Chapter 1

I was eighteen when I left Italy for Chicago.

My brother Leo handed me over to his most powerful ally for “protection.” Don Damien Volkov.

His eyes locked on me the first time we met. They never looked away.

By day, I was his private doctor. By night, I was the only thing in his bed.

His seduction was a slow, deliberate hunt.

The way his body brushed against mine during an exam. A stray kiss that landed behind my ear. The weight of his hand resting on the small of my back.

I fell fast and hard for his dark charm. I gave myself to him, letting him claim me, again and again.

For four years, our affair was a secret hidden in the shadows. In that time, he sculpted my body, teaching it to crave his touch, molding me into his perfect obsession.

Then she came back. Isabella, his exiled ex-fiancée. He sent his private jet for her.

I swallowed my pride and crashed his reunion.

An hour ago, his hands, still smelling of blood, gripped my chin. He forced his kiss on me.

But now, right in front of me, he was stroking another woman's hair.

"Elara, you're the one who climbed into my bed four years ago."

"You act like a whore, but you expect me to treat you like a Donna?"

The way he looked at Isabella was so tender. The way he looked at me was pure scorn.

Shame burned through me. Head down, I sent my brother a coded text. Accept the Moretti proposal.

I looked up. A smile bloomed on my face.

"Fine. Then this is goodbye, Damien."

...

"You finally came to your senses?"

Leo's voice crackled through the encrypted line, buzzing with excitement.

"Four years, Elara. You're finally ditching the asshole who was too ashamed to claim you, and putting the family first."

"Julian Moretti's a good man," Leo went on. "A thousand times better than that coward hiding in the shadows."

My knuckles were white on the phone.

If only he knew that 'bastard' was his most trusted man. I'd love to see the look on his face.

"Yes, I'll agree to the marriage," I said, my voice flat. "We can sign the papers tomorrow."

After I hung up, I stared at myself in the mirror.

Pale face. Swollen red eyes. Traces of last night's tears.

You're wrong, Damien. I'm not desperate.

And I'm done loving you.

I pulled myself together. I had to get my things from his penthouse.

And I needed his signature to sign over his medical records—all of them, and all my access.

Two men in black suits blocked my way.

"Sorry, Miss Rossi," one said, his voice polite but final. "No one gets in without the boss's order."

No one?

Four years. I'd come home to this place every night for four years.

My clothes were in there. My medical bag. The whiskey glasses we’d shared.

And now I was "no one."

I clutched my phone and ducked into an empty stairwell. I dialed the number burned into my soul.

It rang and rang. Just as I was about to give up, someone answered.

But it wasn't Damien's voice.

"Hello?"

A woman's voice answered. Lazy. Satisfied.

Isabella.

She let out a sickeningly sweet laugh. "Sorry, Damien's in the shower. Who is this?"

A shower?

It was three in the afternoon.

My hand tightened on the phone, nails digging into my palm, almost drawing blood.

But it was nothing compared to the pain in my heart.

I hung up, trembling. I couldn't say another word.

The screen went dark, reflecting my pale face.

Two minutes later, the phone buzzed violently. It was Damien.

"What?"

Damien's voice was ice.

No concern. No explanation. Not a hint of guilt.

I remembered last night. Before he got Isabella's call. He'd pinned me against the bathroom wall.

His big hands roamed over every inch of my skin, taking me hard. "Miss me? Haven't had you in two days."

I shoved the memory away. My voice was a rasp.

"Damien. I need to get my things."

He grunted. Then, as if he just remembered, he gave an order.

"Right. And clean out every trace of yourself. She doesn't like it. Don't make this a problem. The West Side safe house is empty. You can stay there. I promised Leo I’d keep you safe."

He was in such a hurry to get rid of me. I almost laughed.

Four years ago. A rainy night. He was drunk, ambushed by a rival family. He stumbled into my apartment, bleeding.

The blood terrified me. I fumbled with the first-aid kit, carefully dressing his wounds. Our lips brushed.

I found the courage to kiss him. He pushed me onto the bed and deepened the kiss.

Blood dripped from his shoulder. His eyes were intoxicating as he entered me. "Love me, don't you? Stay with me. Every night."

I blushed and nodded.

Now, I was "trouble."

He was kicking me out to a safe house. And he had the nerve to say it was for my brother, his ally.

A bitter smile touched my lips.

"You're right, Damien," I said, my voice eerily calm. "Trouble should be cleaned up."

"Good. I'll have the keys sent over—"

"Don't bother," I cut in. "I can take care of myself, Boss."

Besides, once I got my things and signed his medical chart back over to him, we’d be finished. A clean break.

My four years of absurd devotion were over.

I was going to be another man's wife.