Chapter 2
Elias
Someone’s shouting my name before I even wake up.
At first, I think it’s the dream again—the one where the house catches fire and I’m the only one who doesn’t run. But then the door slams open, and I see the shape of Bruno, one of my father’s men, filling the frame like a storm.
“Get up.” His voice is rough, already out of patience.
The light spilling in from the hall is cold. I blink and push up on my elbows, heart already kicking hard. My room still smells like cedar and sleep and the faint smoke from the fireplace I forgot to put out.
“What’s going on?”
He doesn’t answer. He crosses the room, grabs my wrist, and yanks me up before I’ve even found my footing. I stumble against him, bare feet sliding on the rug.
“Bruno—what the hell—”
“Orders from your father.”
That sentence is enough to freeze me. The Moretti household runs on orders, not explanations.
My father gives them; the rest of us obey.
But there’s something wrong with the way Bruno won’t meet my eyes.
He’s looking past me, toward the open window, toward the snow still falling outside like it might swallow the whole city.
“I didn’t do anything,” I say, though it comes out as a laugh, a nervous one. “If this is about the card game—”
Bruno doesn’t bother answering. Two more men appear behind him, faces hard, dressed in the family’s dark coats. They move in perfect sync, like they practiced this. The one on the left, Nico, carries a folded piece of red silk in his hand.
It looks like a ribbon.
My stomach drops.
“Bruno,” I try again, but he already has my arm twisted behind my back. “Let me go!” I shove backward with everything I have, hit him square in the chest with my heel, but the grip doesn’t loosen. Another man grabs my other arm. The movement is clean and efficient.
This isn’t punishment. It’s a delivery.
I realize what’s happening before anyone says it. I’ve heard the rumors. Everyone has. Romano’s funeral, the talk in the bars, the insane demand that spread through the underworld like a bad joke: Send me your youngest son. Wrapped in a red silk bow.
At the time, I laughed like everyone else. Thought it was a story the cops made up to sell fear. But the ribbon in Nico’s hand says otherwise.
“You’re not serious,” I choke out. “He—he can’t—”
Bruno doesn’t respond. He just pushes me toward the door. My shoulder hits the frame hard enough to spark pain down my arm.
“Stop fighting,” he says. “Don’t make it worse.”
Worse. The word sticks. There’s always a worse when it comes to my father.
The hallway outside is full of people pretending not to watch. Maids with their heads bowed, one of my cousins frozen halfway down the stairs, mouth open. The air smells like cologne and fear.
I dig my heels into the carpet. “Where is he? I want to talk to him.”
“Downstairs,” Bruno says. “Move.”
The staircase is cold under my bare feet. I can hear voices in the study before I see anyone—my father’s low and calm, the tone he uses when he’s already decided something.
When they shove me through the door, the room falls silent.
My father stands behind his desk, hands clasped behind his back. The fireplace throws light on his face, picking out the lines that have been carved deeper this year—grief, maybe, or guilt, though I doubt it’s the second. He’s still wearing black from the funeral two days ago.
“Elias,” he says like my name is a formality, like he’s checking me off a list.
“What the hell is this?” My voice cracks. “You’re giving me away?”
His gaze doesn’t move. “It’s necessary.”
“Necessary?” I laugh, sharp and ugly. “You’re sending me to the man who killed Grandfather, who’s been gutting our business since the funeral, because—what—because you’re scared?”
He doesn’t flinch. That’s what makes it worse.
“This is peace,” he says. “A gesture to end blood before it spills.”
“I’m not a gesture.”
He sighs, long and tired, like I’m a child who just won’t learn. “You’ll be treated well if you behave.”
Something in me snaps. I lunge for him. Bruno’s ready; he catches me before I reach the desk. I get one good swing in—my fist catches the edge of the lamp, sends it crashing to the floor, but then a hand grabs my hair and wrenches me backward.
“Stop!” my father snaps, sharper now. “You’ll go, Elias. You’ll go because you’re my son, and this family needs to live another day.”
I spit the taste of dust out of my mouth. “No. You need to live another day. You want me gone, fine—disown me. But I’m not bowing to him.”
Bruno forces me down until I’m kneeling. The humiliation burns hotter than the fire behind me. I look up at my father, at the man who used to tell me bedtime stories about loyalty, and realize he doesn’t see me anymore. He sees an offering.
He nods to Nico. “Do it.”
