Sweet Disasters

CHAPTER 1

SIENNA

My father sold me for three million dollars, exclusive access to the Brooklyn docks, and a vintage Ferrari.

By midnight, I would have a ring on my finger, a deadbolt on my door, and the terrible suspicion that the monster who bought me might be the only man in New York willing to keep me alive.

I was honestly a little offended by the Ferrari. It felt tacked on. Like I was a clearance item at a mafia yard sale. Buy one shipping route, get a twenty-two-year-old daughter absolutely free.

I stood in the center of the grand foyer of the Morretti estate, gripping the handle of my single Louis Vuitton suitcase. The wheels had squeaked against the pristine white marble when the guards shoved me inside, a sound that felt far too loud in the cavernous space.

The house smelled like lemon wax, old money, and impending doom.

"You can put the bag down, Miss Rossi."

I shifted my attention to the man standing by the heavy mahogany front doors. He was built like a commercial refrigerator and wore a suit that strained across his biceps. An earpiece coiled down his thick neck. He hadn't blinked in at least two minutes.

"I’m good, thanks," I said, offering him a bright, entirely fake smile. "If I put it down, it means I live here. If I hold it, I’m just an unwilling tourist."

The human refrigerator did not smile back. "You live here."

"Debatable." I tapped my index finger against the leather handle of my bag. "What’s your name?"

He stared at me.

"I’m going to call you Fridge," I decided, nodding slowly. "It suits your whole... vibe. Do you guys get dental, Fridge? Or is working for the boogeyman strictly an out-of-pocket healthcare situation?"

Fridge opened his mouth to reply, but the words died in his throat. His spine snapped so straight I practically heard the vertebrae click. He lowered his chin, his eyes dropping to the floor.

The temperature in the room plummeted.

I didn't need to turn around to know the boogeyman had arrived. The air pressure shifted, heavy and suffocating, pressing against the back of my neck. My father’s men were thugs. They were loud, violent, and messy.

The man walking down the curved, sweeping staircase behind me wasn't a thug. He was an executioner.

I forced my shoulders to relax, pasting on my best armor—a look of utter, bored indifference—before I turned around.

Dante Morretti descended the last three steps.

Pictures didn't do him justice. The FBI surveillance photos my father kept in his office made him look like a shadow.

In person, he was a monument to violence wrapped in a bespoke charcoal suit.

He was tall—too tall—with shoulders broad enough to block out the sun.

His dark hair was perfectly styled, but his eyes were what made the breath stall in my throat.

They were the color of burnt whiskey, stripped of warmth. He looked at me the way a mathematician looks at a miscalculated equation. Like I was a problem he was going to erase.

"Sienna Rossi," he said.

His voice was a low, gravelly rasp that scraped along my nerve endings. It wasn't loud, but it didn't need to be. It was a voice that commanded rooms, cities, and body counts.

"Dante," I replied, keeping my tone light. I didn't use his title. I refused to call him Don. "Love what you’ve done with the place. Very chic. A little heavy on the villain aesthetic, but I respect a man who commits to a theme."

Dante stopped a few feet away from me. He didn't smile. He didn't frown. He simply observed me, his gaze dropping to the suitcase clutched in my white-knuckled grip, then traveling up the length of my designer dress, lingering for a fraction of a second on my throat before meeting my eyes again.

"You talk when you are nervous," he noted. It wasn't a question.

"I talk when I’m bored," I corrected smoothly. "And marble foyers bore me. Are we going to stand here all night, or are you going to show me to my cell?"

He tilted his head. A heavy gold signet ring caught the dim light as he adjusted his cuff. There was a faint, rust-colored smudge near the button. Blood. Fresh blood. My stomach executed a violent flip, but I kept my chin high.

"Your father said you were difficult," Dante murmured, taking a slow, deliberate step closer. "He offered a discount because of your... lack of discipline."

I swallowed the bitter taste of betrayal. My father had tossed me to the wolves to save his own skin after skimming from the Morretti syndicate. I knew I was a pawn, but hearing the exact price tag stung more than I cared to admit.

"My father is an idiot who wears white shoes after Labor Day," I shot back, lifting my chin. "I wouldn't trust his financial assessments."

Dante’s jaw tightened. A tiny muscle feathered near his temple. It was the first sign of actual humanity I’d seen in him. Annoyance.

Good. If I couldn't fight him physically, I was going to make his life a bureaucratic nightmare.

"Let’s get a few things straight, mia sposa," Dante said, the Italian words slipping out like a threat.

He stepped into my personal space. The scent of him—cedar, expensive soap, and the sharp tang of gunpowder—wrapped around me.

I had to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.

"You are not a guest. You are a payment. You belong to me now. Your father’s debts are wiped clean, and in exchange, you will live in my house, wear my ring, and do exactly as you are told. "

My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs, but I forced a bright, angelic smile. "Wow. Did you rehearse that in the mirror? Because the delivery was a little stiff. We can try it again if you want. I’ll give you notes."

Fridge, still standing by the door, made a choked sound that might have been a cough or a prayer.

Dante didn’t look away from me. His eyes narrowed, the amber darkening into something dangerous. He lifted a hand.

Every survival instinct I possessed screamed at me to step back, to cower, to protect my face. I locked my knees. I refused to flinch. If he was going to hit me, I was going to make him look me in the eye while he did it.

But he didn't strike me.

His large, calloused hand wrapped around the handle of my suitcase, his knuckles brushing against mine. The contact sent a sharp, involuntary jolt up my arm. His skin was incredibly warm.

