Suddenly, I want to vomit.
Stay calm,I tell myself.You’re a DeLuca. You can do this.
The thought steadies me, reminding me of who I am and why I’m here.
I may be Giuseppe’s daughter, but I’m also the heir to one of the most powerful families in New York.
These men may want to test me, but I’ve been preparing for this my entire life without even knowing it.
A hotel manager in an expensive suit leads us through a series of corridors, each more opulent than the last.
Finally, we stop before a set of heavy wooden doors.
“The private dining room,” he says with the kind of deference reserved for people who could buy and sell entire city blocks.
The doors open, and I step inside.
Holy shit.
The room is like something out of a movie about old-world power.
Crystal chandeliers that belong in a museum cast these perfect, dramatic shadows across this massive mahogany table that looks like it could seat an army.
The light catches on cut crystal glasses filled with the finest wine because that’s just how these men operate.
Everything screams old money, old power—from the hand-painted silk wallpaper that probably took some artist months to complete, to this antique carpet under our feet that I’d bet anything is worth at least seven figures.
It’s gorgeous and intimidating and exactly the kind of power display I’d expect from the Families.
Twelve men sit around the table, each one radiating the kind of authority that comes from controlling territory, money, and lives.
I recognize most of them from family gatherings and business meetings—Don Vitelli with his silver hair gleaming under the chandelier light as he writes something down, Alberto Marconi talking softly into a cell phone.
And then I see Dominic Calabrese.
My heart stops.
He looks so much like Johnny it’s almost physically painful.
The same dark hair, the same sharp features, the same cruel mouth.
For a second, I’m trapped in that goddamn monastery.
Dominic’s eyes meet mine across the room, and his smile is pure predator.
He looks me up and down like I’m something he’s considering buying, his gaze lingering in ways that make my skin crawl.
The expression on his face suggests he finds me lacking, amusing, or both.
I feel Alessandro stiffen beside me, and I know he’s caught the look too.
There’s something comforting about having him there, about knowing I’m not facing this alone.
Then I see who’s sitting at the head of the table, and all thoughts of comfort disappear.
Matteo.
Rage floods through me so fast and hot that I actually see red around the edges of my vision.
