1 Prologue

― E L L I A ―

"WIPE THAT FUCKING FROWN off your face, figlio. Your despondency is making me look bad."

Sloshing the ice around in my tumbler, I glance over at my father. Even in his prime, the man didn't scare me, despite having one of the largest body counts on the East Coast. To me, he's only ever been Dad.

A shit dad, but Dad nonetheless.

"No one's paying you any attention, Pop." I gesture around the fenced yard at the faces turned away from us. We've set up shop on one side of the Pasinis' backyard, beneath the wide, bamboo parasol meant to shade us from the sun and haven't moved in an hour. "Besides, it's your fault for making me come here. Seriously, what grown man throws himself a birthday party?"

My father sighs, leaning back in his lounge chair. "It's his stepfather, I think. We stopped throwing you parties when you were, what, sixteen?"

Try seven. But no one wants to talk about that, least of all me. Instead, I nod, scanning the crowd for the fiftieth time since settling in with my whiskey.

Luca went all-out on the alcohol, I'll give him that. Almost as if he anticipated animosity among the family and King's Trace commoners.

If I didn't know any better, I'd think this was a party for Senator Harrison, Luca's uncle by marriage. The gray-haired, beady-eyed thief keeps his eldest daughter strapped to his side, touting her around like a pussy parade.

Caroline's beautiful, and it's not exactly difficult to comprehend why he brings her everywhere. She's the prim and proper foil to her younger sister, who's starred in more sex tapes than the average pornstar.

The Harrisons are legendary around town, although they give off a vibe of secrecy. Something in the way Dominic's always leering, looking for someone to introduce his daughter to.

I rake my gaze over the girl—woman—again, absorbing her appearance for the hundredth time; her golden hair shimmers down her back, grazing against the creamy skin exposed in the short, rose-pink sundress she has on. Her blue eyes remain cast down at the ground, as though she's afraid of what she'll discover if she looks up.

Well, she should be scared. I've been unable to move my gaze from her curves since I first noticed her. Can't stop thinking about what it'd be like to get her alone; how soft her plump lips might be—if she tastes as sweet and innocent as she looks.

Shifting in my seat, I adjust myself discreetly. A hard-on with kids around would make my father really look bad.

My eyes find the pair again; I don't like the way the senator's arm curls around her, keeping her breasts flush against his side. His nails dig into the exposed skin of her bicep, making her squirm.

"What's the deal with him?" I ask, jerking my chin in the senator's direction. Dominic's rounded belly jiggles as he laughs, and Caroline grimaces, a flicker of annoyance flashing in her baby blues.

"He's auctioning his daughter off, or something. Paying off his debts or collecting on campaign promises. I don't know. This is why we don't get involved in fucking politics; they'll sell you anything if it keeps them in power." My father shakes his head, tipping his beer bottle to his lips and taking a long gulp. He pulls it away, pointing at them with the mouth. "Imagine selling your fucking daughter to a criminal. Cristo, your mother would castrate me from the afterlife if I tried something like that."

Pain throbs deep in my chest, cracking the cavity open like someone's reached inside and gripped my heart in their cold hands. I clear my throat and bring the glass tumbler up, taking a quick drink. If he doesn't stop talking about our life in New York, I'll cut his dick off myself.

I set the glass down and fold my hands over my stomach. "Who do you think will get her?"

"Kieran Ivers."

My eyebrow quirks up. "Pardon?"

He shrugs. Flesh sales aren't that uncommon in our world, but that it's happening here, out in the open, and in favor of a rival outfit, is nearly unfathomable. "Look, son, put your petty rivalry with that boy to rest, at least while we're here. Harrison owes all of us money, and we aren't going to take a body as payment. That's absurd. It's not even on the same level."

"Petty rivalry?" I glare at him, my hands gripping the armrests on the chaise. "I inherited the fucking thing. Even if Kieran wasn't a total freak, don't act like I had a choice in who my enemy is."

"You have a choice to continue it."

Heat scorches beneath my skin, pressure building in my temple as I try to reign in the rage. Any other man would be properly splattered on the floor right now for insubordination, but I can't act that way with my father. Not Orlando Montalto. Our parent outfit, the Riccis in Boston, would have my head on a fucking platter within the hour.

