Chapter1
The sun always shone in the memories I kept of her.
I was sixteen and she was ten, sitting on the hood of my battered car, sharing a single soda while the evening breeze swept through her hair. She was laughing at something I’d said—a bright, clear sound that used to instantly quiet all the stupid, restless noise in my head.
"Thirty," Rosalia had said, turning her head to look at me, her eyes bright with a playful challenge. "If we’re both single and haven't figured our lives out by thirty, we’re getting married. Deal?"
I laughed, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Deal. But I won't wait until thirty to figure it out. I'm going to marry you."
She smiled, but then the playfulness left her face, replaced by a quiet, sudden anxiety that I was too stupid to understand. She hooked her fingers into the belt loops of my jeans, leaning in close. “Giovanni, please. Let me just come back to your place tonight. I don't want to sleep at my house.”
I had just laughed it off. I told her she was being paranoid about her family’s drama. I told her I already had plans to hang out with my boys, play video games, and just mess around in Marco's backyard before the curfew hit. I kissed her forehead, patted her cheek, and drove away. I chose a stupid night with my friends over her. I left her there.
Then, the air grew heavy.
The scent of her vanilla perfume vanished, instantly swallowed by the sharp, suffocating stench of gasoline and burning wood. The bright afternoon sky bled into a horrific, roaring orange. The metal beneath me turned scalding hot, blistering my skin.
I wasn't on the car anymore. I was on my knees in front of her house, watching columns of fire consume the roof. Knowing she was inside because I hadn't listened.
"Rosalia!"I screamed, the sound tearing at my throat. I tried to run toward the front door, but hands were holding me back, dragging me away as the glass shattered and the walls collapsed inward, burying everything I loved under a mountain of ash. "Rosalia!"
I snapped upright in bed, a strangled gasp cutting off in my throat.
My heart battered violently against my ribs. My t-shirt was soaked with sweat, clinging to my chest. My right hand flew to the nightstand by pure muscle memory, my fingers locking around the cold, heavy grip of my Beretta before my brain could even register that the fire was gone.
Silence swallowed the room. The dark, expansive master bedroom of my penthouse was secure. No smoke. No fire. No threats.
Just the quiet ticking of the clock.
I let out a ragged breath, releasing the weapon and running both hands over my face. I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to burn away the image of the flames, but it was useless. The fire always won, and the guilt always demanded its dues.
I glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. 3:14 AM.
I had been asleep for exactly forty-two minutes.
With a bitter exhale, I swung my legs out of bed. There would be no going back to sleep tonight; my mind was entirely wired, my adrenaline spiked from a nightmare I'd lived through a decade ago. I walked across the cold hardwood floor to the wet bar, pouring two fingers of amber whiskey. I didn't drink it for the buzz—I drank it for the burn in my throat, a physical anchor to reality.
Walking over to the floor-to-ceiling window, I looked out over the sprawling city lights below. My city.
I was twenty-nine now. A few months shy of thirty.
The innocent boy who had made a naive marriage pact on the hood of a car was dead, buried in the same ash as her family home. In his place stood the head of the De Luca syndicate. A man with blood on his hands, a shadow over his soul, and an empire to run. I had spent the last thirteen years becoming a monster, punishing the world because I couldn't punish myself enough for that one night. Sleeping was a liability anyway. In my world, lowered guards got you a bullet in the skull.
I took a slow sip of the whiskey, my eyes tracking a solitary car driving on the dark streets below.
In less than a week, I would be standing at an altar, pledging my life to Elena Marchetti. It was a cold, calculated move—a necessary alliance to solidify my position and secure the peace my organization needed. I didn't love her, and she didn't love me, which made it perfect.
Love was a weakness I couldn't afford a second time.
I closed my eyes, the liquid burning its way down my throat, completely unaware that the ghost from my nightmares was already back in the city.
