1.

Angelica

*present day*

“Fix that pretty face of yours!” Nicolas grabs my face, his thumb and index fingers digging into my cheek, hard enough to make me wince.

“God forbid the D’amatos think it’s not as perfect as everyone says it is,” he hisses, then releases my face from his grip, his eyes roaming up and down my body in disgust. Twisting his lips in a frown, he digs into his pocket and takes out a handkerchief which he uses to wipe his hands as though he touched something filthy. I should feel bad that he does this, but I don’t because it’s not like it’s the first time.

I’m filth. The filth he cannot get rid of.

“Yes, Father.” I don’t dare look him in the eyes.

One would think I would’ve grown a thick skin by now, but it is impossible, not when Nicolas never fails to remind me just how worthless I am at every given or taken opportunity.

I press my hands together behind me and give him my most subtle smile, fixing my pretty face just as he ordered.

I watch the man I call Father scan the D’Amato garden, no doubt to ensure we’re alone and no one saw him do what he did. Fortunately for him, we’re behind a tall shrub, safe from the view of the bodyguards manning the entrance to the garden so he returns his gaze to me, shoving his hands into the pockets of his black tux, his thick eyebrows furrowing as he watches me.

His eyes linger on my face, dark and dangerous, sending chills down my spine, a reminder that I’m nothing and I can only afford to be clothed in the high slit, midnight blue cocktail dress I have on because of his mercy.

“Behave yourself tonight. Nothing can go wrong,” Nicolas continues, as if he didn’t say these exact words to me fifteen times before leaving our house for the D’amatos.

Nicolas didn’t trust me, that’s why he pulled me to the famous D’amato garden after we arrived at the mansion, for this talk. Of course, I already know not to mess up or act in any way that would bring shame to the family, but the warnings I received about this party since the start of the week were far more than usual.

“You’re going to walk in there and mesmerize everyone in that room like your life depends on it,” Nicolas says. “Because it does.”

“Yes, Father.” I nod my head at him, biting down on my lower lip in fear that I will have to enter a room filled with more than twenty people. I let out a frustrated groan—mentally, of course.

“Let’s go in,” he orders, giving me one more once over. With my shaky hands behind me, there’s no way I can go in right now, and not with him.

“Let me at least prepare myself,” I say, blinking up at him, silently pleading.

Nicolas parts his lips like he’s about to say something, probably refuse me, but he decides against it. Instead, he pulls out his left hand from his pocket, angles his diamond-encrusted Rolex to his face, then raises his head and shoots me a look I know all too well.

“Two minutes. I shouldn’t look for you,” he says, voice deep and filled with an unsaid promise that I know for a fact will not favor me in the slightest.

I nod without asking for more time because that will only bring trouble, and I don’t need that—not now, not ever.

I watch Nicolas’s tall and lean figure as he walks toward the sliding door we came from, that connects the garden to the main house, his right hand still sitting in his pocket, with an air of confidence about him like he owns the place.

Now, that’s the thing about him. He knows he’s good-looking and uses it to his advantage. Natural waves in his hair, warm brown eyes people never stop complimenting, and that flawless smile my half-sister, Nadine, inherited from him.

It’s the kind of smile that makes his small eyes appear even smaller whenever he smiles, making him look trustworthy. Harmless.

Sometimes I think he practices in front of a mirror to make it even more flawless.

The moment he disappears inside, a heavy sigh escapes my lips, my chest loosening as I drag in a breath, then another, chasing the brief relief.

It’s not enough.

I need to leave.

RUN AWAY AND START OVER.

The words ring loudly in my head again, like it’s been doing since I wrote them down.

“Calm down,” I tell myself in an attempt to stop my heart from pounding loudly against my chest, but of course, it doesn’t work because not only was I forced to be here, but I have to be here with a lot of people.

Another heavy breath escapes me, and I’m begging to feel lightheaded with just the thought of walking into the mansion.

“You’re only going to be here for an hour,” I murmur, rubbing at my chest to ease my fast-rising anxiety. My fear of crowded places is the one weakness Nicolas despises most.

He hates weakness, and because of it, he rarely lets me leave the house—not after the times I embarrassed him when I was younger.

I inhale slowly, letting the cool night air fill my lungs, forcing some of the tension out. Only then do I realize my feet haven’t moved since I stepped into the garden.

“My two minutes are almost up,” I whisper, finally forcing myself forward but that doesn't stop me from taking a quick assessing look around the garden.

