Chapter 1
The smell of cigar smoke stuck to the roof of my mouth. The office air conditioning was on maximum, but thick drops of sweat ran down the back of my father’s neck. He held a glass of cheap whiskey with both hands. His fingers trembled. The ice clinked against the bottom of the crystal glass.
Clack. Clack.
It was the only sound in the room.
We were in Dante Russo’s office. The nerve center of the Cosa Nostra. A slaughterhouse with luxury furniture and dark wood-paneled walls. There were no windows in there. The light came only from a bronze desk lamp on top of the main desk.
Two heavy doors marked the exits. Four guards were scattered in the dark corners of the room. Big men, wearing black suits. They held automatic weapons with straps across their chests. They didn't blink. They didn't shift their weight from one leg to the other. They just watched.
I was sitting on a leather sofa. The cold seat prickled the back of my thighs. I wore a simple straight-cut gray cotton dress, buttoned up to the base of my neck. The rough fabric scratched my skin. My knees shook under the skirt, so I squeezed my legs together and pressed my hands in my lap until my nails dug into my palms.
My father, Lorenzo, brought the glass to his mouth and swallowed the rest of the drink in one gulp. He smelled of fear, stale sweat, and alcohol. A pathetic man and a gambling addict. He owed five million dollars to the mafia. Blood money.
"He's testing us," my father whispered. His voice cracked, thin and dry. "He wants to see who breaks first."
"Be quiet," I answered quietly, without looking at him.
Dante Russo was already in the room. Sitting behind the massive mahogany desk.
He didn't move. The dark, sunken eyes in his striking face had been fixed on my father for ten minutes. He didn't look like a bored businessman in a meeting. He looked like a predator measuring the exact distance to strike. A silent killer.
Dante showed no smile. No expression crossed his face. No line of tension. It was a hard mask. He wore a well-tailored black suit and a black shirt underneath, without a tie. The open collar showed the pale skin of his neck and the shadow of a tattoo. His large fingers rested open on the empty desk.
The silence continued. The wall clock ticked the seconds. Tick. Tock.
My father started breathing through his mouth. His chest rose and fell fast. The air in the office got heavy. Hard to pull into the lungs.
"Five million, Lorenzo."
Dante's voice cut through the silence out of nowhere. It was low. Thick. Rough as sandpaper.
My father jumped in his chair. The empty glass slipped from his hand and rolled across the dark rug. He didn't try to pick it up.
"Dante. Mr. Russo. Don Russo." My father stuttered, rubbing his wet hands on his dirty linen pants. "I... I know. I know about the deadline. I have an offer for you today."
"You had until midnight yesterday for the cash. The deadline is over. My men went to your house this morning to collect and you begged for this meeting. Speak."
"I don't have the cash. The banks closed my accounts and the loan sharks won't lend me anything else. But I brought the payment. A definitive payment."
My father stretched his skinny arm and pointed at me with a trembling index finger.
"Siena. My eldest daughter."
Dante's eyes moved. Only his eyes. His wide neck remained completely rigid. His heavy gaze hit my face. It went down to the cheap fabric of my closed dress. Evaluated the posture of my shoulders. And went back to my eyes.
No dark glimmer. No lust of a man looking at a woman's body. No real interest. He looked at me as if I were an empty ashtray on the table.
"A woman isn't worth five million," Dante said. His voice didn't rise a single pitch.
"She's a virgin!" my father yelled. Panic made him spit the words. "Never been touched by any man. I raised her locked in a room in our house. She's pretty, look at her. Dark hair, straight teeth. She's strong and she doesn't get sick."
My stomach churned hard. Bitter bile rose in my throat and I swallowed dryly. I was cattle. An animal being displayed in a dirty auction in front of shooters.
"Shut up," I said through gritted teeth, turning my face to my father.
"Keep quiet, Siena!" He yelled back, eyes bulging, and then turned to Dante with a forced smile. "See? She has anger, but she's obedient. Learns quickly what she's told. You need a wife, Don Russo. The whole mafia knows it. The Commission demands a marriage. She's Italian blood. A Bianchi. Her body pays my debt. Pays for the blood I spilled from your men last week."
Dante remained silent. He blinked once, slowly.
My father started panting again. He brought his hands to his head, pulling his own thinning hair. The lack of an answer was driving him crazy.
