Chapter 3

I laid my black card on the counter, flat and deliberate. "First come, first served. Doesn't the Calderone heir understand basic manners?"

Salvatore caught my wrist, his grip closing hard enough to bruise. "Adriana, are you really set on opposing me?"

His voice dropped, low enough that only I could hear it over the hush that had settled around the boutique. "The more you act out, the more pathetic you look. If you want to marry me, just say it. What's with all these games?"

I pulled my hand free. "You overestimate yourself."

Then, to the clerk: "Please wrap them up. I'll take them."

The clerk accepted my card with hesitant fingers, glancing between us like a man who'd wandered into the wrong sit-down. Salvatore's expression darkened.

Gemma clung quickly to his arm. "Salvatore, forget it. I don't want them..."

"No." He snatched the shoebox off the counter. "In this city, there's nothing a Calderone can't take."

With that, he dragged Gemma out without a glance back, his soldiers falling in behind him like a shadow closing.

The next morning, an elegant gift box waited on my desk.

The moment I untied the ribbon, a sickening, metallic smell hit me. The red heels inside were marked with suspicious stains, a few strands of hair clinging to the soles.

My phone buzzed. A message from Gemma lit the screen.

"Ms. Bellucci, I've thought it over. I can't take what doesn't belong to me. I'm returning the shoes. Sorry, they got dirty while I was dancing with Salvatore last night."

Swallowing back my nausea, I dropped the heels straight into the trash.

Just then, a message from my mother arrived.

"Adriana, the Falcone family's betrothal offering is unbelievable!"

I opened the attachment and went still. The tribute listed there could have bought three of the old Bellucci holdings outright.

The Falcones were the most disciplined bloodline in the Cosa Nostra, discreet men who kept their intentions buried. For them to lay so much on the table for me was a sincerity beyond anything I'd expected. The rare offerings alone told me how serious they were.

At the annual Family gala, I moved among the wives and daughters of the old bloodlines, trading soft laughter over champagne.

Then the hall doors swung open. Gemma swept in wearing a blinding sequined gown and a diamond collar too heavy for her throat.

Whispers rippled through the room.

"Dio, look at what she's wearing. So gaudy..."

"Wasn't she a house servant on the Calderone estate? Now she's Salvatore's woman?"

"I've seen her kind before. Always reaching past their rank."

Gemma didn't so much as flinch. She walked straight toward me.

"Ms. Bellucci," she called, loud enough to carry, "why aren't you wearing those limited-edition heels?"

I took a slow sip of wine and answered coolly, "They got touched by something filthy. I threw them out."

She stiffened. Then she sneered. "Ms. Bellucci, just wait. You'll never beat me."

Before she finished, she staggered backward.

The champagne tower came down with a crash, glass flying in every direction.

"Ah!" she shrieked, and every eye in the hall snapped toward us.

Before I could move, Salvatore was there, shoving me hard. I stumbled back, my palm coming down on shattered glass. Blood welled instantly.

"Adriana!" His eyes were sharp as knives as he pulled the trembling Gemma against him. "What the hell are you doing?"

Gemma wept into his chest. "It's my fault... I shouldn't have come. I upset Ms. Bellucci."

"She said I'm beneath her..."

"Apologize," Salvatore ordered, his voice flat and cold.

Clutching my bleeding hand, I hissed, "Why should I?"

He straightened his cuffs, a small vain reset, and then his hand shot out and tore the jade rosary from my throat, the only keepsake my grandmother left me.

"No!" I lunged to stop him.

The room had gone silent. Not one soldier along the walls moved.

Bang. He hurled it to the floor, and the jade shattered into pieces at my feet.