"Or you keep your money, Arthur," I say, my eyes sliding back to him, dead and absolute. "And when she turns eighteen, I take the girl."
CHAPTER 1 THE DEAL POV: SYBIL
The corset is a cage of bone and silk, engineered to crush my lungs until every breath I take is a calculated risk.
I stand in the center of the dimly lit bridal suite of the Holy Name Cathedral, perfectly still, letting the team of silent, terrified seamstresses pull the laces tighter. With every violent tug, the heavy satin of my wedding dress constricts around my ribs, burying the frantic, erratic beating of my heart beneath layers of exorbitant wealth.
I don't tell them to stop. I don't tell them that the edges of my vision are swimming with black spots, or that my fingers have gone completely numb. I am eighteen years old today, and I have long since learned that my voice holds absolutely no currency in this world.
I stare at my reflection in the massive antique mirror. The girl looking back at me is a stranger. Her dark hair is woven into a complex, flawless crown of braids and diamonds. Her lips are painted a bruised, bloody crimson. Her skin is as pale and cold as the marble floors beneath my feet. I look exactly like what I am: an expensive porcelain doll, freshly polished, packaged, and ready to be sold to the highest bidder.
Or, in my father's case, traded to settle a four-million-dollar blood debt to the Chicago Syndicate.
"Leave us," a harsh, gravelly voice barks from the doorway.
The seamstresses scatter like frightened mice, dropping their pins and rushing out of the room without a backward glance. The heavy oak door clicks shut, sealing me inside with the architect of my nightmare.
My father, Arthur Vance, steps fully into the room. He reeks of stale Scotch, expensive cologne, and the sharp, metallic tang of desperate sweat. He adjusts the cuffs of his tuxedo, his bloodshot eyes dragging over my frame. There is no paternal warmth in his gaze, no bittersweet realization that his only daughter is getting married. He looks at me like a ledger that has finally balanced in his favor.
"You look acceptable," he grunts, pacing toward me.
My spine locks. My body’s automatic defense mechanism triggers instantly—a visceral, bone-deep freeze. The tiny hairs on the nape of my neck stand at attention, and a cold sweat breaks out between my shoulder blades.Don't show fear. Don't let him see you shake.
"Remember what we discussed, Sybil," he says, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low frequency. He stops right behind me. Through the mirror, I watch his large, heavy hands come to rest on my bare shoulders.
I bite the inside of my cheek until the sharp taste of copper floods my tongue. I use the pain as an anchor to keep from flinching away from his touch.
"You will walk down that aisle with your head held high," my father hisses, his fingers digging into my collarbone, thepressure escalating until it bruises. "You will smile. You will say your vows loud enough for the Don and all his capos to hear. And when Thayer Thorne claims you, you will submit. Do you understand me?"
Thayer Thorne.
Just hearing his name spoken aloud in the cold room causes my stomach to drop into a bottomless, sickening freefall. It’s been six years since I last saw him. Six years since I stood at the top of the stairs in my nightgown and watched the devil wipe my father’s blood from his knuckles. I had spent every night since then checking the locks on my windows, terrified of the shadows, haunted by the pale, dead gray of his eyes.
"Yes, Father," I whisper. My voice is horribly fragile, a thin reed snapping in the wind.
His grip on my shoulders tightens violently. "Say it like you mean it, Sybil. If you humiliate me today, if you show one ounce of hesitation and make Thorne think you are damaged goods, I will make whatever he does to you look like mercy. He is the head of the Syndicate now. He doesn't play games."
"I understand," I say, louder this time, forcing the tremor out of my vocal cords.
He studies my reflection for a long, agonizing second before releasing me with a grunt of satisfaction. He pulls a thick, opaque veil over my head, effectively plunging my world into a hazy, muted white fog.
"Let's go. Your owner is waiting."
Every step toward the sanctuary doors feels like a march to the gallows. The cathedral corridors are freezing, the air tasting of ancient dust, burning beeswax candles, and impending doom.My legs feel like they are moving through thick, heavy water. My pulse thrashes against my throat, a frantic, trapped bird throwing itself against the bars of a cage.
You have no value.The dark, intrusive thought snakes its way through my mind, an emotional wound I’ve carried since childhood.You are property. You are a debt paid. Freedom is an illusion.The massive double doors of the sanctuary loom ahead, flanked by two towering men in bespoke Italian suits. They aren't groomsmen; they are soldiers. Enforcers for the Thorne family. Their eyes scan my father and me with cold, lethal precision before they grab the brass handles.
The heavy wood groans as the doors swing outward.
A wave of oppressive, suffocating heat rolls out of the cathedral, carrying the scent of hundreds of expensive perfumes, polished leather, and underlying violence. The sanctuary is packed to the brim with the most dangerous men in the country and the women who pretend not to know where the money comes from.
The organ begins to play a slow, mourning dirge that masquerades as a wedding march.
My father grips my bicep, his fingers acting as a vice, and drags me forward.
One step. Two.My lungs burn. The air is suddenly too thin to breathe. Through the sheer white mesh of my veil, my eyes lock onto the end of the long, blood-red carpet.
He is there.
