Marriage of Sin (Deadly Sins #1)

Chapter 1

ADRIANA

My father's world has rules.

Don't trust anyone.

Don't show weakness.

And don't ever forget that blood is thicker than the life you tried to build without those ties.

I broke all three before the night was over.

The Hartwell Foundation Gala is exactly the kind of event I hate. It’s old money pretending to care about new and trendy causes, air kisses from people who’d sell their grandmother for the right introduction, champagne that costs more per glass than some people make in a week.

But my mother asked me to come. And when Maria DiMicheli commands, you show up.

Even if you’ve spent two decades trying to pretend the DiMicheli part of your life doesn’t exist.

I step out of my Town Car — mine, not my father’s — and I’m immediately blinded by the camera flashes. They see Adriana Colonna, CEO on Forbes Top 40 Rising Female Entrepreneurs list with a Wall Street Journal profile. The woman who built a consulting empire from nothing.

But they don’t see beyond all of that. They don’t know about the life I escaped.

And that’s the point.

“Ms. Colonna! Over here!”

My lips lift into the smile I’ve perfected. It’s professional and controlled. The one that says successful businesswoman and absolutely nothing else that they can sink their teeth into.

I pull my phone out of my clutch bag when it vibrates, and my sister Luna’s name flashes on the screen. I click to open her text as I walk past the photographers with a final wave.

Please tell me you’re not wearing that black dress again.

I grin and look down at my burgundy gown before typing a response.

I’m not wearing the black dress.

Her next message comes through fast.

Cleavage??

My sister thinks my taste in clothes is a little too uptight.

She’s not wrong. I’ve definitely gotten more conservative with my outfits, especially since I started my own company.

It’s not like I can command boardrooms wearing anything tight, low cut, or cropped.

I’m not twenty anymore. I realized very early in my career that if I want to be taken seriously, I need to dress like I want to be taken seriously.

That means no fun clothes or low-cut gala gowns.

Strapless.

Three gray dots appear. Then a crying emoji pops up on the screen.

I smirk.

At least you’re giving shoulder. Now get your butt inside, have some champagne, and find a hot guy to flirt with.

With a roll of my eyes, I shoot off a response.

I don’t flirt.

Her response comes almost immediately, and it stings a little, if I’m being honest.

That’s why you’re still single at forty, Adri. Live a little for once.

Ouch.

I say it with nothing but love. Call me later with a full report, and you’d better have a sexy story to tell me.

I stuff my phone back into my bag and walk into the ballroom, which is a blur of sparkling crystal chandeliers and designer gowns. I grab a champagne flute from a passing server and scan the room.

I spot my mother first. She’s holding court near the stage, looking elegant in navy silk.

But her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

It never does at these things. She worries too much, about my father and Luna, about me, and about the invisible threads that tie us to a world she chose to marry into.

The one I ran from.

My father is next to her, shaking hands with men in expensive suits.

Francesco DiMicheli. Businessman. Philanthropist. At least, that’s what the speaker program said in the email Dad sent.

But I know what he really is. I’ve always known.

I just chose to build something separate and different.

Near my father, I spot Vincenzo — Zio Vinnie, as Luna and I called him growing up.

He’s been my father’s right hand for as long as I can remember, more uncle than employee.

He scans the room the way he always does, alert with one hand resting near his jacket.

Just in case. Always on guard. Always in protector mode.

He catches my eye and gives me a nod and a wink. I wave at him.

Taking another look around, I see that there are plenty of potential clients in this room. It’s filled to the brim with the Boston elite, and I don’t ever waste good opportunities to snag new clients for my consulting firm. So I make my rounds, shake hands, make small talk, and pitch my services.

But something feels off.

It takes me a minute to figure out what. Then my gaze latches onto a man standing at the bar.

And he’s watching me.

He’s tall and built with dark hair and piercing blue eyes. He’s also younger than most of the men here, maybe in his late twenties. His tuxedo fits too well to be a rental, but he’s not running around flaunting his god-like form. He’s not drinking either, just holding a glass and watching.

Not the room. Me.

I blink and look away. I must be imagining it. He’s too young to be looking at me like that.

My eyes betray me and flit back toward him. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle.

