Chapter 1

The night before my wedding to the Don, I drive sixty miles to bring his mistress home myself.

When Damien pushes the door open, he finds the two of us sitting at the table with an open bottle of red between us, laughing like old friends.

He exhales. He's relieved.

"Aria. Since you already know, let Cordelia move in with us."

I don't look up from my glass.

"You're still my wife on paper. But Cordelia is delicate. Let her have the ceremony tomorrow. Once she's settled, I'll marry you properly. I promise."

I swirl my wine. I say nothing.

He takes that as a yes. He always does. He grabs Cordelia's hand and walks out without looking back, off to pick a gown. My gown. For my wedding.

I'm not angry. I open my phone.

There's a private channel. Five names. Every man on it sworn in blood to a Family older than this city. I type one line.

I need a groom for tomorrow. Anyone in?

Three seconds. The screen explodes.

Damien's own Capos. His sworn brothers. Crawling over each other to be the first to volunteer.

I smile.

See, Damien? You won't marry me. There's a line.

I mute the channel and put the phone face down.

"Miss Moretti." Marco, the house consigliere, has been standing in the doorway for a while. He clears his throat. "The Don is asking for tomorrow's gown."

A pause. He hates the next part.

"He says since you're not getting married tomorrow anyway, the gown should go to his bride."

The gown.

Six months of design. A year of flying between Milan, Paris, and Sicily, every stitch done by hand inside a Moretti atelier. The same silk four generations of Moretti brides have worn. The family crest sewn into the bodice with thread spun from melted-down heirloom gold.

Nobody knows what that gown means better than Damien.

It isn't a dress. It's a contract. It's my name made flesh.

And now Cordelia Vance, the daughter of a rival consigliere, a girl with no blood claim to anything in this world, says she likes it, and I'm supposed to hand it over?

"Tell him," I say, "if he wants it, he can come crawling for it."

Thirty minutes later, the front door slams open.

Damien strides in with a dozen boutique girls trailing behind him, each one carrying two gowns. He drops onto the couch and twists a lock of my hair around his finger.

"Aria. Our wedding is still happening, just later. The girl wants the gown. Let her have it." He waves at the boutique girls. "Pick a new one. Or don't bother. Cordelia can return mine after the ceremony. I don't mind if you wear it second."

Cordelia laughs.

She throws herself across his lap and traces lazy circles on his chest.

"Damien, you're awful. You told all of New York no Moretti bride would ever wear a used gown. Now you want her to wear mine? She must hate me so much."

Damien strokes her hair.

"She's not that petty."

Then, lazy and cruel:

"Besides. She's been mine for ten years. Who else is ever going to take her?"

I glance at my phone.

The channel is still scrolling. Every one of those men sharper, hungrier, more dangerous than the one sprawled across my couch.

Damien checks his own phone. Snorts. Drops a voice note into his groomsmen's chat.

"Boys, listen. Tomorrow at the ceremony, you treat Cordelia like the Donna. Full respect. I don't want to hear a single name out of place. Understood?"

He doesn't notice. Not a single one of his sworn brothers replies.

He pulls Cordelia tighter against him and reaches for me without even looking.

"Aria, where do we keep the condoms? You know how Cordelia is. She's all over me every night, and she throws a fit if she doesn't get what she wants." A pause. He smiles. "Don't worry. I made you a promise. The first Sinclair heir comes out of you. Nobody else."

I almost laugh out loud.

That promise. He remembers half of it.

At twenty, under the harbor fireworks, he held my face in both hands and swore only you. The wedding will be yours. The first child will be yours. Always you.

Ten years later, everything's changed except the half that still works in his favor.

He catches the look on my face and softens for a second.

"You should smile more, Aria. You laughed all the time when you were twenty. These days you just look cold. I miss the old you."

I let the smile fall off my face. I tell Marco to bring the Don a box of condoms.

Damien forgets the conversation the second it's over. He's pleased. I'm being good. I'm being reasonable. He scoops Cordelia up and heads for the stairs.

"Take the guest room tonight, Aria. Cordelia wants me to herself. She's a nightmare in the morning, so have the stylist wait outside her door. Don't go in until she's awake."

"Damien."

He stops on the landing. Turns his head. Eyebrows up, impatient.

I look him in the eye and smile, soft, almost gentle.

"The wedding tomorrow is still happening. Just so you know. If you're not standing at the altar, someone else will be."