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The first time Dante Rossi touched his wife, she begged him not to hurt her.

The first time Dante Rossi touched his wife, she begged him not to hurt her.

He had not even meant to touch her.

He had only reached to lift the veil.

The conservatory at the edge of the Rossi compound still smelled of crushed lilies, damp earth, and expensive deceit. Outside, the final guests were being ushered to their cars by men with earpieces and holstered weapons hidden under black trench coats. Inside the master suite, Aria Sterling stood in the middle of the Persian rug like a porcelain doll someone had trapped in silk.

Her wedding dress was an armor of elegance. Heavy ivory silk. Long sleeves. A high collar. A train so thick and demanding it had taken two maids to carry it down the aisle of the cathedral.

At first, Dante had assumed the gown was merely traditional.

Then he saw what it was hiding.

A dark, mottled shadow peeked just above the silk near her collarbone. Another bruise, fading to a sickly green, curved along the delicate line of her jaw. When he brushed the tulle of her veil back, her entire body went rigid.

“Please,” she breathed. “Don’t hurt me.”

Dante’s hand stopped dead in the air.

He had been called a butcher, a phantom, the newly crowned king of Boston’s most unforgiving crime syndicate. He had heard grown men plead for their lives in empty warehouses. He had built his reign on an iron discipline so absolute that even his rivals confessed he was principled before he was lethal.

But nothing in his violent life had prepared him for the sound of his own bride pleading for mercy on their wedding night.

Aria’s gaze was glued to the floor. Her bottom lip quivered once before she bit down to force it still. She looked twenty-two and utterly broken by the world. The massive emerald on her finger weighed her down like a chain.

Dante took a slow step back.

“Who did that to you?”

Her eyelashes fluttered.

“No one.”

“Do not lie to me.”

“I fell.”

“On both sides of your neck?”

Her silence gave him the answer her voice wouldn't.

For a heartbeat, the oxygen seemed to vanish from the room. Beyond the frosted glass, Boston shimmered cold and indifferent through the heavy November rain. This marriage had been forged to extinguish a decades-old war between two distinct underworlds. Sterling political cover. Rossi brute force. A pact sealed with signatures, veiled threats, and champagne toasts.

Dante had braced himself for an entitled politician’s daughter who despised him.

He had not braced himself for a woman who had been trained to flinch before he even raised a hand.

Aria took a ragged, shallow breath. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken out of turn.”

“Sorry for what?”

“For offending you.”

Dante just stared at her.

Then he turned on his heel, walked to the heavy oak door, and gripped the brass handle.

Aria’s head snapped up, pure panic flooding her eyes. “Where are you going?”

“To the guest wing.”

“But we’re expected to—”

“We’re expected to what?” His tone came out harsher than he wanted. He reined it in with sheer willpower. “Finalize the treaty? Give your father his proof? Let a compound full of armed guards think they own the rights to what happens in this bed?”

All the color drained from her face.

Dante squeezed the door handle until the metal dug into his palm. “Listen to me very closely, Aria. I do not lay hands on women who don’t want my touch. I do not extract obedience from someone who is already shivering in fear. This room is yours. The lock works from the inside. There is food in the adjoining kitchen. If you decide to walk out the front gates, no one will stand in your way.”

She stared at him as if he had just recited a poem in a dead language.

“You aren't mad?”

“I am enraged,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “Just not at you.”

Then he stepped out and left her alone.

Only when the latch clicked into place did Aria collapse against the edge of the mattress. She pressed both palms over her mouth, trembling so violently that the heavy silk of her dress rustled like dry leaves.

She thought she had just escaped one monster.

Perhaps she hadn't been traded to another after all.

But hope was a deadly thing. Hope made people drop their guard. And Aria Sterling had survived far too much violence to put her faith in a single act of grace.

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