This was a man who wielded enormous power. Real power, not just money.
And I was legally bound to him.
The full weight hit me: I was married to a mafia Don. This wasn't temporary. This wasn't fixable with lawyers or annulments or running back to my old life.
My old life was gone. Burned to ash the moment I said "I do."
Unless I ran. But run where? My father had made it clear—I was on my own, and there would be consequences if anything went wrong. Bianca had abandoned me. I had no allies, no resources, no plan.
I had nothing except this ring and this dress and this man who owned me now by law and custom.
Finally, mercifully, the reception wound down.
It was just after 10 p.m. I swayed with exhaustion and stress, the cumulative weight of the longest day of my life. A dozen or so guests lingered, chatting quietly over their last drinks and enjoying the now dimly lit room.
Cesare appeared at my side. "Time to go."
Go where?Then I remembered.
The wedding night. They were supposed to—we were supposed to—
No. No no no.
But guests were applauding. Rice pelted us as we walked toward the entrance. Someone had decorated another limousine with "JUST MARRIED" and tin cans.
Piero hugged me goodbye—pulled me close, whispered: "He's not as bad as he seems. Give him a chance."
What did that mean? I didn't have time to ask.
Cesare helped me into the limo. The door closed.
We were alone again.
The vehicle pulled away from the mansion, Manhattan-bound. My heart hammered against my ribs. I was still in the wedding dress—massive, uncomfortable, a costume for a role I'd never auditioned for. Cesare was on his phone, speaking rapid Italian. Business. Always business, apparently, even on a day that normal people considered sacred.
I stared out the window and watched the Hamptons give way to highways, highways to city streets. Despite the two hour drive, the exhaustion I’d felt surrounded by strangers never pulled me into sleep. Now that it was just the mafia Don and I, an edge of paranoia kept my blood pounding and my eyes glancing his way. When we hit the city, familiar territory turned foreign and threatening.
The limo pulled up to a gleaming high-rise in Midtown. Doormen rushed to open doors.
"Welcome home, Mr. Monti, Mrs. Monti."
Mrs. Monti. That's who I was now.
We entered a private elevator that required a key. It shot upward. My ears popped.
Floor numbers climbed: 60... 70... 80... 90.
The doors opened directly into the penthouse.
The space stole my breath.
Floor-to-ceiling windows on every wall—Manhattan glittered below like a sea of captured stars. Modern Italian design: dark woods, black leather, chrome accents. Expensive art on the walls—I recognized a Caravaggio, a Rothko. Originals, not prints, I realized when I hesitantly stepped toward them.
Everything was masculine. Controlled. Cold.
No warmth, no softness, no compromise.
This was Cesare's domain. His kingdom. And I'd been brought here as... what? Wife? Prisoner?
