1. Hellie
HELLIE
“ S o it’s marriage or death?”
My voice doesn’t quiver as I push out the words.
The man standing with his back to me in my father’s study doesn’t turn.
He’s tall with dark, almost black hair, dressed in black jeans and a light black sweater. It’s an unusual look since most of the men in my world wear suits to hide their guns.
But he rejects what is expected. That makes him intriguing. And damn compelling.
“If these are the options, then I choose death.” I fold my arms, tapping short nails against my bare skin. Of course, no one’s mentioned death. It’s not an option for a mafia princess, only the marriage is. “Do I get to choose the way, because?—”
“Hellena. Be quiet.”
Three words in a low voice of gravel and darkness, one that sends shivers down my spine.
It’s a voice of deadly intent, one that doesn’t have to rise to show power.
I don’t know this man, but I know why he’s here.
The mafia world is one I was born into, one I hate, one I understand, no matter how complicated the men who populate it make it seem.
It’s all about power, money, and property.
I represent all three.
To both sides.
My father, brutal coward that he is, has taken himself away on business. Somewhere in this penthouse is his right-hand man, Liam, making sure things go smoothly.
And this man…
I swallow.
This man is escorting me to my future husband, a stranger I’m being forced to marry to complete an alliance.
“No one asked me if I want to marry Oliver Dowd.”
“And yet,” the tall and lean man with the compelling voice says, “here we are.” The man checks his watch. “It’s a long way to Chicago. Let’s get this show on the road. Death isn’t in the cards for you today.”
Anger and frustration bubbles. This man is a lackey, no point arguing. Mafia kings don’t do their own dirty work. They all have men for that.
Like the one in front of me.
Except the word lackey doesn’t fit his stance. His air.
Still, it doesn’t change why he’s here.
For a moment I think of appealing to his good nature, but men in this business don’t have one. Besides, my father’s made it clear he needs this marriage to further his own ambitions, and I’m nothing to him but a commodity—this is mafia, after all.
It turns my stomach, it really does. But my mother is gone and my father is a man without a heart who has a long and brutal reach, so here I am.
Raised to put on a good face, to handle all situations with charm and sweet calm.
The most I can conjure is the calm. Minus the sweet.
“When’s the flight…um, whoever you are?”
He turns, and for a moment, it’s like looking at destiny.
I can’t breathe.
He’s the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen and I think maybe the most dangerous.
Heart thumping hard, the air swirls hard and fast as I look into his dark, sable eyes. Something inside of me fractures. Those eyes hold a thousand stories – hard, soft, sad, cruel, bitter, passionate. There’s heat, too, right behind the wall of ice.
My mother once told me when I was a little girl the eyes would show me my prince. But I don’t think this man is a prince. He might be a fallen angel instead.
“Cal Quinn.” The gravel voice holds velvet at its depths and his name rolls over me, licking against my skin, humming down beyond my flesh. “And we’re not flying but driving.”
I try and work out the meaning of that. “Do you work for my father or for Oliver?”
A ghost of a smile touches those chiseled lips. “Let’s just say I’m the third-party hire who’ll get you to the church on time.”
I push a wayward curl back from my face and take a deep breath. “Well, let’s get on with it, shall we?”