Tied to the Mafia's Heir

I wake up bound in the back of a black SUV and hear the city lights blur into one another as the driver speeds through the streets of the night and the man who destroyed my family wants me to help him the way I know I can help, but on his terms.

The satin of my wedding dress still sticks to my flesh as I regain consciousness. My wrists sting where the zip ties dug into my skin, and the air in the SUV tastes like oil and cigarette smoke. My chest closes around a thin finger of panic, but I make myself inhale slowly for five seconds and hold it for five seconds, over and over. My name is Isabella Rossi, and I am the daughter of a century’s old famiglia I think-run by blood, betrayal, and the iron nature of our family chain-locked by nothing else than iron, but my father had other ideas when he wanted me to marry the heir to another steel fortune, up until it all goes to hell.

Thankfully, the city’s lights outside smear into streaks while the car shrieks down an overpass, but I can still see the skyline: Lagos, my war-bred home. The reception hall, the rose petals, my sister Elena’s tear bright eyes — all of it was gone. Exchanged for the hum of an engine and two silent guards in the front.

I wrench my eyes off the window and look around me: cramped back seat, black leather, tinted glass. A twisted piece of linen lies forgotten at my feet – my veil. Half untangled, my pearls are draped over the seat beside me. Anything nice from tonight feels like proof of a life that’s been torn off.

“Just breathe,” I whisper under my breath. “Don’t panic.”

The doors don’t unlock. The locks don’t click. I test the zip ties again — too tight — and transfer my weight so I can get my ankles free. I’m Hands and Feet Bound, but Mind Is Alight: Who Could Have Pulled This Off So Neatly? The Salazar cartel? For months, they’ve been creeping into Rossi territory. Or one of the other families—say, the De Lucas, who have always been resentful of us ever since we found my parents’ mauled carcasses in that charred-out housing estate a decade ago.

The word, “Moretti” escapes me and chills my spine.

It flares up flashes of my old nightmares - my father’s parting breath, my mom’s eyes with the lights on and a boy—not any boy, Dante Moretti, standing at the edge of the bullet holed room. His face was expressionless then; I doubt it’s softened now. If so, it’ll be a victory.

The SUV slows. I get jostled forward so hard I nearly hit my head on the seat in front of me. My heart is a bloodpump in my side, rhythms of dread and rage running one through another. I mutter an Italian curse; though some small part of me wishes they