Chapter 2 - The Weight of the Crown
Niko’s hand lingered on my jaw for a fraction of a second longer than necessary before he abruptly dropped his fingers, stepping back as if my skin had burned him.
The abrupt withdrawal left a cold void in the air between us. He turned away, walking over to the minimalist wet bar built into the dark walnut wall, pouring two fingers of amber whiskey into a heavy crystal glass. He swallowed it in a single, unhurried motion, his broad back turned to me.
“Get out of that dress,” he commanded coldly without looking back. “There’s a walk-in closet through that door with clothes that fit your new station. Tomorrow morning, we meet with my inner circle. You will smile, you will say nothing unless spoken to, and you will not embarrass me.”
I didn't answer. I stood there, watching the rigid line of his shoulders, the fury inside me bubbling up through the fear. Without a word of compliance, I turned sharply on my heel and marched past him toward the master bathroom, slamming the heavy frosted-glass door behind me with a force that rattled the brass fixtures.
Inside the sanctuary of the bathroom, I finally let out the breath I felt like I’d been holding since morning.
I leaned against the marble sink, staring at my reflection in the massive illuminated mirror. The makeup artists hired by the Santoros had painted my face to perfection—smoky eyes, contoured cheeks, and a sophisticated elegance that looked nothing like the exhausted law student who had been cramming for a constitutional exam just forty-eight hours ago.
A pawn. That’s what he called me.
I reached behind my back, fumbling with the tiny, endless row of satin buttons running down the spine of the wedding dress. After three frustrating minutes of pulling and tearing at the fabric, the zipper finally gave way. I shimmied out of the heavy gown, letting it pool at my feet like a glittering puddle of ivory foam, and changed into an oversized silk bathrobe I found hanging on the back of the door.
When I stepped back out into the bedroom ten minutes later, the lights were dimmed, and Niko was sitting on the edge of the king-sized bed, his suit jacket and tie discarded, his white shirt unbuttoned at the top.
He looked up as I entered. His eyes swept over my bare face, free of makeup, my dark hair falling in damp waves around my shoulders. For a moment, the dangerous mafia boss vanished, replaced by a man who looked astonishingly tired.
“There’s a security detail outside the double doors twenty-four hours a day,” Niko said quietly, gesturing toward the bedroom exit. “Do not attempt to leave this floor without Luca or myself. The Rossi faction has been testing our borders for months, and your father’s political fallout made you a target the moment your name was linked to mine.”
“So I’m not just a prisoner to you,” I said bitterly, crossing my arms over my chest. “I’m a hostage.”
“You are my wife,” Niko corrected, his voice dropping into a hard, unyielding tone as he stood up, towering over me once more. “And in this world, that makes you the most dangerous target in New York. Sleep on the left side of the bed. I have work to finish in the study.”
He walked past me toward the adjoining office, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind him with the same finality as the front entrance.
I stood alone in the dark bedroom, the vast expanse of the bed mocking me. I climbed in, pulling the heavy silk duvet up to my chin, staring up at the shadow-draped ceiling.
My father had sold me to a monster to save his own political skin. But lying there in the silence of the Santoro stronghold, listening to the muffled hum of city traffic miles below, I made a silent vow.
May you like
Niko Santoro thought I was a spoiled, reckless socialite who knew nothing of the real world.
He was about to find out how wrong a dangerous man could be.
