Chapter 3

The first time I met Christian, I didn't trust him.

He wasn't family. Not by blood, not by history. He'd come up through a crew in South Boston, earned his place soldier by soldier.

My father had promoted him to Capo.

My mother died the night I was born. A hemorrhage during labor — she didn't make it to morning.

Nobody said it was my fault directly.

But I grew up knowing it was the thing people thought about when they looked at me.

Christian was the first to understand my sensitivity and vulnerability. He was patient. He showed up every time he said he would.

He remembered small things — how I took my coffee, which side of the booth I preferred, the anniversary of my mother's death.

So I let him in. All the way in.

We were careful at first, the way you have to be when the Don is your father.

But my father saw it coming before either of us said a word. My father told him straight: You hurt her, I'll handle it personally.

We fell in love for four years. That's how long I thought we had something real.

Then Lucia arrived.

She was the adopted daughter of a low-level enforcer who ran collections in the North End. Small, quiet, the kind of woman who made herself easy to overlook.

Christian brought her to a dinner one evening and introduced her around. I didn't think much of it.

The first time I made a concession for her, it was the gallery.

I'd spent two years building that operation — a high-end art front on Commonwealth Avenue, clean enough to pass any audit, profitable enough to move serious money.

It was mine. I'd sourced the artists, handled the books, kept the whole thing running without a single problem.

Then Christian sat me down.

"Her father's in debt to the family," he said.

"If he loses the gallery position, he gets cut loose. And if he gets cut loose, Lucia has nothing. No protection, no income, nowhere to go." He looked at me.

"You're the Don's daughter. You can rebuild something like this in six months. She can't."

I looked at him for a long moment.

"You're asking me to give up two years of work," I said.

"I'm asking you to give her father a way to stay in," he said. "That's all."

I didn't argue. I told myself it was the right thing. I signed the gallery over.

Lucia sent me a thank-you note.

After that she was everywhere — family dinners, the club, always nearby, always just within Christian's orbit.

The night it broke open, Lucia got herself into trouble at one of the family's clubs. Wrong crowd, wrong room. Christian went in after her.

By the time it was over he'd broken the terms of a standing truce with a rival crew to get her out.

She was wearing his jacket when they brought her out.

I told him that night that I was done. That I was leaving.

He showed up at my door two hours later. I'd never seen him cry before. He stood in the hallway with red eyes and shaking hands and said my name like it was the only word he had left.

"You're the only one," he said. "I swear to God, Elena. She's just someone I feel responsible for. That's all it is. Please."

I stayed. I tore up the ticket and I stayed, because I loved him, and because he asked me to, and because I'm afraid of losing one of the few people in this world who love me.