2
Luna
I stare up at the ceiling of Papa's study, my eyes tracing the ornate plasterwork that spirals into elaborate patterns.
Right now, the patterns are morphing into dragons, coiling and snapping their jaws, like the monsters that used to hide under my bed.
Only now, the monsters wear suits and smoke cigars and make decisions about my body like I don’t exist.
I wonder if I'm going insane. It's either that or admit Papa’s rambling is starting to make sense, and I'm not sure which is worse.
Papa’s fist slams into the mahogany desk, sending a tremor straight to my bones. “For Christ’s sake, Luna, can you look at me when I’m speaking to you?”
He’s mad. Again.
I drag my eyes down from the ceiling to meet his glare. His pinstripe suit clings to his muscled frame, which is ironic consid ering his goons—who do all the heavy lifting—are as soft-bellied as house cats.
Smoke coils from his ever-present cigar, shrouding him in a haze that’s almost regal, if you ignore the throbbing vein in his temple. It pulses like a ticking bomb, one yell away from detonation.
He really should watch his blood pressure. And shouting isn’t a great look for the head of a crime family. A sign of weakness, if you ask me.
I bite my tongue to keep from pointing it out. Wouldn't want to send him over the edge. I just lost Maman , after all.
Pain lances through me, and I reach for the rune hanging off my thin gold chain—my mother's last gift to me as her life faded away. She’d worn it since she was a child, and now it feels like a part of her is with me. The cool and rough surface grounds me like it always does when the walls start closing in.
“You're tearing this family apart with your selfishness!” Papa’s bark jolts me out of my grief.
I scoff. “Selfishness? Really, Papa? That's rich, coming from you.”
His face turns an impressive shade of purple. “Your cousin Flavia—”
“—is fifteen!” I snap. “Or did you forget that minor detail when you decided to pimp her out to the highest bidder?”
He recoils like I slapped him. I wish I could. Someone needs to.
“You will watch your mouth, young lady.” He points a finger at me, shaking with barely contained rage. “You should be more concerned about the disgusting rumors about you. Rumors that the Antonovs are starting to believe. But no, you'd rather watch your family crumble because you're too stubborn to take a simple test?”
Ah, yes, the test. For the genetic time bomb that might be ticking away in my DNA, the same one that killed Maman . Pain claws its way up my throat, but I swallow it down.
Maman had been shipped back to her wealthy brother in Paris the moment her diagnosis came through. The only reason she got proper care was Uncle Jacques’ fortune.
After she died, Papa asked me to return to Chicago. Grief-stricken and blind, I couldn’t see it for what it was—a desperate attempt to cash in on the fifty-percent chance that I might prove useful.
It was the same blindness that kept me from realizing my best friend was screwing Uncle Jacques.
Reese’s smirking face flashes in my mind. I loved that bitch like a sister. I kept all her secrets—even her real name, the one that could get her killed if spoken aloud.
Too bad having a death sentence hanging over you doesn’t stop you from being a backstabbing slut
“Luna Gia Romano!” Papa’s bark snaps me out of my thoughts.
My breath escapes in a tired sigh. “What if I test positive, Papa?”
He shifts awkwardly, the tiniest crack in his polished exterior. “You won’t. You’re my daughter.”
“Oh really? If you’re that certain, why bother testing me at all?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snaps.
I press on, the heat in my voice rising. “I’ll tell you what happens if I test positive. You’ll find some poor schmuck desperate enough to marry a woman with an expiration date.”
Papa’s face softens, and somehow, that hurts worse than his anger. “Luna, stellina . . . you know t hat’s not—”
“Save it,” I cut him off, unable to stomach his pity. “I’m not getting tested, and I’m sure as hell not marrying the shriveled Russian prune you’ve lined up.”
He sighs, suddenly looking older. “I thought you didn’t want Flavia to marry him.”
Guilt twists in my gut. Sweet Flavia—barely more than a child. Her parents have no say in this. Papa is the head of the Romano family—what’s left of it, anyway—since Don Vitelli crushed Pascal Romano's rebellion three years ago.
Since then, we’ve lost everything: territory, income streams, even respect in Chicago. Our only chance of survival is an alliance with the Russians. The price? My body. Or Flavia’s. Take your pick.
Screaming would be useless, so I soften my tone, trying to appeal to reason. “Papa, what if we went back to Don Vitelli and offered him a peace deal?”
The name drops into the room like a grenade, but I push forward. “Uncle Pascal’s rebellion nearly destroyed us. Maybe we can salvage something from the wreckage. Why don't you talk to the Don?”
