CHAPTER ONE

Julian POV

"Sign it, or I’ll let my brothers finish what they started. You aren't a man anymore, Julian. You're an asset."

The voice was like grinding stones, cold and immovable. I looked up, or at least I tried. My neck felt threaded with hot wire, and my left eye was swollen nearly shut. Blood trickled from a split lip, dripping onto the pristine white silk of a shirt that had cost more than a common man’s monthly rent. Now it was just a rag, stained with the metallic tang of iron, a sharp, copper reminder of the last three hours of my life.

My hands were tied behind a rusted metal chair, the hemp rope biting into my wrists every time I tried to flex my fingers. The basement smelled of damp concrete, old oil, and the underlying rot of a place built to break spirits. Every breath I took felt like inhaling sandpaper.

Before me stood Dante "The Butcher" Moretti.

He was a ghost story told in the shipping lanes, a nightmare parents used to keep their rebellious sons in line. He was impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit, his presence so dominant it seemed to suck the oxygen from the small, dimly lit room. He looked at me not with hatred but with the clinical detachment of a jeweler examining a flawed diamond. In one hand he held a fountain pen; in the other, a single sheet of heavy, cream-colored parchment.

"My father is barely cold in the ground, Dante," I spat. The movement sent a fresh jolt of agony through my jaw. "The funeral was yesterday. And you think I’m going to hand over the Vane lineage to a Moretti? You’re dumber than you look."

Dante didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He leaned in, and the world narrowed to the scent of his expensive sandalwood, cold rain, and the faint, terrifying smell of gunpowder. It was an overwhelming, masculine scent that shouldn't have been enticing, yet in this gutter of a basement, it was the only thing that felt alive.

He grabbed my jaw, his thumb pressing into the deep, violet bruise on my cheekbone. He applied just enough pressure to make white spots dance in my vision, forcing my head back against the cold metal of the chair.

"Your father isn't cold, Julian. He's ash. I watched them slide the casket into the furnace myself," he whispered, his dark eyes boring into mine, searching for the precise moment my spirit would snap. "And your brothers? Leo and Marcus? They’re upstairs in my parlor, drinking my fifty-year-old scotch and celebrating that they’ve finally found a use for the 'useless' Golden Prince."

I tried to shake my head, but his grip was a vice. "You're lying."

"They sold you, Julian. To settle the debt they had run up while you were playing at being an intellectual in Florence. They signed the transfer of the docks, the warehouses, and the casino an hour ago. All they needed to throw in to seal the deal… was you."

The air left my lungs. I felt like I was falling through the floor, plunging into an icy sea. Leo and Marcus wouldn't do that. We were Vanes. We were the blood that ruled this city’s shipping lanes. We were supposed to be a fortress. But as I looked at the cold, dead certainty in Dante’s gaze, the hope I was clutching onto shattered into a thousand jagged pieces.

I had been the "Golden Prince," the face of the family, the one kept away from the blood and the dirt. I thought they were protecting me. Now, I realized they were fattening the calf for the slaughter.

"They wouldn't," I whispered, though the strength was gone from my voice. It was a plea, not a statement.

"They already did." Dante released my jaw and dropped the parchment onto my lap. It wasn't a bank transfer. It wasn't a confession of crimes.

It was a marriage license.

"I don't want your money, Julian. I’ll take that from your brothers soon enough," Dante said, straightening his tie as he stepped back, the light catching the silver links of his watch. "I want the Vane name. I want the history, prestige, and legitimacy that come with your bloodline. In this city, the only way I get that without a decade of street war is a union."

"A Blood Marriage," I said, a hollow, hysterical laugh bubbling up in my chest. "You’re insane. This isn't the Middle Ages, Dante. You can't just force a man to marry you to take his crown. The courts"

"The courts belong to me. The police belong to me. And as of an hour ago, your brothers belong to me." He signaled to the guard standing in the shadows behind me. A knife flicked open with a sharp clack, and the ropes at my wrists fell away.

