he fire that killed my family. For ten years, th
gement to another woman to
amed her the future mistr
forced a cheap metal collar arou
e just watched, his eyes col
through the walls as
d made me as a child was a lie. I wa
tion, my love for him
lebrated his new future, I walked
g to take me to my real
pte
phin
day Dante Moretti announced h
et confession in the dead of night. It was a headline, stark and black on the screen
t Powerful Family, to Wed Isabella Ve
of it a sudden, shocking anchor in a sea of disbelief. This had to be a mist
Dante
ly, was being torn apart, and I was just a piece of collateral damage left behind. Then he appeared through the flames, a boy of sixteen with eyes a
, his voice rough but steady. "Y
was my god. He was the one who bought me a nightlight when I was ten because the nightmares wouldn't stop, a small ceramic c
at. The world knew that. But he was my m
d do. I wrote him a letter. A confession, poured out in clumsy, heartfelt sentences, s
udy. He cornered me in the library that night, his body caging me against a shelf of
his voice a low, dangerous growl. "You lov
ve him. It felt like a test. Ano
iling beside him, her hand possessively on his
they walked in. Isabella was everything I wasn't-tall, poised, with the kind of shar
re was no warmth, no apology
ernous foyer. "This is Isabella. You will refer to
blow. Mistress. The titl
pleasure to finally meet the little can
was a Rossi by blood, a Moretti by charity. A stray dog he'd picked up from the
ir, a sheet of pale gold, fell to my waist. Dante had always loved
d for cutting flower stems in the garden, and held
n
cold tile floor
Snip
hacked off in uneven, jagged chunks a
cket in my jacket, I pulled out a cigarette, stolen from one of the guards. My hands trembled as I
his. I was nothing. And when you have
and made a promise to the unforgiving New York