Page 14

Day and night, I am locked inside this house, surrounded by multiple eyes. I’m always alone—and yet, never alone. My life is an ivory tower, beautiful and suffocating, and so isolating.

When my mother was alive, we could do more. We could go shopping, try out new restaurants, and have fun weekends away at the beach. Because she came from wealth, my father could never stop her. She had this freedom no other Bruno woman had before—and it passed to me. This yearning to explore, see more, be free.

Then she died. And all that freedom was locked up behind the iron fences that surround our property.

As the leader of our family, Roman’s rules are for me to follow. But I’m not so docile that I don’t rebel. I find ways to irritate him; refusing to speak, locking myself away in my room and ignoring his demands. He could hurt me, he’s threatened it enough, but I have some protection from his wrath.

And if the mere insistence of rebellion is enough to make him sweat, then I’ll endure any tantrum he might throw because of it.

Eventually, I’ll have to fight back in other ways, but these are the tools I have for now.

Rosa fixes my mask once more and opens my bedroom door. Freddie is waiting on the other side, and my stomach clenches, bile rising up my throat.

I hate Frederico Scipione with a fury rivaled only by that of the demons in Hell. He’s been my fiancé since I was two, arranged by my father to “make up” for his daughter’s shortcomings.

Roman Bruno Senior only wanted boys. Boys inherited the wealth. Boys lead the family through hard times. Getting a daughter had already been a disappointment. A Deaf daughter was, in his eyes, another imperfection he couldn’t tolerate in the image he built for himself.

Freddie’s family controls parts of New York that my father wanted to exploit. They have a vast network, controlling women on the street instead of in clubs, with little law enforcement interference. My father saw a great opportunity—never mind what I wanted—and signed the deal in black ink.

He’s a stronzo on his best days. A man so obsessed with his looks and his dick I worry there is nothing in his skull. Freddie’s over six feet tall, with black, thick, greasy hair and warm skin—the typical Italian New York mobster.

Tonight, he’s in a black suit with a white pocket square. His signet ring shines on his left pinky finger, and a watch dangles from his right wrist. At least he’s not wearing combat boots.

He looks me over, licking his bottom lip, and I shudder. Gross. If he had his choice, Freddie would have bred me the minute I turned eighteen. Thank God Roman hasn’t signed off on his blessing yet. It’s the only barrier—besides Freddie’s father’s blessing—I have to delay this wedding.

In order to be truly free, I’ll need to dissolve that marriage contract.

“Let’s go. Your brother wants us all together. Good press.” He rolls his eyes. “I don’t understand it.”

He wouldn’t. Freddie doesn’t understand because he doesn’t care about power—he cares about getting his dick wet, how good his muscles look in the mirror, and if anyone notices his new clothing. He’s superficial and vain.

Roman is not—he only wants status. He wants everyone to see us together and to see his extensive empire. Credit is all he wants—and he’ll do anything to get it.

It’s not even his empire. It’s our father’s. A dirty, disgusting one that makes me sick to my stomach, but still. He never had to work for it. And yet, he demands the accolades.

Freddie pulls my hand into his and yanks me down the long staircase. Quickly, I grip the railing and try not to fall. These stilettos are meant for standing, not walking.

Once at the bottom, applause explodes, and my ears ring. Jerking against the noise, I fall back, and Freddie grabs me tight. His cologne infiltrated me nose, and I wince.

He reeks. It’s the cloying scent of cigars and horribly cheap perfume. He’s clearly come from a girlfriend’s place, and he smells like her. Did he wash his hands? I’m going to puke all over the marble flooring.

Pushing him away, I breathe through my mouth and look out at the crowd. All faceless. Masks of all kinds, some elegant, others disturbing, stare back, eyes drilling into my being.

I’m used to it. Roman keeps me so guarded; I’m like a magical unicorn when displayed before them. Most gazes are hungry, a few envious—look at the pretty little sister of Roman Bruno Junior, poor little Deaf girl—and my nails cut into my palm.

The pity. The judgment. All of it blazes like a torch to my skin, darkening my cheeks, and I want to claw it away. Be free of it.

Roman grabs a passing drink, and I do the same, only for my brother to slap my hand like I’m a disobedient dog.

“No,” he commands, voice low but hard like ice. “You know the rules.”

The rules. No alcohol. No sex. No drugs.

I’m to be completely pure for Freddie. My body is his—and therefore not to be sullied. That was part of the marriage pact. I’ve never been kissed because of these stupid rules.

Quietly, I lower my stinging hand and glare into his bare face. It’s unnerving how much he looks like our father—same build, same terrible eyes. What I wouldn’t give to look up to my brother Hayes’s kind blue eyes, instead. He’d protect me—not use me like this idiota.

But it’s been almost a year since I’ve seen him. Because of an agreement my father made with the O’Brien clan leader, Hayes is officially no longer a Bruno—he’s O’Brien. If he comes back to our territory, it is an act of war.