The ribbon comes out, bright red against his black gloves. I jerk away, but they’re stronger. The silk slides around my throat, smooth, obscene, and tied in a bow I can feel against my skin. I hate that it’s soft. I hate that it smells faintly of perfume.
“Take him,” my father says.
The next few minutes blur: the walk through the snow, the car door slamming, the city lights flashing past like broken promises. Bruno sits across from me in the backseat, eyes fixed on the window. The ribbon catches in the reflection, a flash of red against the glass.
“Why me?” I ask finally. My voice sounds smaller than I want.
“Because you’re the youngest,” he says. “And he asked for you.”
The drive to the Romano estate takes two hours. The snow gets heavier the further north we go. By the time we reach the iron gates, it’s nearly blinding. The house beyond the drive looks nothing like ours—modern, all glass and angles, lit up like it’s defying the darkness.
When the car stops, my stomach is one tight knot. I tell myself not to show fear, not to give them that. I’m nineteen. Old enough to know that once you start shaking, you never stop.
The door opens. Cold air rushes in, biting at my skin. Bruno gestures for me to get out. I do, but I keep my chin up. The ribbon flutters in the wind, bright and mocking.
There are men waiting at the gate—Romano men, black coats, sharp eyes. They don’t touch me, but the way they look says they could. One of them murmurs into a radio. Another signals toward the house.
And then I see him.
Lucian Romano.
He walks down the steps like he owns the weather.
Tall, all in black, the kind of calm that looks dangerous.
His hair is neatly styled, but I can see a loose curl or two threatening his carefully crafted facade.
The scar at his throat catches the light when he stops.
I’d seen pictures, but pictures don’t do him justice.
He’s not the monster I imagined. He’s worse. He’s beautiful.
For a second, I can’t move. Then I remember who he is—the man who demanded me like a present, the one my father chose to please—and every instinct flares.
He studies me, eyes unreadable. “Mr. Moretti,” he says, voice smooth and cold as the air. “Right on schedule.”
The sound of it makes something twist inside me, fear, hate, maybe both. I want to say something sharp, but the words catch behind my teeth.
Lucian steps closer. Snowflakes melt on his shoulders, slide down the wool of his coat. He looks down at me like he’s inspecting the craftsmanship of his trophy.
“You expected a bow,” I say, the defiance kicking in at last. “Congratulations. You got one.”
For a moment, something almost like amusement flickers in his eyes. Then it’s gone.
He reaches out, slow and deliberate, hand rising toward my face.
Lucian’s hand is cold when it reaches me—cold from the snow, cold from the kind of man he has to be. I should flinch, but I don’t. I stand still because I want him to know I’m not afraid.
That’s a lie, of course. My heart is thundering. But fear is leverage, and I’m not giving him any.
His fingertips brush my jaw, slow and assessing, like he’s testing the temperature of something he already owns. He’s taller than I thought—easily over six feet—and his presence is magnetic in a way that makes my skin prickle.
“You look like your mother,” he says quietly.
That’s the first thing he chooses to say to me. Not welcome, not hello. Just that.
It hits like an insult.
I jerk my head back, eyes narrowing.
A small smile ghosts across his mouth. “You’ll learn, Elias.”
And maybe it’s the way he says my name, or maybe it’s the way everyone around us stands so still, waiting for my next mistake—but something reckless takes over.
Before anyone can react, I sink my teeth into his hand.
It’s instinct more than strategy, quick and brutal. The metallic taste of blood floods my mouth, sharp and electric. For half a second, the world goes silent.
Then hands are on me again, pulling me backward. I spit blood into the snow. It looks obscene there, too bright against all that white.
Lucian stares down at the mark on his hand. A thin line of red gleams where my teeth broke skin. He doesn’t swear. Doesn’t even raise his voice. Just looks at me with something that makes the back of my neck burn.
“Feisty,” he murmurs. “I should’ve guessed.”
“Go to hell,” I snap.
That earns a laugh—not loud, but real. It’s the first sound from him that doesn’t feel like an order.
“Not tonight,” he says. “Take him inside.”
The Romano men tighten their grip. I twist once, twice, but it’s useless. They drag me across the snow toward the front steps. The cold bites at my bare ankles; the ribbon at my throat feels like it’s pulsing with my heartbeat.
Inside, warmth hits like a slap. The house is nothing like ours—sleek, modern, all sharp lines and glass walls.
The kind of place that doesn’t pretend to hide what it is.
Every surface gleams. A grand staircase curves upward, wrapped in a strand of white lights that look more like frost than decoration.