Heaving a heavy sigh, I pinch my eyes closed, trying to erase the memory of this girl from my brain. Who she's getting sold to should be of no consequence to me, except that I can't shake my dead mother's nagging.

"Everyone in this life has a choice, my sweet boy. Please don't ever forget that."

Mommy issues aside, anything that beautiful should be kept from Kieran, who loves to destroy precious things. He'd eat her heart as soon as they exchanged rings and let his men use her lifeless body after.

Unwarranted possessiveness blooms like a cactus inside me, pushing me to my feet as the girl finally wrenches herself from her father's arms and heads for the door to the house.

Glancing around the crowd, her eyes lock on mine for a moment, widening when I refuse to look away. There's a dull fire burning there, telling me all I need to know about her. She may look pure, but there's dirt on her soul—a skeleton handcuffed to her wrist, forced to drag it around for as long as she can remember.

Her hips flare and sway as she walks away, my pants tenting uncomfortably when she pauses and gives me one last glance, a small smile lighting up her perfect face.

And holy fucking hell, I want her. Want to break her body in half as I dive inside, filling her veins with my blood.

At the very least, I want her before Kieran has her. Not because I'm better for her, but because he deserves to lose.

"Elia…" My father's voice comes from behind me. A warning. "Don't do something you'll regret."

Smirking to myself, eyes glued to where she disappeared through the French doors, I brush some dirt off my Armani suit jacket and yank on the lapels. "Sometimes, regret's the only emotion worth a damn."

━━━━━━

― C A R O L I N E ―

If I could drag my father's body to this corner of the house and stab him with the pocketknife I keep tucked into my underwear, I would. Without a single thought as to whether I'd regret it after—because I wouldn't.

I'd never regret hurting that man. Not after today, and not after the last ten years.

First, it was asking me to dress conservatively so as not to draw attention away from him. Then, it was telling me not to drink or stray too far, because he had investors lined up, different men vying for my hand.

Stupid and defiant, I'd pulled on a light pink dress that barely skims the tops of my thighs, relishing in the way my father's eyes bugged out of his head. It takes a lot to shock Dominic Harrison: senator and bad dad extraordinaire.

But I'm beyond done playing his filthy games. Games I never should've been involved in to begin with. The man could take my childhood, push it neatly under his dirty little thumb, but he won't have my adult life, too.

Shortly after we arrived at my cousin Luca's birthday party, did our obligatory family greetings, and spread out to socialize, my father's intent became abundantly clear.

Luckily for me, Kieran Ivers hasn't come out of his ivory tower in weeks, since the murder of his brother, a former organized crime leader in Stonemore.

Unluckily for me, my father likes theatrics. Kieran's absence didn't exonerate me, and he still plans to hand me over to the highest bidder. The leers from his colleagues and men with blood on their hands didn't help matters, either.

With shaking fingers, I work a cigarette from the pack in my clutch, uncaring that I'm inside, and my Aunt Carly will be furious if she discovers me here.

Whatever. She should try being forced into marriage, see how many cigarettes she feels like smoking.

I press the end of the smoke between my lips and rifle through the clutch for my lighter, cursing when it's nowhere in sight. My father probably confiscated it when I went to the bathroom before leaving our house.

"Let me help you with that."

The deep, velvet voice startles me; I jump back, the cigarette falling from my mouth.

Turning around, my ovaries swell painfully. Elia Montalto stands a few inches away, Zippo lighter in hand, offering it to me. I exhale slowly, bending to scoop up my cigarette, unable to stop my gaze from sweeping over his fit fucking body.

Even though this party is casual, he stands there in a three-piece suit—all black, the way I imagine his soul. The top buttons of his undershirt are undone, revealing a light swatch of dark hair. My mouth dries up at the sight.

He's tall, maybe a whole foot above me, smiling down like the cat that caught the canary. A predator circling his prey.

Sorry, sweetheart, but I'm no one's victim.

I'd hoped he'd follow me.

My heart beats rapidly against my chest, threatening to bust right out and launch itself at him. Nerves, and something else—a quiver in my thighs I can't quite identify.

