Prologue - Misha
Two Years Ago
The charity gala is tedious.
Crystal chandeliers. Champagne I won't drink. Men in tuxedos discussing tax shelters while their wives compare diamonds. The California Cardiovascular Research Foundation's annual fundraiser—a sea of wealthy people pretending to care about hearts they've never seen bleeding out on concrete.
I'm here for Carmine Benedetti. Nothing more.
The old man holds court near the silent auction tables, laughing too loud, schmoozing donors with practiced ease. His organization is hemorrhaging money, and he's desperate for allies. Dmitri wants intelligence on how desperate. So I wear a borrowed smile and play the role of interested investor, cataloging every tell, every weakness.
A few hours. Then I can leave this glittering hell and return to work that matters.
I'm checking my watch when I hear her.
"—completely backwards, actually. We focus so much on the heart as a symbol, we forget it's an organ. A muscle. It doesn'tfeellove or heartbreak. It just pumps blood and tries to keep you alive."
Her voice is warm, animated, cutting through the polite murmur of the crowd. I turn without meaning to.
She stands near the bar, gesturing with a champagne flute she clearly hasn't touched. Nineteen, maybe twenty. Dark curls pinned up haphazardly, a few strands escaping to frame her face.A deep burgundy dress that hugs generous curves—full breasts, soft hips, a body that commands space unapologetically.
Beautiful. But that isn't what stops me.
It's the way she speaks. Like she's sharing a secret. Like the man she's talking to—some gray-haired surgeon twice her age—is lucky to hear it.
"But here's what fascinates me," she continues, leaning in. "The heartcompensates. You abuse it for decades—stress, neglect, disease—and it just keeps beating. It adapts. Finds new pathways. Works harder to keep you alive even when you've given it every reason to quit."
The surgeon nods politely, eyes glazing. He isn't listening. Not really.
I am.
"That's why I chose cardiology," she says, and her smile is so earnest it makes my chest tight. "Because the heart forgives. And with the right intervention, the right care, even the most damaged heart can heal."
She believes it. Every word.
I've spent seventeen years in a world that proves otherwise. Hearts don't heal. They scar over, harden, stop feeling anything at all. I know because I've watched it happen to my brother after our parents died. Watched it happen to myself.
But this woman—this bright, soft, impossibly naive woman—she looks at the bloody muscle in our chests and sees something holy.
I should walk away.
Instead, I walk toward her.
"Cardiology," I say, appearing at her elbow as the surgeon excuses himself. "Ambitious specialty."
She turns, and I get my first real look at her face. Brown eyes flecked with gold, sharp with intelligence. Full lips painted red. A scattering of freckles across her nose that her makeup can't quite hide.
Up close, she is devastating.
"Ambitious or masochistic," she says, smiling. "The jury's still out." She extends her hand. "Bianca Benedetti."
Benedetti.
The name hits me like a blade between the ribs.
Carmine's daughter. The one they keep sheltered, away from the business. The "good" Benedetti, studying medicine at UCLA, untouched by her family's bloody dealings.
I should excuse myself. Should file away this information and report it to Dmitri. Should remember why I'm here.
