married to the Mafia king

CHAPTER ONE : The gunshot didn't sound like the movies. It sounded like the world cracking in half. Lyra Donnelly was reaching for the door of Donnelly's, the warm yellow light of the restaurant spilling onto the wet pavement, when her father's body hit the ground three feet behind her. She didn't process the sound first. She processed the silence after it — the way the street seemed to hold its breath, the way the rain stopped mattering, the way her own heartbeat became the loudest thing in the world. "Dad?" She turned. He was on his back, one hand still curled around the keys he'd been about to hand her, the other pressed flat against his chest like he could push the wound shut with sheer will. Blood was already pooling beneath him, black in the streetlight, spreading toward the gutter like it had somewhere to be. "Dad — Dad —" She dropped to her knees beside him, hands hovering, terrified to touch him and terrified not to. Twenty-six years of memories collapsed into this one frozen second: him teaching her to flip a steak with one wrist, him crying at her high school graduation, him telling her two hours ago that everything was fine, that the restaurant was fine, that she didn't need to worry about the men who'd been calling the office. "Lyra." His voice was wet. Wrong. "Listen to me." "I'm calling an ambulance, just hold on, please hold on —" "There's no time." His hand found her wrist, gripping with a strength that didn't match the gray creeping into his face. "Voss. Dimitri Voss. You go to him. Tonight. Before they find you." "What? Dad, who did this? Who—" "I'm sorry." His eyes were losing focus, sliding toward the streetlight like it was something to follow. "I'm so sorry, Lyra-bird. I should have told you years ago. I should have—" "Told me what?" Her voice cracked into something feral. "Dad, stay with me. Stay with me—" He didn't. The sound that came out of her then didn't feel human. It tore out of her chest and into the rain-soaked street, and somewhere behind her she heard Marcus, the line cook, screaming for someone to call 911, heard the restaurant emptying onto the sidewalk, heard her little sister's voice — Lyra, what's happening, where's Dad — and she couldn't answer because her father's blood was warm on her hands and getting cold, and the last word he'd given her was a name she'd never heard him say in her life. The funeral was small. Closed casket. Her father had asked for that once, years ago, half-joking — no open casket, I don't want anyone seeing me looking worse than I do at the DMV — and she'd laughed then. She didn't laugh now, standing in a black dress that didn't fit right, her twelve-year-old brother Theo's hand clamped in hers, her sixteen-year-old sister June refusing to cry in public because June had decided crying was for people who could afford to fall apart. Lyra couldn't afford it either. Not really. But she'd done it anyway, alone, in the shower, where no one could see. It was four days after the funeral that the lawyer called. "I need you to understand the full picture before you say anything," he said, voice careful in the way that meant the picture was bad. "Your father's restaurant was operating at a loss for the last three years. He'd taken loans — not from banks. From a man named Dimitri Voss." The name hit her like a second gunshot. "How much?" Her voice came out steadier than she felt. "Two point three million dollars." She laughed. It wasn't a real laugh — it scraped out of her like something breaking. "That's not possible. We don't have that. The restaurant's worth maybe four hundred thousand on a good day." "I know. Which is why I need you to listen carefully. Voss doesn't operate like a bank. He doesn't write off debt. And he doesn't forget who owes him." "What does he want from me?" "He wants a meeting. Tonight, if you're willing. I'd advise you to be willing." Dimitri Voss's office occupied the top floor of a building that didn't have a sign on it, in the part of the city where streetlights worked a little too well, like the absence of shadows was intentional. Lyra rode the elevator up with her stomach in her throat and her father's last words looping endlessly in her skull — go to him, before they find you — and no idea what either half of that sentence meant. The doors opened onto a room of dark wood and darker silence. He was standing at the window with his back to her, tall enough that his shoulders blocked half the skyline, and when he turned, Lyra understood immediately why people lowered their voices when they said his name. It wasn't his size. It was the stillness — the way he watched her cross the room like he already knew every move she'd make before she made it, like grief and fear were simply data points he was cataloging behind eyes the color of struck flint. "Miss Donnelly." His voice was quiet. Quiet was worse than loud. "Sit down." "I'll stand." Her voice shook anyway. "You're the reason my father is dead." Something flickered across his face — gone too fast to name. "I'm not." "He told me your name. With his last breath, he told me to come to you. So either you killed him, or you know who did, and I don't see how either one makes you someone I should trust." "You shouldn't trust me." He said it simply, like a fact of weather. "But you should listen to me, because the men hunting you don't care whether you trust them or not, and your father's debt is the only leverage I have to keep you breathing long enough to understand why." The floor tilted beneath her. "Hunting me?" "Marry me." He said it the way other men ordered coffee — no weight on it at all, which somehow made it heavier. "By the end of the week. It's the only offer on the table that doesn't end with you on the ground next to him." Lyra stared at him, at the cold architecture of his face, and felt the last solid thing in her world give way beneath her feet. "You're insane." "I'm specific." He stepped closer, and she made herself hold still. "Your father owed me a debt, Miss Donnelly. But it was never money.