The same butterflies I usually get before going up on stage now take flight in my stomach as we walk through the doors to find an opulent staircase that steals my breath. It’s the first time I’ve ever been inside the club. My father may have been open about his life, but he never allowed me to come to a place like this.
And now I see why—it’s breathtaking.
Not because of the dangerous men in suits, or the pretty women who are clearly submissive to them in the way they carry themselves, but because I’ve never seen something so exquisite before. I can’t help but drink in every inch of the gothic architecture as we make our way to a table which we settle at without speaking.
From where we’re sitting, the garden is visible, lit up by soft yellow bulbs that lead deep into the darkest shadows. A shiver wracks itself through me as I wonder just what lies in the woods that look like they could swallow me up.
The man, Mario, settles in opposite us, his dark gaze locked on my uncle. Anger juts his jaw, and a tick appears as he attempts to appear calm. But I can read people, and this man hates my uncle. He is handsome for an older man. I’m guessing he’s probably in his early thirties. With a dark head of hair, and a gentle dusting of stubble, he looks like a male model walking off the pages of a magazine.
His suit is tailored perfectly for his broad shoulders, and the shirt attempts to hide his muscular chest, but does nothing of the sort. Instead, it only accentuates his formidable frame even more. His eyes are a shimmering gray, with long black lashes that sweep along his cheekbones with every blink.
Shifting in my seat, I swallow the lump of nerves in my throat. I can’t find him attractive, he’s a bad person. At least, that’s what it seems like, because my uncle is a good man. He took over the family business after my father passed away.
Tearing my gaze away from Mario, I glance at Tommaso. He sits beside me, his fingers tangling around a pen that was lying on the long, wooden table. I haven’t even changed my outfit after the show.
Drinks are set on the table in front of Mario and Tommaso, tumblers shimmering with a deep auburn liquid. The scent is strong, and I recognize it as whiskey. Father enjoyed his evening whiskey and a cigar. I always teased him and told him he reminded me of Don Corleone when he sat in his enormous wingback chair smoking and drinking. But since he was killed, there haven’t been long nights in his office, reading his books, and asking him questions. He no longer offers me advice. There are no longer orders about where not to go, or who not to hang around with.
My father may have been the leader of a mafia family, but he was always just Dad to me. Someone who loved me dearly.
Since my mother died during childbirth, I was his principessa, his little girl. And nothing changed that.
“Where is he?” My uncle questions Mario as he fidgets with the pen. I’m not sure what is happening, but if Tommaso’s demeanor is anything to go by, I have a feeling something bad is about to happen.
I feel a presence before I see him.
A tall, dark, handsome man with broad shoulders steps into view. It may be cliché, but that’s exactly what he is. Mario rises to greet him, and so does my uncle. I don’t move. Instead, I pin him with a glare because I have a feeling he’s not here as a friend to our family.
I take him in as he greets Tommaso. His angular jaw is dusted with dark stubble, his eyes are the color of raven wings. His lips, full and pink, move slowly as he speaks in a low rumble. The baritone vibrating right through me.
His posture screams confidence and danger. The crisp white shirt he’s wearing is unbuttoned just enough to tease the smooth olive skin beneath. I don’t doubt that he is important, a man in charge. A leader.
When he settles into the chair opposite me, he finally pins me with a stare so fierce, my heart leaps into my throat, choking me. He doesn’t speak, he merely watches me, as if he’s assessing me, reading my nervous energy, and drinking it in like a vampire devouring the life force of a human.
It’s Tommaso who speaks, “Luna, this is Mr. De Rossi.” At the mention of his name, my blood turns to ice, and I freeze. Mr. De Rossi notices the corner of his mouth tips ever so slightly. It’s the only movement, but it’s clear he enjoys my discomfort.
I know who he is now.
The family who killed my father, and in retaliation, they killed his father. An eye for an eye. This is the life, I understand that, and I know he does too.
“Luna,” my uncle nudges me, but I don’t greet our guest. Instead, I lean back in the chair and stay silent. His mouth quirks again, and I can’t deny he’s breathtakingly handsome, but I hate him. And I make it known with a glare so fierce, I hope it burns him alive.
“Leave the girl, Tommaso, she’s only here because she needs to learn about her future,” De Rossi says, his sneer making his handsome face even more threatening as he takes me in with those cold, dark eyes. It’s as if night has taken up residence in his heart, and he no longer feels anything.
Dead inside.
“Let’s get to it, shall we.” He pulls out a thick envelope from his jacket pocket and sets it on the table before my uncle. I can feel eyes on us. I want to turn around, to see who’s watching, but I don’t. I’m not sure if De Rossi has bodyguards in the club, but my intuition tells me they’re close by.
The opulence of the club belies what truly goes on inside. Tommaso opens the envelope, and I drag my attention back to the table to see him pull out a contract. On the top of the first page are the words Contratto in Morte.
My heart thuds against my ribs. My palms are sweaty as I rub them on my thighs. I glance at a few words. My name is clear on the white page, but it’s the words beside it that make my breath catch.
…Luna Isabella Cavallone, to be wed after her eighteenth birthday.
“What is this?” I finally speak, and Enzo’s brow arches in question. A man of slight movements that could probably make weak men cower. But I’m not a man, and I’m certainly not weak.
“This, my dear, is your future,” Tommaso tells me as he turns to look over at me. His hand poised, the pen ready to sign on a dotted line that will seal my fate. Only, it’s not what I want.
“Why are you doing this? I can’t marry him!”
“Lower your voice,” the order comes from Enzo, his tone holding a silent threat that sends ice through my veins. “Your father understood he would lose everything when he came after my family, and when we paid him back for his violence, your family murdered my parents.”
“Is this true?” I turn to my uncle, who sits quietly, making me think he’s heard it all before. “Is this true, zio?” My voice cracks on the Italian word for uncle. My pleading tone doesn’t even make him flinch with guilt. My father wasn’t a good man, not by any means, but for him to do something like this to me. I’m not the enemy, and I’m certainly not one of the members of the family that wasn’t loyal to him. To our name.
“Mattea left me in charge,” Tommaso tells me as he scrawls his name on the page. “And I am only doing what is best for you.”
“Best for me?” My voice raises a few octaves, causing the other men in the club to turn toward our table, interested in seeing what’s happening. “This isn’t best for me!”
“Tommaso,” Enzo murmurs, his voice rigid with warning. “You get the girl under control, or I will be forced to do it myself.”