"What do you want me to do?" I ask quietly.
Pietro studies me for a long moment. Then he nods, as if I've passed some test I didn't know I was taking.
"You need to get married."
I laugh. The sound is harsh, ugly. "Married. You want me to get married."
"I want you to show stability." Pietro's expression doesn't change. "A wife. A family. Roots that tie you to something beyond your own anger. The other families need to see thatyou're not just a wounded animal lashing out. They need to see a man who can build something. Protect something."
"And where exactly am I supposed to find a wife?" I spread my arms, gesturing at the wheelchair beneath me. "Women aren't exactly lining up to marry a cripple with a death wish."
"Nico is making an arrangement right now."
I go still.
"The Romanos have two daughters," Pietro continues. "One of them will marry you. In exchange, we forgive a portion of the debt. The family works for us to clear the rest, but under your supervision. You take the lead on managing them. You prove you can handle responsibility without losing control."
My mind races. A wife. A Romano wife. Some stranger's daughter, traded like currency to cover her father's gambling debts.
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you don't want the title as badly as you claim." Pietro's voice is flat. "And we find another way to handle the Romano situation. One that doesn't involve you at all."
I think about what that means. The Romanos dead or scattered. Me, still sitting in this chair, still raging at walls that don't care. Still proving Nico right.
"This is a test," I say.
"Everything is a test." Pietro picks up his glass and drains it. "The question is whether you're willing to take it."
I stare at the fire. The flames dance and twist, consuming everything they touch.
A wife. A family to manage. A chance to prove I'm more than the broken thing I've become.
"Which daughter?"
Pietro shrugs. "Whichever one Nico can convince Eraldo to give up. The older one, probably. She's twenty-one. Old enough to understand what she's agreeing to."
Twenty-one. Young. Too young to be sold to a monster in a wheelchair.
But this is our world. This is what we do.
"Fine," I hear myself say. "Make the arrangement."
CHAPTER FOUR
Antonella
Isit on the edge of the armchair, my robe pulled tight around me. Claudio stands behind the couch, arms crossed, jaw tight. Papa sits in his usual spot—the leather chair by the window—but he looks nothing like the man who raised me.
He looks terrified.
His hands shake where they rest on his knees. His eyes dart between the men, never settling, never meeting anyone's gaze directly. Sweat beads at his temples.
I've never seen my father afraid. Not when Mama got sick. Not when the doctors gave us the diagnosis. Not even at her funeral, when he stood like a statue and refused to cry.
But he's afraid now.
Lorenzo Sartori leans against the doorframe, blocking the exit to the hallway. The massive one—Liam, I think they called him—stands near the front door. The fourth man, dark-haired and sharp-featured, positions himself by the window.