Papa’s face hardens into stone. “Romanos don’t suck up.”
I bite back a bitter laugh. No, we just suck.
Still, I press on. “It wouldn’t be ‘sucking up’ if we brought something to the table. My app.”
Reese and I built Guilty Pleasures in hopes of replacing prostitution rings. At least she let me buy her out after our fallout—now it’s solely mine to use as Romano leverage.
“Papa, I hear Nico Vitelli is willing to listen to any rebelling faction that shows initiative.”
“Initiative?” he snaps, disgust twisting his features.
I take a steadying breath. “I know you think the app is beneath the family, but we’re at the beta testing stage, and it’s blowing up. I’m even ready to give the family full rights if it means saving Flavia from this marriage.”
Saving me from this marriage.
Papa’s voice turns icy. “You honestly think a disgusting sex app is going to secure the Romano future?”
My fists curl against the cutting words, but I push on. “It’s clean and legitimate—exactly what Don Vitelli is trying to do with the Outfit businesses. No red zones, no pimps, no skimming.”
“Enough!” His fist slams against the table, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes.
“Even if I lost my mind and entertained this fantasy,” he growls, leaning in, “do you think Vitelli wouldn’t see right through it? Do you think he’d welcome back a pathetic family hiding behind the ideas of a spoiled brat who has no clue what family, duty, or honor mean?”
The words slice deep, but as I open my mouth to argue, Papa raises his hand, silencing me.“You're getting tested tomorrow, and that is final.”
“Tomorrow?” My heart stops. One more day to find out if I’m an asset or a liability. “Papa, you promised it would be my choice.”
“Because I thought you’d be reasonable. But you’ve proven that choice is a luxury beyond your station, so we do it my way.”
It’s useless to keep arguing. In Papa’s world, women are pawns—his daughter included.
“Fine,” I spit, rising to my feet. “I’d better make the most of my last few hours of freedom.”
Resisting the urge to slam the door, I march into the hallway, only to stop short when I nearly collide with Papa’s right-hand man.
“Move,” I snap, trying to brush past him, but his hand clamps around my arm, halting me.
“Whoa, who’s getting incinerated this time?” Clemenza’s voice carrie s the familiar teasing warmth I never get from Papa.
I whirl, glaring up at him. “Not in the mood, Clemenza.”
He exhales slowly, releasing my arm but refusing to step aside. His dark eyes flicker with something I don’t have the energy or patience to untangle.
“This is about the test, isn’t it?”
There’s no point in lying. He knows everything—he’s Papa’s Consigliere and the only one who occasionally talks sense into him. If anyone could stop this madness, it’s Clemenza.
“Looks like my time’s run out,” I force a lightness I don’t feel, even as my chest feels like it’s collapsing. “I’m to take the test tomorrow.”
His gaze shifts toward the study door, then back to me, regret flickering across his face. “Luna, you knew this day would come.”
“I know.” My throat tightens, but I manage to hold his gaze. “I just . . . I need more time.”
Time for my app to go viral and make me untouchable. Or time for pigs to grow wings and fly.
Clemenza sighs. “Alright, cara. I’ll talk to him. How does a week sound?”
One week? My heart sinks, but I force a nod and a tight smile before hurrying down the hallway, eyes stinging with unshed tears.
Once the results are out, there’s no going back. Either I’ll be shipped off to Russia or swept into obscurity. My life is as good as over either way.
Right now, not knowing is the only power I have left. And that expires in exactly one week.
I c ollapse onto the bed, burying my face in a pillow as the tears come fast, burning hot as they soak into the fabric. I press my face in harder, smothering the sobs before they can escape.
Growing up with older cousins who bullied me, I quickly learned never to cry where anyone could hear.
The buzz of my phone jolts me upright. I pull it from the back pocket of my jeans, and my face splits into a smile when I see who’s calling.
It's Delilah Sinclair, my tireless unpaid brand ambassador and new best friend since I dumped Reese into the scrap shredder.
Wiping at my damp cheeks with the heel of my hand, I connect the call. “Dels.”
“Hey, boss! Catch you at a bad time?” Her voice is sultry, with an edge that always makes me think of cyanide-laced melted chocolate.
“No, perfect timing,” I sniff, trying to match her energy and failing.
“Ooh, who pissed in your coffee?”
“Allergies,” I lie, shaking my head. “But I could use some good news. How’s it looking on your end this week?”
“Oh, honey, we’re killing it. Bliss Xtra is pulling in droves of new followers and a decent number of stalkers—plus the usual trolls. It’s like Christmas came early!”
