Prologue
Minerva
The moment I step into my father’s office, I know I’ve walked into an ambush. I pause in the doorway for a breath too long, the old instinct kicking in—make yourself small, quiet, easy to ignore. It never works, but my body still tries.
The air is thick with cigar smoke and old money, the kind that sticks to the walls, saturates the furniture, and seeps into your skin until it owns you. The overhead chandelier bathes the room in warm, deceptive light, reflecting off the glossy mahogany desk where Vittorio “Vito” Marino sits, a king on his throne. The air hums with power, control, expectation—the very foundation of my father’s world.
A single, untouched crystal tumbler of whiskey sits in front of him. Not a drop consumed, yet its mere presence is enough to send a warning: He is in complete control. He is waiting for me to understand that.
But I already know the truth—I have never had control here.
I hover in the doorway, willing my pulse to slow as I take in the scene. My father is dressed in a tailored black suit, crisp white shirt open at the throat, gold signet ring gleaming against his tanned fingers. His salt-and-pepper hair is combed back with sharp precision, his expression smooth, unreadable.
Luca Bianchi stands at his right like a shadow. Total predator vibes.
He’s wearing that same trouble-making smirk he’s had since we were kids, arms folded over his massive chest as he watches me with way too much confidence.
The sickening feeling in my gut intensifies.
My father exhales, then lifts his gaze to mine. Dark. Calculated. Unmoved.
“Minerva Louise.”
My muscles clench at the full name. It’s only used to remind me who I’m supposed to be—and how far I keep falling short. I force myself to step inside, keeping my chin high even though every instinct screams at me to run.
“You wanted to see me?” My voice is even. Good. It has to be.
There’s a pause—a test—before my father finally speaks.
“We’re done with this little rebellion.” His voice is deceptively calm, silk stretched over steel. “You’ve had your fun pretending to be a scientist. But now, it’s time to do what’s right. All that education, and you still don’t understand your place.”
The weight in my stomach turns to ice. “And what’s that?”
He takes a measured sip of his whiskey, then sets the glass down with a sharp clink. “You’re marrying Luca. Marino women don’t choose. They are chosen.”
I don’t blink. I don’t move. I don’t react.
It’s not shock—it’s familiarity. I’ve always known this day was coming.
Luca shifts beside my father, and I feel his satisfaction before he even opens his mouth.
“Come on, Minnie,” he drawls, pushing off the desk and moving toward me. “You know this was always the plan. I’ll never understand why you always have to be so difficult. So defiant.”
The way he says my name makes my skin crawl. He says it like it’s a flaw. Maybe it is. Maybe I’ve always been too loud, too stubborn, too opinionated for men like him.
Swallowing the nausea creeping up my throat, I take a step back, forcing the words out. “There is no engagement.”
Silence.
Until Luca gives a slow, patronizing chuckle. “Well, not yet. But don’t worry. You’ll come around.”
My father’s fingers drum against his desk once—sharp, deliberate. “No, she won’t.” His voice drops, heavy with disgust. “She still thinks she has a choice.”
My nails dig into my palms. “I do have a choice.”
He rises to his feet in a single, fluid motion. The air in the room shifts.
“No.” He steps around the desk. “You don’t.”
