Chapter 2

**ALESSANDRO**

The bruises on my throat were already forming when I got home. I could see them in the bathroom mirror, dark fingerprints that would be impossible to hide tomorrow. Dante Moretti had strong hands. Strong enough to kill me if he'd wanted to. The strange thing was, I'd almost wanted him to.

"Let me see." Dr. Elena appeared in the doorway without knocking. She never knocked. After five years of patching up my family's violence, she'd earned that right.

I tilted my head back so she could examine the damage. Her fingers were clinical, professional. "You're lucky he didn't crush your windpipe."

"I don't feel lucky."

"No, I imagine you don't." She pulled out her stethoscope. "Breathe."

I obeyed while she listened, then checked my pupils, my ribs, the old scars on my back that never quite faded. She'd seen all of it before. Every time Nico decided I needed a lesson in family loyalty. Every time my father's disappointment turned physical.

"You didn't fight back," she said finally. "Why?"

"Would it have mattered?"

"That's not an answer, Alessandro."

I looked at her tired face. Elena had been doctoring for the families since before I was born. She'd delivered me, actually. Patched up my scraped knees as a kid. And now she cleaned up after my family's murders like it was just another Tuesday.

"He lost seventeen people in that fire. His whole family. I didn't fight back because maybe he deserved to hurt me."

"That's guilt talking, not logic." She packed up her bag. "The pills I gave you last month, are you taking them?"

"When I remember."

"Start remembering. Your panic attacks are getting worse." She headed for the door, then paused. "Your father wants to see you in his office."

Of course he did. I pulled on a shirt that covered most of the bruises and headed downstairs. The Santoro estate was more museum than home, filled with expensive things my mother had collected before she died. Before my father had turned into something cold and calculating. Sometimes I wondered if he'd always been that way and she'd just hidden it from us.

Nico was already in the office when I arrived, drinking my father's expensive scotch like he owned it. Like he'd own everything soon enough.

"The artist finally shows up," he said. "Nice neck. Very fashionable."

"Shut up, Nico."

"Make me, little brother."

"Both of you, enough." My father sat behind his massive desk, looking every bit the don he was. Dying or not, he commanded a room. "Sit down, Alessandro."

I sat. Nico stayed standing, looming like the threat he was.

"That disaster tonight changes things," my father said. "Marco called an hour ago. He apologized for his man's behavior, but the message was clear. The Morettis won't accept a standard alliance. Not after tonight."

"Good," Nico said. "We don't need them anyway. Let the old man die and I'll handle Marco my way."

My father ignored him. "Sofia Ricci has proposed an alternative. One that would legally bind our families in a way that makes war impossible."

Something cold settled in my stomach. "What kind of alternative?"

"A marriage alliance. Between you and Dante Moretti."

The room went silent. Even Nico looked shocked.

"You can't be serious," I said.

"Completely serious. It's brilliant, actually. A legal marriage means shared assets, shared liability. If either family attacks the other, they attack themselves. It forces cooperation."

"It forces me into a marriage with someone who wants me dead." I stood up, anger finally breaking through the numbness. "Did you see what he did tonight? He tried to kill me in the middle of Sofia's casino."

"And yet you're alive." My father's eyes were sharp. "You didn't fight back. Why?"

"Because I'm not suicidal."

"No, because you feel guilty. You've always been soft, Alessandro. Too much of your mother in you." He said it was like it was a disease. "This marriage happens. It's good for the family."

"I won't do it."

Nico moved fast, grabbing my shirt and slamming me against the wall. Pain exploded through my back where the old scars were. "You'll do what you're told. Or did you forget what happens when you disobey?"

"Let him go," my father said calmly. "He'll agree. Won't you, Alessandro?"

I looked at my father, at the cancer eating him from the inside, at the empire he'd built on other people's blood. At Nico, who'd beaten me unconscious five years ago for trying to leave. Who'd do it again right now if our father gave the word.

"Do I have a choice?"

"No," my father said. "But I'm asking anyway."

That was almost funny. Almost. "Fine. I'll marry him."

"Good. The ceremony is in three months. You'll move into the compound tomorrow so the families can see unity." My father pulled out papers, already prepared. "Sofia's handling the legal details. Marco's man will sign tomorrow."

"Does Dante even know about this yet?"

"He will soon enough." My father smiled. "Marco says he'll agree. Apparently the boy is smart enough to see the strategic value."

Strategic value. That's what I was now. A chess piece in their game.

Nico released me and went back to his scotch. "This is ridiculous. We should be preparing for war, not playing house with the Morettis."

"When I'm dead, you can run things however you want," my father said coldly. "Until then, you follow my orders. Both of you."

I left before anyone could see how badly my hands were shaking. Made it to my studio before the panic attack hit. The walls closed in. My chest tightened. I slid down to the floor and tried to remember Dr. Elena's breathing exercises.

In for four. Hold for seven. Out for eight.

It didn't help. Nothing helped when the weight of everything came crashing down.

I was going to marry Dante Moretti. The man whose family my father had murdered. The man who'd looked at me tonight with pure hatred burning in his dark eyes. The man who'd wrapped his hands around my throat and made me feel something other than guilt for the first time in five years.”

My phone buzzed. Unknown number.

“This wasn't my idea. But I'll make it work. Three months. Then you're mine. - DM”

Dante. Somehow he already knew. Already planning, calculating, figuring out how to use this marriage for whatever revenge he had in mind.

I should've been terrified. Instead, I felt something almost like relief. At least with Dante, I knew where I stood. He hated me. Wanted to destroy me. It was honest in a way nothing else in my life had been for years.

I typed back before I could think better of it.

“I won't fight you.”

The reply came immediately.

“I know. I felt it tonight when my hands were on your throat. You wanted me to finish it. That's going to be a problem.”

“Why?”

“Because I need you alive for this to work. Which means I need you to start acting like you want to survive. Can you do that, or are you too busy playing martyr?”

I could almost see him, confident and sharp and so certain of himself. So different from me.

“I'll survive. I always do.*

“Good. Because if anyone's going to destroy you, it's going to be me. On my terms. Understand?”

I stared at the message. At the casual cruelty of it. The absolute certainty that he owned this situation, owned me already.

“Yes.”

“Tomorrow morning, 9 AM. Sofia's office. We're signing papers. Wear something that covers those bruises. I don't need everyone knowing I can't control my temper.”

The arrogance was breathtaking. Like the bruises were an inconvenience for him, not evidence of assault.

“Anything else?”

“Yeah. Start packing. You're moving into the compound tomorrow afternoon. The sooner we start this charade, the sooner I can figure out how to use you.”

Use me. Not work with me. Not even tolerate me. Use me like the tool I'd become.

I should've been angry. Should've thrown the phone across the room. Instead, I just felt tired.

“I'll be there.”

His final message appeared.

“And Alessandro? Don't make me regret not finishing what I started tonight.”