Chapter 1

At the peak of the whole "if she wants it, she gets it" trend online, I saw an Instagram post from my fiancé's little assistant—the assistant to Luca, New York's newly risen Don.

"Just said yesterday I wanted a Chevy. Today Don bought me one."

Attached was a photo of the fully loaded, top-of-the-line model.

And Luca, who never touched social media, had—against all precedent—left a comment underneath:

"Bianca wants, Bianca gets."

I froze.

Yesterday, Luca had asked me what I wanted.

I'd said a Chevy Spark.

I thought he was going to buy one for me. Turns out it was for his little assistant.

So it wasn't that he couldn't indulge people.

He just didn't want to indulge me.

Fine. From now on, whatever I want,

I'll get for myself.

……

Luca walked in just as I finished reading that post.

His eyes flicked to my phone screen.

"Angry?"

His voice was flat, indifferent.

I said nothing, just looked at him quietly.

"She needs a car more than you do."

"She runs my documents, my errands, picks up my clients. She can't be taking Ubers forever."

"You don't work, you don't have a career. What do you need a car for? To let it collect dust in the garage?"

He explained it calmly, driving each word straight into my chest.

For him, I'd walked away from my job at Goldman Sachs. I'd helped him claw his way up from that old Brooklyn walk-up where the heat only worked half the time to where he stood today.

I'd studied every possible variation on what he could eat, trying to be gentle on his stomach.

Because he worried strangers coming and going through the house was a security risk, I went out personally to buy every last supply—even in a downpour.

Now he was the Don whose name rang through all of New York, and I was asking him for a thirteen-thousand-dollar Chevy Spark.

And he was telling me I didn't deserve it.

"Are you so poor you can only afford one car? You could easily buy one for each of us. You went out of your way to do it like this, just to belittle me. Luca—do you even realize what you've become?"

"Every day, rain or shine, blazing sun, I either walk a dozen blocks for groceries or I take an Uber. All I wanted was a Spark that cost a little over ten grand. Is that so much to ask?"

"From now on, I won't come to you about anything. I won't need you to give me a damn thing."

I got it all out in one breath. My voice was already trembling.

Luca just looked at me and said, impatiently, "Could you keep your voice down?"

I stood there, stunned.

He thought I was loud.

Once upon a time, he was the one who never stopped talking to me.

In that cramped old apartment in Brooklyn.

He'd lean against the headboard, hold my hand, and murmur on into the small hours, painting the future for me again and again.

Back then he said: "The day the name Moretti earns a seat at the Five Families' table, I swear I'll give you everything you've ever wanted."

"When that day comes, I'll propose to you at the most glorious spot in the whole of New York, in front of everyone. I'll give you a wedding worthy of you."

I used to smile foolishly along with him, picturing our future a thousand times over.

And now, he'd done it.

The name Moretti rang loud through Manhattan.

But there was a new little shadow at his side.

Bianca Russo, turning up in every corner of our lives.

Dinners. Operas. Weekends in the Hamptons.

Everywhere.

Under the noble excuse: an assistant has to manage his work and his life, she can't leave his sight.

The door swung open. Bianca strolled in from the foyer, twirling car keys around her finger.

"Don, this car handles beautifully. Anywhere you want to go from now on, I can drive you."

She was beaming.

Luca couldn't help himself. He reached up and ruffled her hair.

His voice was tender: "Happiness belongs to those who know when they've got enough. I'll get you a better one next time."

I stood there behind him, frozen.

I understood.

He was telling me I didn't know when I had enough.

But there was something I wanted to tell him. Just yesterday,

Goldman Sachs had sent me an email.

My old boss, Julian Ashford, was inviting me back to the bank. Back to my industry.

He'd forgotten long ago—before he ever met me,

I had been one of the youngest team leads at Goldman.

Not this thing standing behind him, holding out her hand for a runabout.

I gave up all of it for him, willingly.

Yesterday, I'd planned to decline.

Now, I wanted to accept.