A few beats of silence pass between us, and he clears his throat, reaching for my wrist. The breath stalls in my lungs at his soft touch, at odds with the calloused fingertips he presses against my skin. Sharp, torn ridges hiding what lies beneath.

He uncurls my hand and takes the cigarette, fitting it between his lips. They're dark pink and pillowy, the bottom curving over a slight cleft in his stubbly chin that I want to push my tongue into.

Jesus, Caroline, get a fucking grip.

Cupping his hand around the Zippo and flicking it open, he lights the tip of the cigarette and takes a long drag; his cheeks hollow and his throat bobs, and I can't tear my eyes from the movement. Everything he does seems to happen in slow motion, and it's captivating as if he calculates each move and consequence ahead of time.

The movements of a killer.

My core throbs, moisture pooling between my thighs, as he removes the cigarette from his mouth and exhales clean smoke through his nose. Has there ever been anything sexier?

He offers it to me, and I know it should annoy me that he took it upon himself to take the first drag, but I find that I don't care. In fact, I quite like the indirect contact of our lips as I go to inhale. Menthol flavors explode in my mouth as my lungs fill with smoke; I breathe out slowly, trying to look casual.

Elia cocks his head, studying me. His gray eyes are dark and impossibly deep, enticing but guarded. Clouds gorged with rainwater, just before they burst. "Those things kill people, you know."

I repeat the inhale and exhale, leaning against the rosy wallpaper. Aunt Carly really did a number on this suburban hell hole. "I hear you kill people, too. What do you think will get me first?"

He takes a step forward, toward me, even though we're already plastered against the wall. A small, devilish grin splits his perfect, chiseled face, and he runs a hand through his dark locks. They fall forward, disturbed by the movement, just long enough to sweep over his forehead.

I slip my hand behind my back to keep from pushing them out of his face.

"So, you know who I am, then."

"I don't live under a rock, and I'm not a tourist. Of course, I know who the self-imposed king of King's Trace is."

And it's true. Everyone in town knows the Montaltos run this place, knows that they funnel in more revenue with their drug racket than the rest of the town pulls in combined—that the thirty-year-old capo is one of the most dangerous men in the state.

"Hmm." Taking another step, until his body is just a breath away from mine, he reaches for my cigarette, plucking it from between my teeth. He places it in his mouth again, stealing another puff, and irritation simmers in my gut. It's the last one I have, and he's ruining my relief.

His mouth falls open, smoke billowing out in wisps, brushing against my face. I close my eyes as he props his hand on the wall above my shoulder, leaning in. "I heard the king is looking for a queen."

My eyes pop open, taking him in carefully. "How exciting for him."

Shrugging, he drops his hand and grazes my bottom lip with his thumb, propping it open to push the cigarette inside. He holds it there while I inhale, sucking deeper than before like I have something to prove. His eyes watch my mouth work, blazing with a heat I'm not used to; it makes my thighs clench in anticipation.

"I suppose there are worse fates."

I snort, releasing the cigarette. "You equate marriage to fate? Women must be lining up at your door for your hand."

"Women have been lining up on my doorstep since word got around about my massive cock." He says this so casually as if it's supposed to impress me. It does, but I don't let him know that. "Besides, what's wrong with my analogy? Not all fates are bad. Most aren't even consequential."

"Fate, by design, is catastrophic. Nothing good can come from having your choices taken away."

"Interesting. So, you're a fan of choice."

My eyebrows pull together. "What person isn't?"

"You may be surprised, mio amore. Many of us decide against choice because of duty. Loyalty."

I ignore the fact that he just called me his love in Italian. Tilting my chin up, I meet his gaze head-on. "Who are you loyal to?" My voice is throaty, desperate from having this sinfully good-looking man so close.

"My family." Dipping his head, he presses his forehead into mine. From the corner of my eye, I see him dig the lit end of my cigarette into the wall. A dark burn appears, tearing at the paper, but I can't bring myself to care. He drops the butt and brings his hand to my lips, tracing them with the tip of his index finger. "Myself, when it comes up."

I swallow over the hard knot that's formed in my throat, trying to remember to breathe. "That's a good person to be loyal to."

