Sinfully Ruined

Chapter 1

Adriana POV

The sun was hidden, the clouds were gloomy, and the sky was crying. There was a way the weather could be as dramatic as the Castellano family, as if it were mourning the loss of a not-so-great man.

I stood under the black canopy, staring at the big mahogany casket that held my father as the priest continued the service. Rain drummed against the canopy above us, a relentless rhythm that matched the pounding in my head. I sighed and looked at the rain hitting the ground in sequence, splattering against the earth, and I thought about my life choices again. Why the fuck am I here?

Oh right. My father’s funeral.

I couldn’t wait for all of this to be over so I could drive home and drink myself numb. My body was here, standing in uncomfortable heels that were sinking into the ground, wearing a black dress I’d bought specifically for this occasion. Yet I couldn’t feel anything. Not grief or anger, not even sadness. I just felt numb.

The priest continued on about eternal rest and God’s mercy, his voice competing with the rain. I wondered if he’d actually known my father, or if this was the generic sermon he gave at every funeral. Probably the latter. Antonio Castellano wasn’t the type of man priests knew personally—at least not the legitimate ones.

Irritation brewed in me from the people at the cemetery—seas of mourners in expensive suits and designer clothes. Half of them were happy that my old man was dead, or came to confirm if he’d really died. The other half just wanted to know who’d be next in power.

I pulled out a silver flask from my clutch and took a sip. The whiskey burned my throat and I smiled. At least I was able to feel the burn.

Just get everything done, dammit. I glanced at the priest who continued his sermon about eternal peace and rest, and I wondered if a man like my father deserved that, even after death.

Do mafia men get heaven? Or was there a special place reserved for men in the mafia?

“Adriana.” My brother’s sharp voice pulled me out of my thoughts. I rolled my eyes and took another swig, not bothering to hide the silver flask.

My brother, Marco, grabbed my elbow—not tight enough to leave a bruise, but enough to chastise me.

“This isn’t the time to do this,” he hissed, his voice low enough that only I could hear. “Respect the dead.”

“Respect the dead?” I asked incredulously, scoffing at how it sounded in my ears. “Respect the man who couldn’t wait to make me collateral or parade me around like a commodity?” I looked at the casket before I saw a familiar form from afar, and my breath hitched.

Across the cemetery stood him.

Dante Volkov.

My brother’s best friend, right-hand, enforcer, and the monster parents don’t tell children about at night.

He’s back.

But his eyes—those dark, intense eyes—were fixed directly on me.

He stared back at me, his gaze heated, and I returned it before looking away, back down. I couldn’t hold his scorching eyes. The way he stared at me always made me feel exposed, like he could see the darkest parts of me, the ones I kept hidden away.

I humphed and turned away with a grunt of displeasure.

The rain started drizzling after the service as people began to disperse. The priest had finally finished, thank God. Now came the part where everyone would offer their hollow condolences, shake Marco’s hand, and pretend they gave a damn about the Castellano family’s loss.

Thank fuck. I can finally leave this boring event.

I turned to move toward my car, but my brother stopped me, holding me from behind, and his hand on my arm was gentle this time.

“Adi.” The use of my old nickname made me stop in my tracks. It had been so long since Marco had called me that. He hadn’t called me that since I became the problematic child.

“What?” I responded defensively. The name threatened to bring back memories.

I was my brother’s little sister—we had eleven years between us. Yet looking at Marco now, he looked like he’d aged more than his thirty-two years since Father had died. All the family business, all the pressure, was now on him. The weight of an empire resting on his shoulders. And I felt a pang of pity for him, for behaving like a brat.

“What do you want?” I asked in a softer tone, and he smiled, a genuine small, and tired smile.

“Since Father’s dead now, people will be looking for a way to take me down, and that means you aren’t safe anymore,” he said, concern and worry etched on his face.

I tilted my head. I could feel where this was going, and I knew where this was going, could feel it deep in my marrow, and I wouldn’t like whatever came out of his mouth. “So?”

“You need a new bodyguard.”

“You mean a new babysitter?” The words came out harsher than I intended, but I couldn’t help it.

“That’s not what I mean. I want someone to protect you.” I could see the concern in his eyes, but no—I couldn’t forfeit the new freedom I had now that Father was dead.

“Okay, I get it.” I accepted because I knew I’d send all the bodyguards away. I didn’t need someone to watch me. I’d done it before. Father had assigned me three different bodyguards over the years, and I’d managed to ditch every single one. This would be no different.

I turned to take a step but stopped when I felt the hair on the back of my neck rise.

He was here.

He was behind me.

When did he get so close? I hadn’t heard him approach.

“About your new bodyguard—”

“Fuck no.” I shook my head, already knowing where this was going.

“—would be Dante.” Marco completed, and I swiftly turned to him, glaring.

Anyone but him. I could compromise with any other bodyguard, but not him. Not the man who watched me like I was something to be studied. Not the man whose presence I was always hyperaware of.

“I don’t want him.”

“Adi...” he called, like I was throwing a tantrum, and I hadn’t even started yet.

“What?” I growled. “You can’t expect me to agree. This is my life.”

“But it’s for your safety. And you don’t have a say in this. Dante will be your bodyguard, and he’ll be staying in your penthouse till I see that everything is safe.”

“Staying with me?” The words came out strangled.

“Yes.”

“In my penthouse?” Not just following me around—living with me. Invading my space. My sanctuary.

“Yes.”

“No,” I muttered in horror. I couldn’t have that. I’d be under watch 24/7. My freedom was being signed away, and I had no say in a fucking thing.

“I trust Dante with my life, and I’m sure he’ll be able to keep you safe.” Marco’s voice was firm, and that was final.

I shook my head and looked up at Dante, whose expression was unreadable as he stared down at me.

He tilted his head, and the corner of his brow creased. “Still a brat, Printsessa.”

And I hated that nickname.