Chapter One: The Girl In The Wedding Dress

The August heat in Chicago pressed against Geneva Moretti’s skin like a living thing.

She stood in the marble hallway of the Vieira estate. Her wedding dress rustling with each shallow breath.

Twenty-two years old. This was supposed to be the most important day of her life.

Instead, her hands trembled as she clutched the pearl-encrusted bodice. Listening to voices drift from the study just around the corner.

She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop.

She’d been searching for her makeup artist. Lost in this labyrinth of wealth and power that would soon become her prison.

But when she heard Elio’s voice—low and commanding as always—she froze.

“I don’t want her. I never did.”

The words hit her like a physical blow.

She pressed her back against the cool marble wall.

Her elaborate updo suddenly felt too heavy. The veil cascading down her back—a mockery of the virginal innocence it was meant to represent.

“Then why go through with it, boss?”

That was Bruno. Elio’s right hand. The man who had delivered the marriage contract to her father three months ago.

Like it was a business merger.

“Which I suppose it is.” Elio’s voice was ice. “Her father controls the Southside distribution.”

She could picture him perfectly. Even though she couldn’t see him.

Thirty-seven years old. Dark hair always swept back from a face that could have been carved from granite.

Cold gray eyes that had looked at her exactly twice during their brief engagement. Both times assessing her like she was merchandise.

“The Santoro family has been encroaching on our territory. Marrying Geneva consolidates our power. Eliminates a potential rival. Secures the ports her father controls.”

Her father. Vittorio Moretti.

Who had sat her down six months ago and explained that her life—her dreams of studying art history in Florence, her hope for a future built on something other than blood and power—none of it mattered.

The Vieira family wanted an alliance.

She was the price.

“She’s pretty enough.” Another voice chimed in. Daario, Elio’s cousin. “Good breeding stock.”

Geneva bit her lip hard enough to taste copper.

Fighting the urge to storm into that room and tell them all exactly what she thought of being reduced to her reproductive potential.

But she’d been raised in this world. She knew the rules.

Women didn’t speak unless spoken to. We smiled. We obeyed. We produced heirs.

We survived.

“Pretty isn’t what I need in a wife.” Elio’s voice carried something she couldn’t identify. Bitterness. Exhaustion. “I need someone I can trust. Someone who understands this life. Not some sheltered girl who thinks the mafia is something romantic she read about in novels.”

The injustice of it stole her breath.

Sheltered.

She’d watched her mother deteriorate from the stress of being married to a man like her father. She’d seen what this life did to women. How it hollowed them out until they were nothing but beautiful shells.

She’d spent her entire life preparing to escape it.

Only to be handed over to a man who commanded even more fear than her father.

“So what’s the plan after the wedding?” Bruno asked.

“She moves into the east wing. She can have whatever rooms she wants.” Elio’s voice was dismissive. “As long as she stays out of my business and produces an heir within the year, she can redecorate the entire estate for all I care.”

Something inside her cracked.

Not her heart. She’d never been naive enough to expect love from this arrangement.

But her pride. Her sense of self. The small, stubborn part of her that had hoped—maybe, just maybe—there could be mutual respect. If not affection.

“You’re a cold bastard, Elio.” Daario laughed. “At least pretend to want her on your wedding night.”

“I’ll do my duty.”

The words were flat. Final.

Geneva didn’t wait to hear the rest.

She gathered her skirts and ran.

The sound of her heels on marble echoed like gunshots through the empty hallway. Her vision blurred with tears she refused to let fall. Not yet. Not where anyone could see.

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