The D’amato name is known to anyone with status in the United States. Their influence stretches across businesses, across borders—even into politics, from what I’ve overheard Nicolas say. They are rich. Powerful. Feared.

And Nicolas works as the legal advisor to the family. That’s why Nicolas can afford a house at Brown Hill, and why we were invited to such a party with high-ranking businessmen and women, as well as politicians.

Nicolas has the D’amatos backing, having worked with the family since I was ten, so if there is anything I know about them, it’s that they thrive on appearances; they always look fancy and proper, and expect the same from the people who work for and with them. It’s why, even though Nicolas hates my guts, he hasn’t sent me away. Instead, I’m forced to live as his personal punching bag.

Not for much longer, I hope.

I bite down on my lower lip, forgetting for a second that I have lipstick on, gathering what little courage my five-foot-five body can muster before stepping inside.

The bass coming from the live band playing in the hall hits me, and I instantly feel lightheaded as the sound of music and people talking all at once reverberates through my head.

Gripping the hem of my long dress to hide my trembling fingers, I scan the room for a familiar face to help ease my anxiety, and I feel a wave of relief wash over me when I find Nicolas’s familiar figure in a corner. I hate him as much as he hates me, but right now familiar feels safer than everything else in this room.

His eyes find mine instantly, and his flawless smile stays, but something darker flickers beneath it.

He knows I took longer than my appointed two minutes.

With my eyes locked on him, I make my way to the corner where he is, politely ignoring the guests whose eyes won’t leave my face, and waiters who keep offering champagne in tall flutes to me.

“She’s finally here,” a woman who looks no older than forty-five but just turned sixty, coos at me. I watch her bright red lip transform into a smile that reaches her eyes, her acrylic nails digging lightly into my arm as she pulls me closer. Her floral scent which mixes with the overall scent of food in the hall calms me, and for a moment, I contemplate leaning into her more just to keep inhaling her scent.

I decide against it, of course, offering her a curt nod instead, with my default smile on my face.

“Good evening and happy birthday to you, Mrs. D’amato,” I bow my head slightly with a small smile.

“Thank you, darling,” Celia D’amato responds, her smile never leaving her face as she watches me. I step away from her stylishly, inching close to Nicolas and the rest of his family, whom I’m only just noticing have been standing next to him.

“She’s such a sweet girl,” Celia says and Nicolas nods. I know Celia is being sweet, but I don’t understand why she is being overly sweet to a girl she has only met three times in almost fifteen years, and each time was by chance since Nicolas never lets us get too close to the D’amatos. Ever.

“You trained her well, Nico,” She beams, then as if realizing Nicolas’s wife is standing next to him, she adds, “and I’m sure Sarah did a good job helping out.”

Sarah returns the smile, her fingers digging into her son’s shoulders, as if waiting for Celia to compliment her son.

Celia doesn’t.

Small as it is, it brings me little satisfaction because for years, Sarah’s primary aim in life was to get as close as she could to the D’amatos, but because Nicolas stopped us from interacting with the family, she hasn't been very successful.

Celia and Nicolas fall into a hushed conversation with her eyes darting from my face to Nadine’s, and the comfort I felt earlier begins to wither away. Even more so when a group of people approaches our corner to congratulate the woman, their eyes lingering just a little too long.

The comfort quickly fades, replaced by something much more familiar—fear.

Bile rises in my throat the more people approach us, causing the space to feel tighter as though the fresh air supply is cut off, making me feel claustrophobic and blurring my vision.

I place a hand on my chest and part my lips slightly for air, but I can’t take any in.

I can’t breathe.

“Where is your son?” I hear a muffled voice ask Celia, who shrugs before letting her eyes roam about the room, probably trying to find the son in question.

“Ah, there he is making his way over to us,” are the last words I hear before my head goes completely blank. My heartbeat increases and I feel my stomach revolt with nausea.

Before anyone can stop me, or before I can even stop myself, my legs begin to move, dancing around people to the exit I’d just come from. That is before I bump into a solid hard wall. With my shaky hands spread on the hard surface, I feel something wet trickle down my fingers, and it takes a total of five seconds to register that I have not only bumped into someone, but I also spilled their drink over their black three-piece suit.

Large hands grip my shoulders hard to keep me from falling, or causing further destruction, and with my right hand over my mouth, I mutter something that sounds close to an apology, but I’m not so sure myself since I am functioning on autopilot with one clear destination: the garden.

And one thought in my mind: Nicolas is going to kill me.