Chapter One

“Pick one.”

Lorenzo Corleone—the most famous underboss straddling this city’s line between black and white—slid a folder across the polished redwood desk toward me, the gesture as casual as offering dessert.

The office smelled of cigar smoke and seawater. Port Sterling’s damp salt seeped in through a hairline crack at the window. Far outside, the harbor cranes lifted containers like skeletons raising bones.

My throat tightened. “Pick one… pick what?”

“A bride,” he said evenly. “My bride.”

I stared at the folder. My name wasn’t on the cover. I forced my voice out anyway.

“You’re asking me to—”

“The Commission wants a ceasefire. Corleone has to guarantee it. My father wants a wedding. Everyone wants a ‘visible promise.’”

Lorenzo cut me off, calm and hard and absolute. He leaned back; the chair gave a soft creak.

“Your instincts are good, Sienna. Better than my uncles’. Better than the men who think a watch can buy loyalty. So you choose.”

My fingertips went numb, as if cold was crawling up through the seams of my bones.

“And me?” My voice rasped. I made myself meet his eyes. “What… am I supposed to be?”

The air went quiet for one second.

Then Lorenzo gave a tiny laugh, light as if he were soothing a child who didn’t know her place.

“There you go again,” he said. “Sienna, it’s just a marriage.”

He stood, came around the desk, and before I could even react he was close—close enough for me to catch the faint scent of gunpowder on him.

Two fingers lifted my chin, forcing my gaze up.

“Your position won’t change,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I’ll take care of you. You just need to be a little more obedient.”

A little more obedient.

I repeated the word in my head. My mouth almost wanted to laugh—except all I tasted was rust.

Because I knew exactly what he meant.

From the day my mother married into the Corleone family, Lorenzo—my stepbrother on paper—used the word *protection* to keep me trapped in his shadow.

He intercepted the champagne offered at banquets. He blocked business cards pushed at me by other families. He chased away my nightmares. And eventually, I’d wake up inside the circle of his chest.

And for my eighteenth birthday, he gave me a gift that lived under my skin: an implanted chip, linked to the pinky ring he wore. One touch—one press—and my body would seize as if hit by electricity, numb and aching all at once.

After that night came countless other nights. Pain would detonate from inside me. I’d kneel on the bed, nails clawing the sheets, while his voice stayed gentle as a lover’s. He’d seal my sounds away with thin, careless kisses.

I used to believe—stupidly—that it was love. That one day he’d admit it.

But right now, his hand rested on the desktop. The Corleone signet ring flashed under the light, and his black eyes held no emotion at all.

Only then did I understand: the “place” he had arranged for me was nothing more than a mistress kept under his roof.

“Fine.”

I forced a smile, because Lorenzo had trained me to do it.

Then I opened the folder. I kept my fingers from shaking and chose the very first profile on top.

Bianca DeLuca. Behind her stood a shipping empire that could carve a chunk out of this city—and a police precinct’s territory to match.

Lorenzo didn’t even bother looking closer. One sweep of his eyes, a careless nod.

“Alright,” he said lightly. “Her.”

Maybe he saw how stiff my smile was, because he laughed again, softer. “There… Anna…” His hand rose, the pad of his thumb brushing the pulse at the side of my neck, that familiar presence beginning to close in—

No.

I stepped back half a pace without thinking.

“Lorenzo.” I forced his name past my teeth. “You’re getting married.” My nails bit into my palm. “We should end this.”

For one second, I saw his gaze sink, like a dark current turning under the surface of the sea.

“End it?” He gave a small laugh. “You think you’re qualified to say that?”

His fingers touched his pinky ring—so lightly.

The next instant, the familiar surge raced through my nerves, exploded down my limbs. My legs went weak; my vision bleached white. I collapsed into him.

His hand locked onto the back of my neck and shoved me up onto the desk. He pressed his mouth to my ear, voice low as a lover’s murmur—and colder than a gun muzzle.

“You’ll always be mine. Sienna. You can only ever be mine.”

Then he kissed me—rough, clipped. I tried to push him away, but my arms were hollow, trembling uselessly against his chest. Even refusal felt pathetic.

When the familiar pain flared beneath me, the shock finally snapped something loose. I bit down—hard—into his shoulder.

“Mm—!”

Lorenzo jerked back fast, tearing me off him. He looked at the blood at the corner of my mouth; the interest in his eyes drained away like a tide pulling out, replaced by a fury that only rose higher.

I had never fought him like that. Not this completely.

For a moment I truly thought he might pull a gun and press it to my forehead. Instead, he abruptly let go, stepped back, and wiped his fingers with a paper tissue as if he’d touched something dirty.

My chest heaved. My mouth was metal. My fingers—still tingling—dragged my dress into place. I couldn’t make a sound.

Lorenzo had already turned toward the door.

“Sienna.”

He glanced back, his tone returning to that calm command. “There won’t be a next time.”

He opened the office door. Two men stood outside—soldier-still bodyguards with holsters hidden under their suits.

“Take Miss Xiao home,” Lorenzo ordered.

I stared down the corridor. I watched those two men refuse to meet my eyes. And I faced one simple fact in this world:

Even my footsteps belonged to him.

As they led me out, I heard Lorenzo speaking in a low voice to a captain—one of his closest men, someone who’d bled beside him.

“That kitten you keep around—how long are you planning to hide her? Might as well go public and stop people guessing.”

“Her?” Lorenzo said. “Just entertainment.”

“Her mother climbed into Corleone the same way—so she climbed into my bed. Runs in the blood.”

The captain chuckled.

“Entertainment, but you keep her close and implant her with a chip?”

“Hunting pets need collars.” Lorenzo’s reply was calm as a blade. “Want her obedient, you tug. Want her to cry out, you press. It’s only fun once it’s trained.”

A ring of knowing laughter.

So that was it. I was nothing but interesting entertainment.

My vision swam, but I didn’t let the tears fall. When I stepped outside, the harbor wind slapped my face like an open hand. The car door opened; I got in.

By the time the car turned toward my mother’s house, my decision was already made.

I had to leave.