead body.

It would have been worth it to die for her, but she needs me alive.

I drop to the floor, but it’s fine.

The sound of the boarding call for her flight makes me smile as my body and mind fold into numbness.

She is on her way. She made it. And that means we made it.

Chapter 3

Zoe

Mine?

Why?

I stare at the bedroom I have been given in my new owner’s estate, tugging at his shirt—the one he took off to give to me when he noticed I was cold in his car.

Why would he give me his shirt?

I also wondered why he wasn’t saying anything or asking to sample his purchase.

I thought about the fact that I had never been owned for more than a few nights, and then, somehow, he bought me for himself. For life.

I flip my eyes from the queen-size bed covered in black sheets to the window behind it. A glass wall gives a view into the expanse of New York, one I have never been privileged enough to see.

Except for the whiskey-gold lights arranged around the floor and ceiling, my bedroom is completely black. The color scheme is the same as the charcoal-dipped exterior, with more whiskey-gold lights lining the rails of the staircase.

He cannot be handing this bedroom to me. I’m a slave. The only time I’m glamorized is when I have to perform on stage. It’s the only time I’m worthy of anything flashy or fancy. Not expensive, just eye-catching so I can make more money for my owner. Former owner.

This is not for me. I shake my head, taking a step back, refusing to accept this space as mine. It’s new and clean. It’s not a place for me.

I cringe at the neatness of it.

I can sleep in the garage or somewhere else. If he is giving me this, what would I have to do to earn it?

My former owner made me work and owned my body because it was a way to pay for the food I ate, the water I had access to, the mattress, and the four walls I was given. Still, I could never pay off their kindness.

What would I have to do to earn this?

I can feel his eyes on me as I step back again. His breathing on my neck spikes the hairs on my skin.

I gulp down nervous knots in my throat and take a step forward.

I turn to him, clasping my hands in front of me, feeling out of place since I’m still in my costume and this is not a stage. Or could it be what he wants me to be? A stripper. I can be that. I have been trained to be that.

I take cautious steps towards him, hearing the sound of my clattering heart and berserk pulse. He hasn’t said anything to me. He has been quiet. I don’t like quiet. It forces me to think. It forces me to remember. It forces me to accept reality.

I stop in front of him, not sure what to do with myself or what to do for him.

I do want him to say something. I want him to give me something to work with. Tell me what to do. Give me an order. State the rules. Lay out the punishments.

Tell me how many times I will be allowed to eat in a week or how many times I will be allowed to bathe with warm water. I want him to tell me something.

I lift my eyes from his black dress shoes, trace the seam of his black slacks, the loop of his black leathered belt, the black-stoned cufflinks hooking the collared sleeve of his black dress shirt, the rings on his fingers, the traces of tattoos that disappear into the sleeves of his shirt, back to the black-stoned buttons, and then I pause when I get to the small opening around his neck.

It is not that I find his scars scary, but I wonder if he wants me staring at them.

I want to throw my head back down and keep my eyes on the floor, fearing that I will get punished for this, but again, I should frame his face, even if for the last time.

I suck in air charged by the poignancy of his scent. It’s strong. It’s black. Bold. Daring. Evoking. Provocative. Like him.

I lift my eyes from the slashes of burn marks on one side of his neck, watching the division on his full, perky pastel-pink lips, with one side shrinking from the scars, stretched in a glossy slash.

I keep going, tracing the swipe of the burns until I meet his eyes—dark eyes, black as the color of his hair and aura.

But in them is a pull of familiarity like I have looked into those eyes before. I would remember him if I had seen him somewhere. It would be hard to miss remembering someone who makes something that is supposed to be bizarre and hideous so divine.

It’s like an eclipse on his face. It’s like war in his eyes.

He wears his scars in a way that makes me unashamed to have mine. He wears them beautifully. And he is beautiful.

I drop my eyes, then flutter my lashes to send the thought back to wherever it came from.

More silence.

Deafening. Brain-screeching. Mind-chugging.

We stay breathing, and with each breath I draw, I feel like clawing at my skin because of how the silence crawls on me.

“Food will come,” his voice is the same as everything about him. Black. Only this time it feels the same as molten, still retaining the heat but clogged already from the absence of fire.

It makes me shiver. He makes me shiver.

“Eat and go to bed, it’s been a long night,” he turns to leave, but I catch up quickly.

“Please, music,” I shrink as I feel his eyes on me, and I don’t wait for him to ask why, “I can’t sleep without noise, please,” I explain anyway. “Master?” It’s a question because I don’t know what he would want to be addressed as yet.

“Alexa,” he thrums, the timbre ricocheting in my clattering bones, “Play something… classical.”

A sound booms through invisible speakers, and I shudder, darting around searching for it. Then the music comes. Classical is my favorite.

Tears swell in my chest and mound my eyes as the song fills the room.

“Tell Alexa whatever you want to listen to,” he spins and struts with glacial steps out of the bedroom that is supposed to be mine.

I sit on the floor, pulling my knees to my chest as the soft harmony forms a bubble wrap around my worn-thin frame. I feel like a fabric that has been overworn and patched too many times, and at any point, I will turn chafed between the hard crush of fingers.

I drop my head on my knees and hug myself, marking this position as mine because I’m not leaving this spot. Everything else feels too good to be real.

He feels too good to be real.

But more than that, he feels familiar. Like the missing piece from the center of a puzzle. Like something I’m missing. Like someone I’m missing.

He might be a good thing—the first in fifteen years.

He might be the worst thing to happen to me yet.

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