Nope, definitely not imagining it.

But there’s something about the way he stares. I’ve spent my whole life surrounded by dangerous men. I know what they look like, how they move, and the air of confidence they have that comes from knowing exactly how much damage they can do.

This guy screams everything I should be afraid of.

Our eyes meet across the room.

My heart stutters and stalls for a long second.

He doesn’t look at me the way men usually do. They don’t really see me; they’re just interested in my wealth and connections. They look at me like they’re trying to decide whether I’m worth the effort, or if my barracuda reputation is better left in a boardroom.

But this man looks at me like he’s trying to confirm something, like which piece of a puzzle I can fit into.

Then he looks away, and my chest deflates when I let out the breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding.

Who the hell is that?

I should let it go. I have more potential clients to schmooze. And I want to check on my mom before Dad takes the stage for his speech.

But I can’t forget that man and his eyes. Especially his eyes. Blue ice that penetrated with the power to peel away layers, layers I don’t ever want exposed.

The room quiets as my father walks up to the podium. I can’t help the grin from spreading across my face. He loves the spotlight and takes every opportunity to pretend he’s a legitimate businessman. And with his commanding presence and natural charisma, he can fool a room into believing just that.

I watch him speak and feel the usual tangle of emotions in my chest. Love and disappointment. Pride and resentment. Fear that never quite goes away, no matter how hard I try to put distance between our worlds.

From her position just below the stage, my mother watches him with that familiar expression etched with love and worry. Because in her world, you’re always waiting for the other shoe to drop — or the other bullet to fire.

And it often does. You just never know when.

I slide through clusters of people, heading toward my mother and the stage when the first shot cracks the air.

Just wasn’t expecting that shot to already be chambered.

I reach my mother’s side. Then… chaos consumes the room.

Screams pierce the air, centerpiece vases shatter.

Glass shards fly through the air as bodies hit the floor.

More shots explode and panic bubbles in my chest as I cover my mother’s body with my own.

She screams, shuddering against me. I dart my head around, a hiss of breath slipping from my lips.

There are multiple gunmen in black masks by the service entrance, maybe three or four.

My father’s men are in front of the stage. They pull out their guns, searching for the source of the shots. Guests run, tripping over each other to get to the exits.

And my father—

Three more shots fire, hitting him square in the chest. He crumples to the floor like a bag of cement.

“Dad!” The scream rips from my lungs as I grab Mom by the arm and rush for the stage, shoving through bodies, tripping over an overturned chair.

One of Dad’s security guys, Marco, grabs my mother and pulls her toward a side exit. She fights him, yelling for my dad.

“Mom,” I cry out. But she doesn’t hear me. Marco leads her through the door and they disappear. But Dad… I have to get to him, even if the bullets keep flying.

Even if it puts me in the line of fire, too.

My heels catch on something—the carpet, a purse, I don’t know—and I stumble but keep going. I can barely squeeze out a breath to call his name, my throat is so tight.

Vincenzo is already on stage and on the floor next to my father. He shouts orders and presses his hands against Dad’s wounds. His face is pale, blood stains blooming on his white dress shirt. Other men start to surround them, forming a circle around Dad.

But before I can move another inch, hands close around my waist from behind. They’re strong and unyielding. I struggle, trying to wiggle out of the vise-like grip.

Then my blood chills when a low, calm voice hisses, “Don’t fight me.”

But screw that. I keep fighting because I never cower.

Something I learned from Dad.

I use everything — my elbows, my fingernails, my knees. But his grip is too tight, and I’m trapped in it.

“Fuck you, that’s my father—” I struggle and whip around to see the man from the bar holding me.

“And you’re no good to him dead.” He pulls me backward, toward the emergency exit. “Move.”

I claw at his arms, trying to break free. “Let me go—”

“Your father’s men have him. You need to move. Now.”

“I’m not leaving him!”

More gunfire. A bullet shatters something over my head, maybe a chandelier. A stifled cry knots in my throat and I duck, covering my head with my arm.

“You don’t have a choice,” he says.

For one second, everything stops. His chest presses against my back, his breath hot against my ear.

“We go now, or we don't go at all.”