5

Chapter five

My fiancé is ten years older than me, and it doesn’t help that he’s in the Italian mafia. The underboss, I’ve been told. An absolute dickhead.

I’m on the verge of a panic attack at my own engagement party, and no one seems to care. Not even my father. He’s too busy posing for the cameras, pretending this is a happy day—for him. Not me. This is a nightmare.

By the time I make it upstairs to my bedroom, I’ve lost count of how many times I muttered “excuse me.” I slam the door shut and head straight to the mirror.

Nowhere feels safe anymore.

I feel… trapped. Lost.

I let out a cold laugh and dig my nails into my wrist again. Physical pain feels easier to bear than the storm of emotions inside me.

My mother wasn’t allowed to attend. The one person I need.

“Fuck!” I scream, grabbing the nearest glass and hurling it against the wall. The music downstairs masks the sound. I’m tempted to throw more.

“You’re a violent little thing, aren’t you?”

I freeze.

The voice. I know it. The stranger.

I turn, catching him leaning casually against the balcony railing, eyes locked on me.

“What are you doing in my bedroom?” My voice trembles from the panic I almost had.

He shrugs. “What are you doing here? It’s your engagement party, isn’t it?”

My jaw clenches. “It is.”

“What happened?” He raises a brow at the shards of glass on the floor. “Your father got you the wrong cake?”

I don’t answer.

He thinks I’m spoiled. I can’t blame him. My father has carefully crafted this image, and it works—too well.

“Who invited you?” I ask, though I already know the answer. It wasn’t me. I’ve had no say in today’s events. I don’t know anyone here. I have no friends. No family I’m close to. God, I’m pathetic. Except my mother—I want her here. 

“Your future husband is… quite a choice,” he says instead of answering. “How long have you known each other?”

“Years.” The lie comes easily. I’ve been practicing it for days under my father’s watch. “We met at a charity event. I was immediately taken by him.” My nails dig into my skin as each lie leaves my mouth. “We fell in love. He proposed two weeks ago on a date.”

“Stop doing that,” he says, ignoring my words.

“What?” I ask, confused. “Stop doing what?”

“That,” he jerks his head toward my hands. “You’re hurting yourself.”

I separate them instantly, cursing myself for losing control in front of a stranger. A stranger who is… in my bedroom.

He runs a hand through his dark curls with a sigh. “So, princess, what’s got you pissed?”

“You guessed it,” I shrug, putting on my practiced mask of indifference and spoiled entitlement. “Daddy got the wrong cake. I wanted vanilla; he got chocolate.”

“Ah. Your life problems always this dramatic?”

“Yes.” I smile sweetly. “The last one was my maid, Janet, not ironing my clothes properly. Such a scandal.”

He looks bored now. Good.

“You never told me your name,” I say, tilting my head up. God, he’s tall. Easily 6’4.

“You never asked.”

“Well, I’m asking now.”

“Landon.”

I raise a brow. “Landonwhat?”

“LandonVolkov.”

“You’re Russian?” I can’t hide the surprise in my voice. He doesn’t sound Russian—his English is perfect. I would never have guessed on my own. 

“Yes,” he says, smirking. “I’m Russian, Tsvetochka.”

I freeze, blinking. What did he just call me?

Before I can ask him what it means, the door of my bedroom slams open, revealing my fiancé.

“Bella.” Roberto’s thick Italian accent makes me want to run away and never look back—his looks aren’t helping either. He barely has any hair left on his head. “What are you doing here with him, amore?” His eyes widen when they fall to the ground. “Dios mio. What happened here?”

“I broke it,” I say simply. “By mistake.”

“Oh.” Roberto sighs, glancing at Landon again. “What are you doing here?”

“You’re questioning me, Bartelini?” Landon arches a brow, shoving his hands into his pockets as he straightens up. I can’t help noticing the differences between them. Height, looks, presence—Roberto doesn’t even come close to Landon.

Roberto’s jaw tightens. “No, of course not. I’d never question you.”

“Good.” Landon walks past, throwing me one last glance before leaving. 

What was that?

Roberto is the underboss of the Italian mafia. He has every right to question Landonunless… unless LandonVolkov outranks him.

Impossible. If Landon were involved with the Italians, I’d know. My father hosts galas annually; I’m familiar with everyone in the underworld. Except Landon.

So who is he?

Once Landon is out of sight, Roberto grips my arm tightly. “I don’t want to see you near him again. Capsiche?”

“Who is he?” I ask.

“He’s in the F.B.I.,” Roberto hisses. “A dirty fed.”

I frown. “He works for the F.B.I. and the underworld?”

Roberto nods. “Being a FED is just his cover. He doesn’t work for anyone in the underworld. He’s his own man.”

I scoff. “That’s not a thing.”

"Landon Volkov made it one.” His grip loosens slightly. “And you stay away from him. I don’t need you whoring around while we’re engaged.”

“I wasn’t—”

Slap.

This bastard just slapped me.

He fucking slapped me.

“There.” He releases me. “You’ll learn your place eventually.”

My cheek burns where his hand connected. Heat, shame, and anger all at once. I want to scream, to push him away, to run, but my body feels frozen.

I can’t believe this is my life.

Every instinct screams that this is wrong. That no one should raise a hand to me, not even him. And yet… here I am. Engaged to a man who thinks slapping me is acceptable. Who thinks he can control me with fear.

Anger bubbles up. Anger at my father, at Roberto, at every man who thinks they can dictate my life.

I hate this. I hate being trapped. I hate being… afraid.

I press a hand to my cheek, the sting still sharp, and look at Roberto. His eyes are cold, unyielding. He thinks this is obedience. He thinks this is power. But I… I won’t let him see the damage inside. 

I turn away, keeping my voice level, quiet. “I understand,” I murmur. But inside, I’m screaming. I will never let this be my life.

I can’t. I won’t.