It isn’t about rules or religion or trying to be pure enough for a ring. I just want the kind of life that feels safe. A partner whocomes home to me, who laughs with me over dumb things, who actually wants to build something together instead of drifting until boredom hits. I want a husband who chooses me every day, not just when it’s easy. Kids someday, not as accessories, but real little people with scraped knees, loud opinions, and bedtime stories. A family that feels warm and solid. I was raised in the mafia, and maybe that’s why I dream of that sense of security in an otherwise dangerous world.
And at this moment, I’ve been in this situation before. A dozen times. Hope of true love rising, then dropping through the floor.
I reach for my coat. “Thanks for dinner.”
Relief floods his face so fast it nearly knocks the breath out of me.
Coward.
My future husband won’t be like this. He’ll be strong where I’m soft, certain where I’m hopeful. He’ll want me, want all of me, even the part I’m disappointed no one values.
Though tonight... I’d settle for a man who doesn’t look at me like I’m a relic of outdated customs.
Thirty minutes later, I push through the heavy doors of Stockton Manor, my father’s estate tucked on a hillside and surrounded by palm trees. His fortress and workplace. Marble floors. Cold chandeliers. Bodyguards stationed like shadows carved into the walls.
“MissPicciano,” Jarvis says, falling into stride beside me.
“Not now,” I whine. “Another bad date.”
“I’m sorry you’re upset, but your father needs to speak with you. It’s urgent.”
Odd. Dad is usually too busy for me. I tip my head back and stare at the vaulted ceiling, willing strength into my spine before turning around.
Another guard appears in a clean black suit, bald, stacked. Not one of ours. His stare moves over me in a single practiced pass, no heat, no interest, just calculation. A man deciding the simplest way to deal with a problem.
A ripple of unease crawls under my skin.
Jarvis gestures toward the foyer. “He’s waiting.”
Dad lounges near the fire, pipe smoke curling around his silver-streaked hair like a ghost. Deep lines bracket his mouth, carved from decades of giving orders no one dared question. He looks irritated, muttering at whatever’s on his tablet. But the moment he sees me, he stands, too quickly to be casual.
“Ah, lil one. How are you?”
“I think Harrison’s probably moved on to someone else by now,” I say, trying to laugh but failing. “It was a disaster. Again.”
Dad lifts a hand to silence me.
Weird.
He never dismisses my dating rants; he enjoys them, especially when I stand by convictions. It makes him proud.
He gives a quick nod to Jarvis and the stranger, and both men retreat. The stranger looks over his shoulder once more before disappearing down the hall.
Dad hands me a desk calendar. Today’s square is circled in blood-red ink.
Inside the circle: YELLOW CARD — SOKOLOV BRATVA
I’m unsure why, but a chill runs down my spine.
“What is this?” I whisper.
Dad’s voice is gravelly. “The day from hell.”
My heart patters unevenly just from the worry in his eyes.
He begins pacing, hands behind his back. “Only a handful of families worldwide receive a Yellow Card. Its value is five lives.A chance to elevate a new boss’ standing through alliances or blood. It’s a test. A way to unify criminal empires by choosing either marriage... or elimination.”
“Marriage?” I echo faintly. “Or elimination?”