My arms slumped forward, leaden and tingling with the sudden, painful rush of blood. I rubbed my raw, red skin as I stared at the document. The names were already filled in. Dante Moretti. Julian Vane. It was a death sentence wrapped in a vow. If I signed this, I wasn't a rival anymore. I wasn't even a person. I was a Moretti. I was his.

"And if I refuse?" I asked, looking at the heavy steel door. I could almost hear the muffled sound of my brothers' laughter from the floors above.

Dante pulled a sleek, silver-plated Beretta from his shoulder holster and placed it on the table next to the pen. The metal glinted under the single, swinging lightbulb.

"Then I save myself the cost of a wedding. I'll kill you here, walk upstairs, and tell your brothers that you died resisting. They won't care, Julian. They’ll be too busy counting the coins I gave them for your head. They’ve already moved on. The question is, have you?"

I looked at the pen. I looked at the gun. My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs, a trapped bird screaming for an exit that didn't exist. I was Julian Vane. I had been educated in Europe, trained to lead, and promised a kingdom. I was supposed to be the one giving orders, not the one choosing between a ring and a bullet in a concrete basement.

The pain in my chest wasn't from the beating. It was the realization of the ultimate betrayal. I had been traded like livestock by the people I loved most. The city I loved was now my cage, and the man standing over me was the new master of the keys.

I reached out, my fingers trembling so violently I had to grip the table to steady myself. I picked up the fountain pen. The gold nib felt cold, a stark contrast to the heat of the blood still trickling down my neck.

"You’ll regret this, Dante," I whispered, my voice cracking but my eyes finally finding his. "I’m not a puppet. I’m not a piece of furniture you can just move into your house. I’ll burn your empire down around you while you sleep."

Dante’s lips quirked into something that wasn't quite a smile. It was the expression of a predator watching its prey finally stop running and start baring its teeth. He liked the defiance. It made the conquest more interesting.

"I’m counting on it, Julian. A quiet life has always bored me. Now, sign. I have a schedule to keep."

I pressed the pen to the paper. The ink bled into the heavy parchment, black and permanent. Julian Vane-Moretti. As I finished the last loop of my name, Dante snatched the paper away and checked the signature with a nod of approval. He didn't offer a hand to help me up. He didn't offer a word of comfort. He tucked the paper into his breast pocket and looked at the guards.

"Clean him up. I want the grime and the Vane stench gone. If there’s a single drop of blood on his shirt when we reach the estate, it’ll be your blood on the floor."

Dante turned on his heel and walked toward the door, his footsteps echoing with terrifying precision against the concrete. At the threshold, he stopped and looked back at me over his shoulder. The light hit the side of his face, highlighting the scar that ran along his jaw—a mark of the violence he lived by.

"Welcome to the family, Julian. Try not to die before the ceremony. It would be a waste of a good suit."

The heavy steel door slammed shut, the sound of the bolt sliding into place echoing like a coffin being nailed shut.

I was left alone with the two guards. They moved towards me with brutal efficiency. One of them kicked over a bucket of ice-cold water, and the liquid splashed over my boots, soaking into the floor. They didn't use towels; they used rags that smelled of bleach. They scrubbed at the blood on my face and neck with a roughness that made me hiss in pain, but I didn't scream. I wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

They stripped the ruined silk shirt from my back, exposing the darkening bruises on my ribs and the raw marks left by the ropes. They forced me into a fresh, crisp white shirt and a black blazer that fitted me perfectly. Dante had clearly had my measurements long before tonight. He had planned this for weeks, maybe months.

As they buckled a leather belt around my waist, I realized the real war hadn't even begun. I wasn't just a prisoner in a basement anymore. I was a husband to a monster, a trophy for a Butcher, and a ghost to the brothers who had discarded me.

I looked at my reflection in a shard of broken mirror on the wall. The "Golden Prince" was gone. In his place was a man with cold eyes and a heart that was rapidly turning to stone.

I would sign their papers. I would wear their rings. But I would never be their asset