His voice had never carried so much raw emotion—not when he'd placed the ring on my finger, not when he'd sealed our blood oath with a kiss as cold as marble. The confession ended, and the late-night host gushed with praise and envy, utterly unaware that he had just broadcast the death knell of my marriage to half the Eastern Seaboard.
I sat frozen against the mahogany headboard, the silk sheets pooled around my waist like spilled wine. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked on, indifferent to my unraveling.
I had been given to Nico through an arrangement—an alliance marriage between the Mancini Family and the Volpe Syndicate, brokered by powers far greater than teenage dreams. My father had presented me like tribute, and I had gone willingly. One look at Nico Volpe, with his sharp jaw and eyes like black ice, and I had fallen. Hard. Foolishly.
He remained frozen. A statue carved from winter.
The only explanation I ever received came from his mother during our first meeting, in the rose garden of the Volpe compound while armed men patrolled the perimeter.