"That's mine," I said, my voice tight.

"Is it?" Dante held the ring up to the light.

Engraved on the inside was a line of tiny Latin words: Sanguis Meus, Honor Meus. My Blood, My Honor.

"The signet ring of the Costello heir. It was stolen from my hand seven years ago in an abandoned church in Brooklyn. And you, Miss Moretti, just so happened to start wearing it that same year."

The room was silent. Every eye was on me.

"I found it," I said, my nails digging into my palms. "At a flea market."

"What a coincidence." Dante walked until he was standing in front of me. He was so tall I had to crane my neck to meet his gaze. "Was that flea market, by any chance, right next to St. Mary’s Church? And did that church, by any chance, have a shootout on a rainy November night seven years ago? And was I, by any chance, lying in a pool of my own blood with three bullets in me, only to wake up and find my ring gone, but my wounds bandaged with strips of a girl’s torn skirt?"

He moved a step closer with every question, backing me against the door.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, turning my head away.

Dante’s fingers clamped onto my chin, forcing me to look at him. His touch was scalding.

"You don't?" he whispered, his voice so low only I could hear. "Then do you remember a girl with eyes that shone even in the dark? Her fingers were so cold. When she touched my skin, I thought, if I don't die, I have to find her. And then…" his thumb brushed against my lower lip, a touch so light it was almost gentle, "…she pressed her lips to my forehead to see if I had a fever."

My breath hitched.

That rainy night. The smell of damp mildew. Blood. His skin burning hot. My school skirt, torn to ribbons. The wail of distant sirens. I was so scared. I’d pressed my forehead against his to check his temperature…

"You…" My throat was dry.

"I searched for you for four years," Dante said. "Until one of my men told me the Moretti family had a daughter who wore my ring."

He released my chin, his hand sliding to the nape of my neck, cupping my head. The gesture was so intimate, as if he were about to kiss me.

"Now," he said, his breath ghosting over my lips, "are you still going to tell me you don't know?"

I closed my eyes.

The memories broke through like a floodgate. Seventeen years old, skipping class, lost in the pouring rain. The smell of blood in the church. The man’s pale face, dark curls stuck to his forehead, his eyes like bottomless pits. My trembling hands tearing my skirt. Him grabbing my wrist with terrifying strength.

"Don't be scared," he had mumbled in Italian. "I won't hurt you."

Then he passed out. I slipped the ring from his finger—it was so loose, about to fall off—and hung it around my neck, thinking if he survived, maybe I could return it.

I opened my eyes.

Dante’s face was inches from mine. His eyelashes were long, his nose perfectly straight like a Greek statue. His lips were a hard line, but they were pressed together now, as if holding something back.

"Why didn't you say anything?" I asked. "Why ignore me for four years only to force me to marry you with a contract?"

"Because four years ago, my throne was built on knives," Dante’s voice dropped, the all-powerful arrogance gone, replaced by… a weariness. "The Costello family was fractured. Six other gangs were waiting to tear me apart. If I had come for you then, you would have been my weakness. They would have cut you into pieces to use against me."

His thumb stroked the sensitive skin behind my ear, sending a shiver through me.

"So I waited," he said. "I waited until all my enemies were in their graves. I waited until no one dared to challenge me. Then I heard the Moretti family was marrying you off to some Wall Street banker for a loan."

He smiled, and it tasted of blood.

"So I told your father I'd give him double. On one condition: you marry me."

"And you agreed," I said, unsure if I should be furious or cry. "Without ever asking me if I wanted this."

"I did ask you," Dante said. "That night in the church. I woke up for a moment and saw your face. I said, 'Wait for me.' You nodded."

I stared at him, stunned.

I didn't remember. I didn't remember any of that. I was terrified that night, probably just nodding unconsciously, probably just crying.

"That doesn't count," I said.

"It counts to me." Dante’s hand tightened, pulling me even closer. "Ava Moretti, you promised to wait for me. And now I’m here to collect."

I should have pushed him away. I should have slapped him. I should have called him a psycho, a control freak, an arrogant bastard.

But I didn't.

Because deep in his eyes, beneath that cold, black surface, I saw something else. An obsession that was almost fragile. Like a man who had walked through the desert for so long that he'd finally found an oasis and was terrified it was just a mirage.

"You're an asshole," I whispered.

"I know," Dante admitted. "But I'm your asshole."

And then he kissed me.

It wasn’t a gentle exploration. It was a straight, undeniable claiming.

His lips were hot, tasting of whiskey and coffee, as he forced mine apart, his tongue sweeping inside.

I gasped, my fingers instinctively clutching his suit jacket, the expensive wool wrinkling in my fists.

There were stifled gasps from the room, the sound of chairs scraping back, but I couldn't hear any of it.

My world shrank to this kiss, to the scent of this man, to the arm that held my waist so tightly it felt like he was trying to merge me with his body.

When he finally let go, my lips were numb, and I was breathless.

"The agreement is back on," Dante announced, his voice ringing through the room, but his eyes were locked only on me. "But with one change: the Moretti family is not selling their daughter to me. I, Dante Costello, am marrying Ava Moretti. The wedding is next Saturday. Anyone with an objection—"

He scanned the room, and every person he looked at bowed their head.

"—can stand up now."

No one moved.

Dante nodded, satisfied. He took my hand, lacing his fingers through mine.

"Now," he said, "my fiancée and I are going to get some decent food. The chef here needs to be replaced."

He led me out. As we passed my father, he opened his mouth, but one look from Dante shut him up.

"Dad's loan…" I mumbled.

"Already paid off," Dante said without looking back. "Consider it a dowry."

We walked out of the private room, through the silent restaurant. All the other diners pretended not to see us, but their gazes followed us like spotlights.

A black Cadillac Escalade was waiting at the curb. A bodyguard opened the door.

Dante helped me in—his hand protectively over the top of the doorframe so I wouldn't hit my head—then slid in beside me. The door shut, sealing us off from the world.

The car moved smoothly into the New York traffic.

I leaned back against the leather seat, watching the city streak past.

The neon lights were beginning to glow, painting the skyscrapers in gold as dusk fell. It all felt like a surreal dream.

"Regret it?" Dante asked.

I turned to look at him. He had loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. The hard lines of his profile were carved by the dim light.

"What if I do?" I asked.

"Too late." He reached over, his thumb brushing my bottom lip, wiping away a smudge of lipstick he'd kissed off. "You lit the fire, Ava. Now you have to stay and watch it burn."

His hand slid from my jaw down my neck, stopping at my collarbone, his fingertips pressing the spot where the ring used to hang.

"Besides," he whispered, his eyes bottomless in the shadows, "you stole from me for seven years. It’s time to pay the interest."

The car turned into a private drive, and two massive iron gates slowly swung open.

We had arrived at the Costello Estate.