A spark of excitement cuts through my gloom, and I spring off the bed, heading to the dresser for a tissue. Dabbing at my eyes, I perch on the edge and absently sweep my too-heavy mane off my neck, rubbing at the tension there.
My once-chic Parisian bob ha s grown into a thick mass of waves, thanks to the chaos of family drama, business school deadlines, beta-testing my app, and launching Bliss Xtra—my shiny new vibrator line.
“Lay it on me, Dels.”
“Uh-uh, you first,” she counters. “Did you manage to sweet-talk that hard-ass professor of yours?”
I grin despite myself. Delilah never forgets what’s going on outside of work, even with the chaos of her life as a social media influencer.
In so many ways, she reminds me of Reese—smart, resourceful, with just enough softness under the edge. But Delilah’s shaping up to be a far better human being.
Sure, she’ll sleep with anything for money, but at least she’s upfront about it. Unlike Reese, with Delilah, there are no lies, no secrets, and no knives poised to sink into my back.
I let out a weary sigh. “I’m still working on him. You’d think transferring across continents while running a business would earn me some sympathy, but apparently not.”
“Maybe you’re just not using the right leverage,” she teases. “Try flashing the mafia card—you know, horse-head-in-the-bed style.”
I snicker. “I doubt Professor Lanark owns a horse.”
“Shame.” Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “How about offering up your cherry? I’m sure he’d be tickled pink to find out his ‘class slut’ is still a double virgin.”
A laugh escapes me. “So not worth the grade, Dels, trust me.”
“Then gift-wrap a Bliss Xtra for his wife. That’s bound to get you a fucking A. I’m telling you, that thing’s G-spot game is off the charts .”
“So you keep saying,” I muse, wondering why I haven’t tried it myself. It’s huge, sure, but nothing I shouldn’t be able to handle with the right amounts of alcohol and lube.
“Well, wait until the sales report comes in. I told you branching into sex toys was the right call. The app is cute and all, but come on—not everyone wants to go out and meet someone. Some just want to stay home and take care of business.”
I smile, remembering how skeptical I’d been when Delilah first suggested it. “You were right, as usual.”
“Of course I was. Now, onto the main reason I called.” Delilah’s voice practically hums with excitement. “I’ve got some very good news.”
“Really?”
“You bet. Jason Wilkes’s PA slid into my DMs. Apparently, her boss wants a slice of Bliss Xtra. For the right price, of course.”
“Wait, Jason Wilkes? Isn’t he the owner of . . .” I wrack my brain for the name of his brand.
“Temptations. Yes. I’m talking deep pockets here, Luna. You’re welcome.”
I blink. “You’re joking!”
“Darling, I never joke about money. He’s in Chicago this week and wants to meet. This could be your golden ticket into Nico Vitelli’s pants—ahem—inner circle.”
“Delilah,” I warn, “for the last time, that man is married.”
“And a girl can always hope for a little Mafia drama,” she sighs, undeterred. “Anyway, gotta run—need to film. I’ll keep you posted. And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“Which isn’t much.” I think of all the outrageous stories she’s shared since we met.
“Exactly.” There’s a wicked grin in her voice as the line c licks off.
I stare at my phone, grinning like an idiot. An investor! Talk about an eleventh-hour miracle. For the first time in days, I don’t feel like the “sniveling brat” Papa’s branded me since I moved back from Paris. Right now, I’m an entrepreneur on the brink of a major break.
I’d planned to spend the rest of the day brooding, but now? A celebration sounds far better. A stiff drink—or two—to remind me that my life isn’t entirely unraveling.
Knowing she’ll be prepping for her recording, I don’t bother calling Delilah back. Instead, I type out a quick text:
You free later? We should celebrate this.
I hit “send" and toss my phone onto the dresser, feeling the tension from my argument with Papa melt away.
My phone buzzes almost immediately.
Depends. Can you ditch the bodyguard?
I smirk at the screen. Of course, Delilah would ask that.
Sure.
A thumbs-up emoji, then:
Meet me at Enigma in Downtown. 10 PM.
My fingers pause over the screen.
Enigma is a little . . . sketchy? Isn't it?
Her reply comes in almost immediately.
Unfortunately. Got a friend I can’t blow off tonight. I promise it’s safe. Unless you prefer to meet at the usual—Urban Elixir? But I won’t be free until tomorrow night.
I hesitate, chewing my lip. Enigma is no doubt full of people who wouldn’t think twice about throwing a punch. Not exactly my usual scene—or Delilah’s, for that matter.
But with her fans and proclaimed stalkers, Delilah is probably more at risk in a seedy club like Enigma than I am. I type my reply.
I’ll be there.