"Follow me," he ordered, prying the suitcase from my grip with effortless strength.

He didn't wait to see if I obeyed. He just turned and walked toward the grand staircase.

I stood there for three seconds, debating the merits of making a run for the front door. Fridge shifted his weight, crossing his massive arms over his chest. Right. The door was a no-go.

I blew out a breath, smoothing the skirt of my dress, and followed my new husband up the stairs.

The house was a fortress. As we walked down a long, dimly lit hallway, I counted four security cameras. The windows were thick—probably bulletproof—and the artwork on the walls was stripped of color. Everything was structured, ordered, and suffocatingly clean.

It was the house of a man who needed iron control.

"So," I started, my heels clicking against the hardwood floor. "Are we doing a traditional wedding, or just signing papers in a dark alley? Because I need to know if I should book a makeup artist. I bloat under stress, Dante. It’s a medical condition."

He didn't look back. "The paperwork was signed this morning by your father. The priest will be here tomorrow at noon to finalize the vows. You will wear white."

"I look terrible in white," I lied. "It washes me out. Can I wear red? It seems fitting, given the whole blood-debt situation."

Dante stopped so abruptly I nearly crashed into his broad back.

He turned slowly. The exhaustion radiating off him was almost palpable. He looked like a man who had spent his entire day dealing with assassins and was now being forced to negotiate with a toddler.

"Sienna," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "I am trying very hard to be patient with you. I know you are scared. I know you use your mouth as a weapon because you don't have a real one. But my patience is not infinite."

"I’m not scared," I snapped, the lie tasting like ash.

He stepped closer, backing me against the wall. He didn't touch me, but his presence was a physical weight, caging me in. He braced one hand on the wall beside my head, leaning down until his mouth was inches from my ear.

"Yes, you are," he whispered, the sound sending a violent shiver down my spine. "Your pulse is beating so fast I can see it in your throat. Your hands are shaking. You are terrified."

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. He was far too observant.

"But you don't need to be," Dante continued, his gaze dropping to my lips before snapping back to my eyes. "As long as you follow my rules, nothing in this world will ever hurt you again. Not your father. Not my enemies. Nothing."

It was a promise. A dark, twisted, terrifying promise. He wasn't offering me freedom; he was offering me a safer cage.

"What are the rules?" I asked, hating how breathless my voice sounded.

Dante’s eyes flared with a brief, dark satisfaction. He liked submission. Too bad for him, I was fresh out.

"Rule one," he said softly. "You do not leave this house without my permission. Rule two. You do not disrespect my men. Rule three." He leaned in a fraction of an inch closer, his gaze dropping to my mouth again. "You do not lie to me."

"And if I break them?" I challenged, unable to stop myself.

A muscle worked in his jaw. For a second, I thought I saw a flash of genuine hunger in his eyes, a predatory instinct that had nothing to do with mafia politics and everything to do with the fact that we were a man and a woman alone in a dark hallway.

"You don't want to find out," he murmured.

He pushed off the wall, the sudden absence of his heat leaving me strangely cold. He picked up my suitcase, walked to the heavy oak door at the end of the hall, and pushed it open.

"This is your room," he said, stepping aside.

I walked past him, keeping my distance. The bedroom was massive, decorated in the same oppressive style as the rest of the house.

Dark wood, heavy velvet curtains, a king-sized bed that looked like it belonged to a medieval king.

There was a sitting area, a massive fireplace, and two doors that likely led to a closet and a bathroom.

It was beautiful. It was a tomb.

"My room is across the hall," Dante said, standing in the doorway. He didn't cross the threshold. "Dinner is brought up at eight. Do not wander the house at night. The security system is armed, and the dogs patrol the grounds."

"Dogs?" I perked up. "What kind of dogs? Fluffy ones? Because I could really use a therapy animal right now."

Dante closed his eyes for a brief second, pinching the bridge of his nose. "They are Neapolitan Mastiffs trained to tear intruders apart. Do not try to pet them."

"I feel like they just need a firm boundary and a good belly rub," I suggested.

He dropped his hand, staring at me with a mixture of disbelief and profound exhaustion. "Go to sleep, Sienna. Tomorrow, you become my wife."

He pulled the door shut.

A second later, I heard the distinct, heavy sound of a deadbolt sliding into place from the outside.

Click.

I stared at the thick oak wood. The silence of the room pressed in on me, heavy and absolute. The adrenaline that had kept me standing, that had fueled my smart mouth and my fake bravery, vanished in an instant.

My knees gave out.

I sank to the thick Persian rug, pulling my legs to my chest. My hands were shaking so violently I had to clasp them together to make them stop.

I was locked in. I was owned by a man who had blood on his cuffs and ice in his veins. My father had abandoned me, and tomorrow, I was going to be tied to the mob for the rest of my life.

Tears burned the back of my eyes, hot and demanding.

No.

I dug my nails into my palms, the sharp pain grounding me. I refused to cry. Crying was for victims, and I was done being a victim. Dante Morretti thought he had bought a quiet, terrified little doll he could lock in a tower and ignore.

He wanted control? He wanted order?

I looked around the immaculate, depressing room.

I pushed myself off the floor, walked over to the heavy velvet curtains, and yanked them open, letting the harsh glow of the security lights flood the room.

Then, I walked to the massive king-sized bed, grabbed the two perfectly symmetrical, hideously embroidered throw pillows, and tossed them straight into the fireplace.

Dante Morretti was about to learn that locking me in his house was the worst financial investment he had ever made.