He chuckles, bending to glide his nose down the slope of my neck, brushing hair off my shoulder as he descends. His lips trail over my shoulder and back up across my collarbone. Pausing, he traces the tip of his tongue over the dip in the middle. One hand comes up to grip my waist, and he moves, fitting his pelvis against my stomach.

I can feel all of him.

Fuck me. This is probably the hottest thing that's ever happened to me, and it's happening with one of the most dangerous men on the freaking planet.

Why does that make it immensely hotter?

"You do have a choice, you know." His free hand pinches my chin, forcing me to look down at him while he slips his tongue beneath the neckline of my dress, between my breasts. My nipples stiffen immediately, brushing against the soft material, the friction driving my blood south. "About who you marry."

I sigh softly, tentatively bringing my hand up to run my fingers through his hair. Of course, he knows about that.

Unlike his hands, his hair is unnaturally soft, begging to be tugged. My fingers flex in his roots, and he grunts once, biting my nipple through my dress like he's struggling to maintain control.

My pussy aches, apparently in favor of him letting go. "You don't know my father."

Elia scoffs, righting the top of my dress and dropping to his knees. His hands come to my thighs, disappearing under the hem of my skirt. I suck in a breath as they inch higher, my clit pulsing as it waits. "You're an adult. No one can force you to do anything."

"Dominic Harrison can."

He freezes, hands just below the bottom curve of my ass, and frowns. "What does he have on you?"

I shake my head, bringing my hands to his cheeks. The dark stubble lining his jaw is rough against my palms, and I smooth over it, trying to commit him to memory. "It's not your problem."

"Maybe not, but I want to help."

"Why?"

"Do I need a reason to help a girl in distress?"

"First off, I'm not a girl, and I'm not in distress. I'm perfectly capable of helping myself." My fingers walk up to his hair, unable to stay away. "Second, you don't know me."

"Do I need to know you to help you?"

"You ask a lot of questions, for someone who doesn't answer any himself."

"You haven't asked me anything."

"Nor do I want to. I'm not interested in getting to know you. If you want to help distract me from this god-awful party, be my guest. It's the least you can do after hijacking my cigarette. If not, kindly leave me to sulk alone."

Don't leave. Please, don't leave.

"Gesù Cristo. You've got quite the fucking mouth, mio amore." His fingers skirt up and dig into my ass, hard enough to leave bruises. The slight bite of pain feels exquisite, like teetering on the precipice of danger and ultimate pleasure. He bunches my dress around my hips, exposing me in the dark alcove, and glances at the knife tucked into the waistband of my panties. One dark eyebrow arches.

I shrug, and a grin stretches across his face. He brushes against the handle, almost reverently, hooking his thumb in the crotch of my panties and yanking them aside. "Fucking perfect."

Cool breath skitters across my bare pussy, sending a shiver through my veins, and his lips meet the inside of my inner thigh in an open-mouthed kiss. My back bows, fingers tightening their grip in his hair, holding him in place. "Fucking hell, you're gorgeous. I cannot wait to destroy you."

Coming down from the almost-high, I shake my head, trying to push him away. "No, we can't do anything. Anyone could walk in—"

He sucks on the skin he just kissed, pulling it between his lips until my knees buckle. "That's the point, baby. Let them come in and find me with my head between your legs. I bet dear old daddy won't want to marry you off after you embarrass him."

A squeak falls from my lips when his tongue makes contact with my clit, delving between my folds with little finesse. He dives in—a man on a mission—and takes what he wants. And while his determination turns me on, I can't help but wonder if I'm making the right decision.

Still, no one's ever done this to me, and it feels really fucking good. Elia uses his fingers to spread me, lapping at the bundle of nerves like it's water, and he's lived his entire life without a single drop. He grunts and huffs against me, the sounds of my arousal obvious in the small room we're in, heating my cheeks and making my legs shake.

"It won't work—"

One long finger swirls around my entrance, pushing in gently. Oh my God. I'm being fingered by a mob boss in my cousin's house. Can it get any more depraved than this?

Sitting back on his heels, Elia curls his finger inside me, stroking against my front walls. A fire low in my belly grows, orange and red flames dotting my vision as the pressure mounts.

"Marry me, then."