Prologue
Valentina
Dallas, Texas
Dallas is all dressed up tonight, sparkling, alive, glittering.
Forty floors below, the city is a sprawl of headlights and neon, streaks of gold and electric blue sliding between dark buildings.From up here, it’s easy to pretend the whole thing belongs to me.In some ways, it really does.
Or rather, it belongs to my father.
He controls every heartbeat of the city.Owns everyone and everything that matters.
Next to me, my friend Chaira snaps her fingers in front of me.
I shake my head.
Her guests are laughing at something, making me realize I haven’t been paying attention.
“Val, it’s my birthday!”Chiara scolds, bumping my hip with hers.“You have to at least act like you’re having fun.”
I force a smile that I hope looks genuine.“I am having fun,” I lie.
What I’m actually doing is mentally mapping every exit point and calculating how many seconds it would take my security to reach me if someone pulled a gun.
The high-top table that we’re standing around is in the back corner of the rooftop bar, prime real estate with a full view of the space.There are designer dresses, expensive jewelry, flirtations, and pounding music.
This is the kind of place where men come to feel powerful and don’t realize they’re actually prey.
Two of my soldiers stand near the entrance, half hidden in the shadows, suits immaculate, expressions bored.Santo is closer to the railing, angled like he’s taking in the view rather than tracking every movement up here.No visible weapons.Just expensive watches and dead eyes.
Local men probably assume they’re hedge-fund or oil money.
They’re not.
I catch Santo’s gaze and give him the smallest nod.I’m good.I’m safe.The building is vetted, and the owner knows I’m here.
“Your table has been taken care of tonight,” he’d told me when we arrived.“Compliments of the house.”
Compliments of my last name is more like it.
Given those circumstances, no one is stupid enough to start something here.I’m safe.
Santo’s shoulders loosen by a millimeter.For my men, that’s practically a hammock and a margarita.
Trying to behave like I’m expected to, I lift my glass in Chiara’s direction.Above her, a dozen metallic balloons bob in the warm breeze.“To the last year of your twenties.”
Our friends cheer, the sound bright and a little shrill over the low thrum of music.I drain my glass.
“To poor life choices,” someone says.
“To not getting murdered,” I add, which makes Chiara snort champagne through her nose.
We laugh, and for a heartbeat, I let myself sink into it.Not as Don Fabrizio Russo’s daughter.Not the woman who spent the week quietly shutting down a Bertoni capo who thought he could skim from a shipment and blame it on a dock worker.
Tonight I’m just Val.In a red dress that would make my father scowl and heels that would give my mother a headache.
I tilt back my glass, let the champagne dance over my tongue.
