Chapter 1: Sold Out By My Own Blood
The mahogany desk in my father’s home office smelled of stale bourbon and cheap cigars. But tonight, another scent drowned it out completely.
Gun oil. Rain. Cold leather.
“Sign it, Vance,” a voice rasped from the shadows near the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I stood frozen near the doorway, the brass handle still cold in my trembling palm. The room was illuminated only by the faint amber glow of the desk lamp and the sharp, violent flash of lightning outside.
My father—a man who spent his whole life pretending to be a king—was currently on his knees. Sweat soaked through his crisp white collar. His hand shook so hard he could barely hold the pen hovering over a thick stack of legal documents.
“Please, Don Moretti,” my father stammered, his voice pathetic and weak. “Give me two more weeks. The stock portfolio—it’s going to bounce back. I just need a little time—”
“Two weeks?”
The man sitting in my father’s expensive leather armchair leaned slowly into the light.
Dante Moretti.
Even in the underworld, his name was spoken like a death sentence. He looked to be in his late thirties, clad in a charcoal three-piece suit that fit his broad frame with lethal precision. His face looked carved from marble—sharp jaw, cold gray eyes, and a thin scar slicing through his left eyebrow.
He didn’t look angry. That was the scariest part. He looked completely bored by my father’s begging.
“You’ve had six months, Arthur,” Dante said, his deep voice slicing through the thunder outside. “And twenty-four million dollars doesn’t simply disappear.”
“I... I don’t have the liquid cash!” my father sobbed, dropping his head until his forehead almost touched the rug. “I don’t have it!”
Dante stood up.
He was massive—easily six-foot-three—and his shadow swallowed the room whole. He unbuttoned his suit jacket, casually fixing his platinum cufflinks without rushing a single movement.
“Then we execute Clause 4,” Dante murmured, taking a slow step toward the desk.
“No! Not that! Anything but that!” my father gasped, scrambling backward on his knees. He raised his head, his panicked eyes darting around the room until they landed on me standing by the door.
Dante’s gray eyes followed his gaze.
Across the expanse of the dark office, his eyes locked straight onto mine. I froze. The breath hitched in my throat, my heart slamming against my ribs like a trapped bird. The sheer weight of his stare felt heavy, suffocating.
“You have a daughter,” Dante said softly, his eyes never leaving my face.
My father didn’t hesitate. He didn’t scream. He didn’t try to protect me.
He just swallowed hard, looked up at Dante, and pushed the papers forward.
“Take her,” my father whispered. “Take her and wipe the debt.”
My jaw dropped. The word hung in the cold air, sickening and sharp. Take her.
“Dad...” My voice trembled as I backed up until my spine hit the doorframe. “What are you doing? What did you just say?”
My father didn’t answer. He couldn’t even look me in the eye. He just stared at the floor, wiping sweat from his forehead with a trembling sleeve.
A set of slow, heavy footsteps echoed across the hardwood floor.
Dante walked around the desk, stopping just inches away from me. Up close, his height was overwhelming. He smelled of rain, expensive cologne, and dark tobacco.
His gray eyes swept down my body—from my messy bun, past my oversized sweater, down to my bare feet on the floorboards.
He didn’t look at me like a person. He looked at me like a fresh purchase.
“How old are you?” Dante asked. His deep voice vibrated right through my chest.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, forcing my chin up even as my knees shook. “Twenty-two. And I’m not a piece of property.”
A faint, cruel smirk touched the corner of his lips. “You are whatever your father traded you for, little bird.”
“I’m a human being!” I snapped, my eyes stinging with heat. “You can’t just take a person! This is illegal!”
In one swift movement, his hand shot out.
His long fingers wrapped around my throat. He didn’t squeeze hard enough to stop my breath, but his grip was firm, pinning my head back against the wall. His thumb pressed directly over my pulse point.
I gasped. The heat of his palm was scorching against my cold skin.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his tone quiet, dark, and utterly absolute.
My eyes snapped to his. Up close, the silver flecks in his gray eyes looked like ice.
“Your father owes me twenty-four million dollars,” Dante murmured, leaning down until his lips brushed the shell of my ear. His hot breath sent an unwanted shiver straight down my spine, making my skin prickle. “You belong to the Moretti family now. Every inch of you. Every breath you take.”
“I’ll fight you,” I whispered, tears of anger threatening to spill. “I’ll fight you every single day.”
Dante pulled back slightly, his thumb pressing gently into the pulse hammering in my neck. He felt how fast my heart was racing. He knew I was terrified.
And he liked it.
“I count on it,” he whispered.
He let go of my neck, the sudden absence of his touch leaving my skin burning. He didn’t even glance back at my father as he turned toward two huge men in black suits standing near the window.
“Gino. Put her in the back of the SUV.”
“Wait! No!” I reached frantically for the brass door handle, but before I could turn it, a heavy hand clamped down on my arm, yanking me backward into the dark hallway.
