Chapter 6

• Clara had never felt so stuck in her life. The engagement dinner wasn’t a party—it was a big, loud show of who had the power. She was just a piece on their chessboard, moved around in this messed-up game of deals and control. Every single person in the room—the tough mafia bosses with their slick suits, the underbosses with sneaky grins, the family members with sharp eyes—watched her like hawks. They were waiting, judging, wondering if she’d follow the rules or crack under the pressure.
• She wanted to yell. Wanted to jump up, flip the table, and tell them all to shove it. But she couldn’t. Instead, she grabbed her champagne glass, forced a smile that hurt her cheeks, and held it up like she was fine. Inside, though, she was a mess—seconds away from losing it completely.
• Dante sat next to her, cool as ice. He didn’t look like someone whose life was being turned upside down. His fingers played with the edge of his glass, tracing slow circles like this whole thing was just a boring chore for him.
• “You’re doing good, amore,” he said, his voice sliding out smooth and quiet, like he was whispering a secret. “Almost looks real.”
• Clara took a sip of her champagne, the bubbles fizzing against her lips. She tried hard to ignore how his words sent a shiver down her back—not a scared one, but something else she didn’t like. It made her mad that he could get to her like that.
• “I don’t need to make it look real,” she said, keeping her voice cold and steady. “They’ll believe whatever they’re told to believe.”
• Dante smirked, that annoying little twist of his lips. “Smart girl,” he said, like he was impressed.
• She opened her mouth to snap something back, but before she could, Ricardo stood up at the head of the table. He cleared his throat loud, and the whole room went dead quiet, like someone flipped a switch. Every eye turned to him.
• “You all know why we’re here,” Ricardo said, his voice strong and deep, filling the huge ballroom. “Tonight, we’re celebrating my daughter, Clara, getting engaged to Dante Costa. This isn’t just a wedding—it’s the end of a fight that’s gone on too long between our families. It’s about loyalty. It’s about power.”
• Clara’s stomach twisted so hard she thought she might be sick. She hated how he called her his daughter, like he’d been there her whole life instead of popping up yesterday to ruin it.
• Ricardo raised his glass high. “To the future of our families,” he said.
• Everyone copied him, lifting their drinks. Glasses clinked all around, the sound sharp and echoing in her ears.
• Dante leaned in close, his breath warm against her ear. “It’s time,” he said, low and steady.
• She stiffened, her shoulders going tight. “Time for what?” she asked, her voice sharp.
• He smiled, but it wasn’t a nice smile. It was cold, empty, like a shark showing its teeth. “The real ceremony,” he said.
• Her heart thudded hard. Before she could ask what he meant, two guys in dark suits stepped up to the table. They carried a silver tray between them, and on it was a shiny knife and a folded piece of paper. The light from the chandelier glinted off the blade, making it look even scarier.
• Clara’s blood turned cold, like ice running through her veins. She’d heard stories—whispers from movies or books about old mafia stuff. This wasn’t just a promise with words. This was a blood oath. A deal you couldn’t take back, signed with your own flesh.
• Ricardo turned to her, his green eyes locking on hers. “You’re gonna sign the contract in blood,” he said, his voice calm but hard. “It’s how we do things. It’s a bond that doesn’t break.”
• Her hands clenched under the table, her nails digging into her palms so deep it hurt. “And if I say no?” she asked, her voice shaking just a little.
• Ricardo’s smile didn’t move, but his eyes got darker. “Then your sister dies,” he said, like he was talking about the weather.
• Clara’s breath came fast and uneven, her chest rising and falling too quick. She looked around—at the knife, the paper, the dozens of faces staring at her. They were all waiting, expecting her to do it. This was her last shot to fight back, to say no and run. But where could she go? Ricardo had her pinned, trapped with that threat about Elena—the sister she didn’t even know but couldn’t let die.
• Her hand shook as she reached for the knife. It felt heavy and cold in her fingers, the metal smooth against her skin. Dante watched her, his hazel eyes steady and blank, like he didn’t care either way.
• She swallowed hard, her throat dry as sand. She pressed the sharp tip against her finger, holding her breath. A quick sting bit into her skin, and a tiny drop of red welled up, bright against her pale hand. Her stomach flipped, but she didn’t stop. She pressed her finger to the paper, smearing the blood across it in a messy mark. It soaked into the parchment, staining it dark.
• The second she did it, she felt it—like a chain snapping tight around her. Her freedom was gone, signed away with that one drop. She was tied to Dante Costa now, stuck with a guy she was starting to realize wouldn’t ever let her go—not because he cared, but because he owned her now.
• The room didn’t cheer or clap. It just stayed quiet, heavy, like everyone knew what this meant. Clara pulled her hand back, staring at the little cut on her finger. It wasn’t deep, but it throbbed, a steady ache that matched the pounding in her chest.
• Dante leaned back in his chair, sipping his wine like nothing big had happened. “Good girl,” he said, his voice soft but smug.
• She shot him a glare, her eyes burning. “Don’t call me that,” she snapped, her voice low so only he could hear.
• His smirk grew, that lazy twist of his lips that drove her nuts. “Whatever you say, amore,” he said, teasing her again.