Chapter 2

The old wall clock in the boutique flower shop ticked away, hollow and heavy.

Twelve minutes until the proposal.

"Lorenzo, you have to rehearse first," Bianca said, planting herself directly in front of him, her tone that of an order. "The Godfather of an underworld family cannot stammer and stumble in front of the whole family."

Lorenzo raked a big hand through his black hair, irritation all over him, the tight line of his jaw betraying the anger he was swallowing. He was a man who could decide the fate of thousands with a flick of his wrist—yet again and again he folded, bending his own bottom line to please my family. His crown rested on my father's guns, money, and territory—an old debt that even a Godfather could not simply wave away.

"I know what to say," Lorenzo replied, cold and clipped.

"Just one run-through," my mother coaxed, patting him on the back. "Let Bianca stand in for Anya. It'll take the edge off your nerves."

I stood by the counter, an invisible, untraceable ghost, and watched the grotesque little pageant unfold.

Lorenzo exhaled heavily. He took half a step back, squared his broad shoulders, and lowered his gaze to my sister. Then the most ruthless mafia Godfather in the city slowly sank down on one knee, onto the gleaming marble floor.

"Anya," Lorenzo began—and he spoke my name while looking straight into my sister's scheming eyes. "You are the only peace I have ever known in this life."

He reached into the black velvet box and took out the heirloom diamond ring. It caught the light of the crystal chandelier overhead and threw off a dazzling blaze of brilliance—and it looked obscene.

Lorenzo raised his hand, took Bianca's left one, and slid my dream ring, slowly, onto my sister's ring finger.

A hollow cold spread through my chest. Even after death, nothing that belonged to me had ever truly been mine. Our entire childhood, Bianca had taken my dresses, my toys, my friends. And now, before I had even had the chance to see my own engagement ring on my own hand, it was already on hers.

"Um... isn't this going a little too far?" Clara murmured from the corner. She shifted uneasily, discomfort all over her face. "If Anya finds out Bianca wore her ring first, she might be upset."

Bianca turned the ring on her finger, admiring the fractured rainbows it threw.

"Oh, shut up, Clara," Bianca snorted without even lifting her eyes. "Anya doesn't care about trivial things like this. She won't mind at all."

"Anya has always been gracious and understanding," my mother chimed in immediately, smoothing a wrinkle from her designer coat. "She knows Bianca is only doing her a favor."

Lorenzo rose to his feet. He held out his hand for the ring, but my mother was already smoothing things over—"Let her wear it a moment, it's a family piece, she's only doing her sister a favor"—and, as always with my family, he let it go. He walked to the florist's counter and picked up a sheet of thick, fine cardstock and a gold-tipped fountain pen.

"I need to write a card for the roses," Lorenzo said, his voice tight.

I drifted over and looked past his broad shoulder. His handwriting was sharp and slanted, every stroke aggressive, bristling with the hunger for control.

He wrote: Wherever you are, whenever you need me, I will be there.

I stared at the line, and the bitter memories drowned me like a rising tide. The year I turned sixteen, Bianca talked the whole family into abandoning me in a remote cabin deep in the woods. I chased their car down the muddy track until I lost my shoes, sobbing until I coughed blood.

That night, Lorenzo found me huddled on the freezing porch. He held me while I shook with crying, and he swore a blood oath to me. He promised that whenever I called his name, he would come for me. No matter what.

And today, I screamed his name until my lungs nearly tore—and he walked away without so much as a glance over his shoulder.

Nine minutes until the proposal.

The shop staff loaded the last of the scarlet roses into the SUV. The Syndicate soldier doubling as the driver approached Lorenzo.

"Boss, the convoy's ready," the man reported with a respectful dip of his chin. "Will you ride up front and head back to the estate? Get an early start on the surprise?"

Lorenzo nodded. He walked out of the flower shop onto the sunlit sidewalk and wrapped his heavy hand around the SUV's door handle.

Now! If he left right now, he would find my body before the animals in the woods did. He was finally going to learn the truth.

"Wait!" Bianca came running out of the shop, the diamond—my diamond—still glittering on her finger.

Lorenzo froze, his hand still gripping the door handle.

"The Godfather's entrance has to be grand—the whole family around him, every eye on him," Bianca insisted, seizing the lapel of his coat. "Let's run the vows one more time. You hesitated on the second line just now. A proposal has to be flawless!"

My father said nothing at all. He only looked at Lorenzo—slowly, deliberately, the way a creditor looks at a debtor—and that silent look weighed more than any argument.

Lorenzo glanced at the SUV, then down the street toward the distant estate. That familiar, instinctive unease surfaced again in the depths of his eyes; a shadow fell across his handsome face. Somewhere beneath his skin, he had sensed something.

But he let go of the door handle.

"Fine," Lorenzo said, turning his back on the car—and on his own instincts. "One last time."

The driver shut the door, took his seat, and pulled the car over to the curb to wait.

Lorenzo walked back across the sidewalk to face my sister, his eyes dull and obedient, and sank to one knee before Bianca once more.

"Anya," he recited, his low voice thick with counterfeit tenderness. "You are the only peace I have ever known in this life."

I stood at the curb, watching the man I loved rehearse eternal vows for the people who tortured me—while only a few miles away, my blood was seeping, drop by drop, into the freezing soil.