I turn and press my forehead against the window, watch Newark blur into highway, highway into suburbs, suburbs intoneighborhoods where houses cost more than I'll make in a lifetime.
My mother is dying.
My boyfriend sold me to the mob.
And I'm sitting in a car next to a man who bought me, touched my face, made me breathless and looked at my underwear like he was already planning how to get it off.
Thirty minutes.
That's all it took for my life to become unrecognizable.
I close my eyes and try not to cry.
CHAPTER SIX
Dante
The gates swing open as Marco approaches my ten feet of wrought iron with security cameras embedded in the stone pillars on either side. Two of my men nod as we pass—Ray and Tony, both armed, both trained to shoot first and ask questions never.
My estate sits on twelve acres in Alpine, New Jersey, where the neighbors include CEOs, old money, and people who know better than to ask questions. The driveway curves through manicured gardens that cost thousands of dollars to maintain per month, past the fountain imported from Tuscany, toward the house itself.
Calling it a house feels inadequate. It's eight thousand square feet of limestone and glass, all clean lines and floor-to-ceiling windows that would be a security nightmare if I didn't have the best system money can buy. The kind of place that screams wealth without being gaudy about it.
I built this. Not inherited, not given—earned through deals and buried bodies and knowing exactly when to apply pressure and when to pull back.
My father's estate is twice the size, but his is tainted with scandal and failure.
Mine is clean. Well, as clean as mafia money can be.
Marco pulls up to the entrance where two more men flank the double doors. They straighten as I step out, their respect immediate and absolute. This is what power looks like—not speeches or titles, but men who would die on your word without question.
I glance back at the SUV. Bianca is still pressed against the window, eyes wide as she takes in the house. The grounds. The security. The sheer magnitude of wealth she's just stepped into.
My lips twitch.
Marco opens her door, and she climbs out slowly, like she's not sure the ground will hold her. Her dress has settled back into place—thank God—but I can still see it in my mind. Black lace. Completely see-through. The kind of underwear that doesn't match her modest schoolteacher persona at all.
The image is burned into my brain like a fucking brand.
I noticed the curve of her hips. The smooth expanse of thigh. The way that tiny scrap of lace did absolutely nothing to hide what it was supposed to cover––pink, creamy, plump skin––and when she'd scrambled to pull her dress down, the flash of panic and embarrassment on her face did something to my self-control that I'm not ready to examine.
My throat is dry just thinking about it.
I head straight for the house, Marco trailing with Bianca. Inside, the foyer opens up two stories, all marble and modern lighting. Original artwork on the walls—a Rothko, a Basquiat and more.
Maria appears from the kitchen hallway, my housekeeper for the past five years. Mid-fifties, efficient, and smart enough to never ask about the blood I occasionally track in.
"Maria, this is Miss Mancini. She'll be staying here." I don't elaborate. Don't explain. "Make sure she's comfortable."
"Of course, Mr. Vitale." Maria's expression doesn't change, but I catch the curiosity in her eyes.
My phone buzzes. I pull it out, see the name, and feel my jaw tighten.
Pa.
Perfect timing. As always.
I turn to Bianca. "Maria will show you around. Don't leave the house."
