Three Years Ago
I was curled up on the chaise in the library, flipping through a book, when a knock shattered the quiet. Lily's head rested in my lap, her soft breaths warm against my skin, her body curled in sleep's embrace. She didn't stir when the dark wooden door creaked open, its groan stretching into the silence like a whisper of warning.
My mother stepped inside, her normally poised expression marred by something unreadable. Her blonde hair was pulled into a tight bun, not a strand out of place, but her face—pale, drawn—made my stomach twist.
A foreboding chill prickled at my spine.
"Did something happen?" My voice was barely above a whisper, yet it felt deafening in the stillness.
She forced a smile, one that never reached her eyes. The kind that looked more like a mask than reassurance. "Your father wants to see you. Now."
My pulse spiked. I shifted carefully, easing Lily's head onto the cushion. She stirred slightly but only curled into herself, lost in dreams. She was small for an eleven-year-old, delicate in a way that made me feel fiercely protective. Then again, none of us were particularly tall.
"Am I in trouble?" I asked, voice softer than I intended. I searched my mind for something—anything—that I could've done wrong. But Lily and I never broke the rules. It was Savannah who tested limits, who played with fire, who took the punishments.
Mother didn't answer. She simply stepped aside and opened the door wider.
"Don't keep him waiting."
A lump lodged in my throat as I forced myself to move. My legs felt heavy, my breath tight. The dimly lit hallway stretched before me, the sconces casting long, flickering shadows against the walls. My steps were soundless against the thick carpet, but my heart pounded loud enough to make up for it.
The heavy oak doors to my father's office loomed ahead. The scent of cigar smoke seeped through the cracks, thick and oppressive. I hesitated before knocking, forcing my fingers to remain steady.
"Come in."
His voice was sharp. Controlled.
I stepped inside, schooling my expression into neutrality. The room was exactly as it always was—dark wood, deep leather, an air of power that wrapped around the space like an iron cage. Father sat behind his mahogany desk, the glow from the desk lamp casting deep shadows across his features. Shelves lined with books he never read towered behind him, their presence a mere facade. I knew better. Behind them lay the passage that led beneath the house—a hidden vein of secrets that ran deeper than blood.
He didn't look up right away, his attention fixed on the papers before him. His graying hair was slicked back, his features carved from stone.
"Sit."
The word cracked through the silence like a whip.
I obeyed, lowering myself onto the chair opposite him. My fingers curled in my lap, pressing into my palms to keep them from trembling. Father despised weakness, and nervous habits were its tell.
At last, he looked at me. His gaze was assessing, cold.
"The Russians and the Triads are moving in on our territory."
I kept my face blank, but inside, I faltered. He never discussed business with me. That was for the men.
I knew better than to speak.
"They're growing bolder," he continued, his voice even. "We've been fortunate that the cartel hasn't come after us the way they have in Vegas, but luck doesn't last. We can't afford complacency."
He leaned back, fingers steepled, the weight of his words settling in the space between us.
"It's time we end this feud with the Romano family and combine forces."
The words crashed into me, sending a wave of disbelief through my veins.
Peace with the Romanos?
Impossible.
For decades, the Chicago Syndicate and the New York Romano family had bathed the streets in each other's blood. In alleyways, in backrooms, in broad daylight. The only thing that had shifted was their attention—recently, they had turned to common enemies. But peace? That wasn't how this world worked.
"There's no stronger bond than blood," Father murmured. "At least the Romanos understand that."
A cold weight settled in my chest.
He studied me for a long moment before he finally said, "I met with Marcus Romano yesterday."
My breath hitched.
The head of the Romano family. That wasn't just any meeting. The last time our families had sat at the same table, the night had ended in a massacre.
"We agreed on a solution." His voice was a blade, slicing through my world. "You will marry his eldest son, Liam. The future boss of the Romano family."
A dizzying wave of shock slammed into me.
"What?"
Father remained unmoved. "This is how peace is secured. Through blood. Through family."
My heart pounded against my ribs. "Why me?"
His expression didn't shift. "Because Marcus wanted the best for his son. He wanted the most beautiful girl in our family."
A sick twist churned in my stomach. "There are plenty of beautiful girls."
"Not like you." His lips curved, but there was no warmth in it. "Your mother's golden hair. Your blue eyes. You are the key to solidifying this alliance."
I gripped the arms of the chair, my nails sinking into the leather, anchoring me against the rising tide of panic.
"But I'm fifteen." My voice was barely audible. "I can't get married."
He waved a dismissive hand. "What does the law matter to us?"
The walls closed in. The room was too small, the air too thick. I wasn't a daughter in this moment. I was a pawn. A tool. A bargaining chip between two kings.
"But," he continued, voice laced with irritation, "your mother insisted we wait. You'll finish school. The wedding will happen when you turn eighteen." He exhaled sharply. "Vincent caved to her begging."
Begging.
Because even she knew there was no stopping this.
A scream built in my chest, clawing for release, but I swallowed it down, my fingers turning white from the force of my grip.
Three years.
That was all I had.
And then, I would belong to Liam Romano.