Chapter One AURORA
One week ago
My sister Chiara’s house smelled like garlic bread, expensive vetiver candles, and the kind of organized chaos only rich people could afford.
The massive open-concept living room looked like a luxury furniture catalog had been hit by a tornado made entirely of children.
Tiny sneakers sat abandoned beside a marble fireplace worth more than my life.
Crayons littered the glass coffee table beside fashion magazines and gun holsters casually discarded by bodyguards who probably considered firearms accessories.
Somewhere in the background, lo-fi jazz played softly through hidden speakers while the city sparkled beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows in streaks of gold and silver.
And in the middle of all that luxury? My nephew Bruno launched a breadstick across the dining room like a tiny Italian war criminal.
“brUNO LEONARDO MORETTI!” Chiara’s voice cracked through the penthouse just as the breadstick bounced directly off her husband’s Leo’s whiskey glass.
Silence followed. Even the nanny froze beside the kitchen island holding a bowl of pasta.
Slowly, Leonardo Moretti lowered the newspaper in his hands. His expression remained perfectly calm, which somehow made him infinitely more terrifying.
Across the table, four-year-old Bruno stared back at his father with huge innocent blue eyes inherited directly from my sister. Beside him, his twin brother Luca sold him out.
“Bruno did it,” Luca announced happily, shoving spaghetti into his mouth with complete confidence.
“Traitor,” Bruno hissed.
“I know,” Leo said flatly. “I have eyes.”
I burst out laughing so hard wine nearly came out of my nose.
“Oh my God,” I wheezed, clutching my chest. “He didn’t even hesitate. That was targeted violence.”
“It was an accident,” Bruno argued.
“An accident?” I repeated. “You made direct eye contact with him before throwing it.”
“Traitor,” Bruno repeated vehemently. Chiara pressed her fingers to her temples like she regretted motherhood deeply.
“They’ve become sentient,” she muttered.
“No,” Leo corrected calmly, folding his newspaper. “They’ve become organized.”
The twins looked deeply pleased by that accusation. From the cream-colored sectional sofa, my sister Sienna looked up from her phone with a dramatic gasp.
“Well,” she announced solemnly, “children do mirror their environment.”
At twelve years old, my youngest sister had somehow evolved into a terrifying combination of spoiled mafia princess, TikTok addict, and tiny attorney.
Her long dark hair had clearly been professionally blown out sometime today, and she wore a pink velour tracksuit while eating imported strawberries like royalty surveying peasants.
“Careful, you’re one Sephora trip away from becoming a supervillain,” I informed her.
“I already am one,” she replied calmly. “Puberty simply finalized the transformation. Boo, bitch.”
Leo snorted softly into his whiskey. I was about to take a page out of Bruno’s book and call him a traitor, too.
Sienna pointed at him. “See? He respects me.”
“He fears you,” Chiara corrected.
“As he should. Snakey gets me.” Sienna looked damn pleased with herself, blowing Leo a kiss. I couldn’t believe the great Leo Moretti still let her call him by that nickname.
Meanwhile, Luca had disappeared entirely beneath the dining table.
“Where’s your brother?” Chiara asked her other son suspiciously.
Bruno shrugged while chewing garlic bread. “Hiding from the police.”
A tiny muffled voice came from under the table. “I’m hiding so I don’t get put in prison.”
I nearly blacked out laughing. Chiara closed her eyes slowly, inhaling the patience of a woman one inconvenience away from felony assault.
Motherhood looked devasstatingly beautiful on her.
My older sister stood barefoot in the middle of the giant marble kitchen wearing cream silk lounge clothes and diamond earrings that probably cost more than my entire education.
Her blonde hair fell over one shoulder in loose waves while she tried balancing dinner, twins, marriage, and the most feared man in the city simultaneously.
And somehow? She looked genuinely happy. That was the part that unsettled me most.
Standing only a few feet away from her was Leo’s right hand, Sergio. My future husband. The thought hit my stomach like bad liquor.
He leaned against the windows overlooking the city, broad shoulders relaxed beneath a charcoal dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. Tattoos curled beneath his watch and disappeared under dark fabric.
One large hand wrapped loosely around a whiskey glass while he listened quietly to Leo discussing business on an incoming call.
Or murder. With those two, the topics overlapped often.
Sergio barely spoke, except for poking fun at my sister, but when he did, people listened. He had that kind of presence. Quiet. Controlled. Lethal. The type of man who didn’t need to threaten violence because everyone already assumed he was capable of it.
And apparently, in one week, I’d belong to him. My jaw tightened at the thought. Like he felt me staring, Sergio looked up. Dark eyes locked onto mine from across the room.
