The next few minutes blur: the walk through the snow, the car door slamming, the city lights flashing past like broken promises. Bruno sits across from me in the backseat, eyes fixed on the window. The ribbon catches in the reflection, a flash of red against the glass.
“Why me?” I ask finally. My voice sounds smaller than I want.
“Because you’re the youngest,” he says. “And he asked for you.”
The drive to the Romano estate takes two hours. The snow gets heavier the further north we go. By the time we reach the iron gates, it’s nearly blinding. The house beyond the drive looks nothing like ours—modern, all glass and angles, lit up like it’s defying the darkness.
When the car stops, my stomach is one tight knot. I tell myself not to show fear, not to give them that. I’m nineteen. Old enough to know that once you start shaking, you never stop.
The door opens. Cold air rushes in, biting at my skin. Bruno gestures for me to get out. I do, but I keep my chin up. The ribbon flutters in the wind, bright and mocking.
There are men waiting at the gate—Romano men, black coats, sharp eyes. They don’t touch me, but the way they look says they could. One of them murmurs into a radio. Another signals toward the house.
And then I see him.
Lucian Romano.
He walks down the steps like he owns the weather. Tall, all in black, the kind of calm that looks dangerous. His hair is neatly styled, but I can see a loose curl or two threatening his carefully crafted facade. The scar at his throat catches the light when he stops. I’d seen pictures, but pictures don’t do him justice. He’s not the monster I imagined. He’s worse. He’s beautiful.
For a second, I can’t move. Then I remember who he is—the man who demanded me like a present, the one my father chose to please—and every instinct flares.
He studies me, eyes unreadable. “Mr. Moretti,” he says, voice smooth and cold as the air. “Right on schedule.”
The sound of it makes something twist inside me, fear, hate, maybe both. I want to say something sharp, but the words catch behind my teeth.
Lucian steps closer. Snowflakes melt on his shoulders, slide down the wool of his coat. He looks down at me like he’s inspecting the craftsmanship of his trophy.
“You expected a bow,” I say, the defiance kicking in at last. “Congratulations. You got one.”
For a moment, something almost like amusement flickers in his eyes. Then it’s gone.
He reaches out, slow and deliberate, hand rising toward my face.
Lucian’s hand is cold when it reaches me—cold from the snow, cold from the kind of man he has to be. I should flinch, but I don’t. I stand still because I want him to know I’m not afraid.
That’s a lie, of course. My heart is thundering. But fear is leverage, and I’m not giving him any.
His fingertips brush my jaw, slow and assessing, like he’s testing the temperature of something he already owns. He’s taller than I thought—easily over six feet—and his presence is magnetic in a way that makes my skin prickle.
“You look like your mother,” he says quietly.
That’s the first thing he chooses to say to me. Notwelcome, nothello. Just that.
It hits like an insult.
I jerk my head back, eyes narrowing.
A small smile ghosts across his mouth. “You’ll learn, Elias.”
And maybe it’s the way he says my name, or maybe it’s the way everyone around us stands so still, waiting for my next mistake—but something reckless takes over.
Before anyone can react, I sink my teeth into his hand.
It’s instinct more than strategy, quick and brutal. The metallic taste of blood floods my mouth, sharp and electric. For half a second, the world goes silent.
Then hands are on me again, pulling me backward. I spit blood into the snow. It looks obscene there, too bright against all that white.
Lucian stares down at the mark on his hand. A thin line of red gleams where my teeth broke skin. He doesn’t swear. Doesn’t even raise his voice. Just looks at me with something that makes the back of my neck burn.