Calm. Knowing. Completely unreadable. Then the asshole raised his whiskey glass slightly in acknowledgment. Like we were already married. I looked away first out of pure irritation. Unfortunately for me, Chiara noticed.
“Come help me in the kitchen,” she said casually.
I narrowed my eyes. “That sounded manipulative.”
“It wasn’t.” She feigned innocence.
“That tone only works on people who fear you,” I reminded her.
Chiara smiled sweetly. “Get in the kitchen.”
Traitorous sister instincts forced me to obey. I followed her toward the massive marble island while behind us, Sienna loudly accused Bruno of “weaponizing carbohydrates against the ruling class.”
The second we were alone, I crossed my arms. “You are ruining my life.”
Chiara didn’t even look up from slicing strawberries. “What part?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” I leaned against the counter. “Maybe the part where my older sister accidentally turns into a mafia matchmaker after spending our entire childhood threatening to stab any man Papa picked for us?”
Her shoulders stiffened slightly. “Aurora…”
“No.” Anger flared sharp and hot beneath my ribs. “Don’t ‘Aurora’ me like I’m overreacting. One day Sergio is Leo’s emotionally constipated bodyguard, and the next I’m apparently marrying him.”
Chiara sighed softly. “Sergio is not our father. He won’t do what Papa did to us.”
“That’s not exactly a glowing romantic endorsement,” I hissed.
“He would never hurt you,” she added.
I laughed once. Sharp. Humorless. “You know, it’s incredibly concerning that everybody keeps using that as the selling point.”
“It matters.” She shrugged, as if the topic was closed now.
“It matters to you because you married a homicidal maniac and survived the experience,” I bit out.
From the dining room, Leo’s calm voice drifted toward us. “I can still hear you.”
“Excellent,” I called back. “Maybe hear this too: fuck you for making me go through with this.”
A beat passed. Then Leo answered calmly: “You’ll learn to love him.”
Sergio smirked faintly into his whiskey. I hated all of them. Chiara set the knife down carefully before looking at me fully.
“You think I wanted this for you?” she asked quietly.
“Yes.” I crossed my arms, glaring at her.
That surprised her. “You do?”
“Yes,” I snapped. “Because somewhere between getting married and having twins, you became frighteningly okay with the idea of choosing who I spend my life with.”
“Nobody’s choosing your life for you,” she argued.
“Oh really?” I laughed. “Then remind me again what happens if I say no to this wedding.”
Silence. The silence women in our world grew up understanding without words. I looked away first, gripping the cool marble counter too tightly. Outside the windows, the city glittered endlessly beneath the darkening sky. Beautiful from up here. Untouchable. Like freedom always was.
“We used to talk about escaping,” I said quietly. “Remember?”
Chiara’s face softened, and she didn’t reply, busying herself with more kitchen chores, as if hoping I’d walk away if she stayed silent long enough.
“We used to stay awake all night planning fake identities and apartments we couldn’t afford on our own,” I continued bitterly. “You wanted a bookstore by the ocean. I wanted literally anything that didn’t involve armed men.”
A sad smile touched her lips. “You wanted a motorcycle.”
“I still want a motorcycle,” I begrudgingly admitted.
“You’d kill yourself,” she muttered.
“At least it would be my choice.” That landed harder than I intended. Chiara looked down briefly.
“Aurora,” she said carefully, “you’re eighteen. Beautiful. Smart. Men in our world notice girls like you.”
“Wonderful. I’m thrilled my existence is apparently a public safety concern.” I rolled my eyes.
“I’m serious.” Chiara took a long look at me. “You don’t know what these men are capable of.”
“So it’s easier to marry me off to the one who’ll hurt me least?” Anger bubbled hotter now. Sharper.
“Stop, Aurora.” Chiara rubbed her temples, clearly exhausted by our conversation.
“You know what’s funny?” I asked. “Papa used to say arranged marriages were about protection too. Funny how men keep using prettier words for ownership.”
“Sergio isn’t Papa,” she said again.
“No,” I agreed coldly. “He’s just another man deciding what happens to me.”
“He didn’t decide this,” Chiara fought back. “I did, along with my husband.”
I blinked slowly. “Oh, somehow that makes it more romantic. My mistake.”
From the dining room, I heard one of the twins yelling dramatically. “Sienna put parmesan in my grilled cheese!”
“It adds depth!” Sienna yelled back defensively.
“It tastes like feet!”
“That’s because you have an uncultured palate,” Sienna hit back.
Chiara rubbed her forehead again. “I swear to God, if one more person screams tonight…”