Chapter 1 - The Wedding Night Confession
The lock clicked, echoing like a gunshot in the cavernous silence of the Fifth Avenue penthouse. Niko removed his tailored suit jacket, his movements methodical and terrifyingly calm, draping it over a velvet armchair without once looking in my direction. The city lights of Manhattan poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long, sharp shadows across his face.
"We should establish some rules about this marriage," he said coldly, unbuttoning his cuffs.
I stood beside the massive, silk-draped bed, forcing my knees not to buckle under the weight of my heavy ivory gown. I had spent my entire life navigating the treacherous waters of New York high society, dealing with arrogant politicians and ruthless businessmen, but the man standing before me was an entirely different breed of predator.
"Rule number one," Niko continued, finally turning his dark, piercing eyes toward me. "You will continue your studies. I don't care if you want to be a lawyer or if this is just another expensive hobby for Arthur Shaw's spoiled little girl. You will keep a routine. It makes you easier to guard."
My jaw tightened. "It’s not a hobby."
He ignored me. "Rule number two. You can keep your party lifestyle strictly behind closed doors. Whatever substances you ingest, whatever men you used to entertain—that ends tonight. You are a Santoro now. You will not embarrass me in public, and you will not bring your reckless tabloid habits into my home. Understood?"
The sheer contempt in his voice snapped something inside me. The terror that had been building since Thursday morning evaporated, replaced by a blinding, reckless fury. He thought he had me figured out. He had read the gossip blogs—the ones my father's political rivals paid for—painting me as a wild, drunken socialite just because I was photographed holding a champagne flute at charity galas.
"Understood?" he repeated, his voice dropping to a dangerous, silken whisper as he closed the distance between us.
"You don't know the first thing about me," I fired back, lifting my chin to meet his gaze.
Niko stopped inches from me. Up close, the sheer physical power of the man was overwhelming. He smelled of expensive cologne, dark espresso, and cold winter air. "I know everything I need to know," he murmured, lifting a hand to trace the line of my jaw. "I know your father sold you to me to cover a debt he couldn't pay. I know you've been passed around the Upper East Side like a party favor. And I know you think you can play games with me."
His fingers slid to the nape of my neck, his grip firm but not bruising, testing my bravado. He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. "Let's get this over with. Take off the dress."
I froze. A violent shudder ripped through my body. The moment his hand shifted lower, grazing my bare shoulder, the walls I had built completely shattered. I tried to mask it with anger, but what came out was a sharp, terrified gasp. I flinched, shrinking away from his touch so drastically that I nearly tripped over the train of my gown.
Niko froze.
His hand remained suspended in the air. The cold, indifferent mask on his face fractured. His dark eyes narrowed, scanning my face, reading the absolute, unadulterated panic in my wide eyes, the way my breathing had turned into shallow, frantic hiccups, and the way my hands were defensively curled over my chest.
"Who hurt you?" his voice was no longer cold. It was lethal.
"No one," I whispered, pressing my back against the wall.
Niko took a slow step back, giving me oxygen. His eyes dropped to my trembling hands, then back to my face. The calculating mind of a mafia boss was processing the data, realizing the puzzle pieces did not fit the picture he had been handed.
"You flinched," he said, his voice dropping an octave, losing the harshness. "You’re terrified of me touching you. Not disgusted. Terrified." He stared at me for a long, agonizing moment before the realization hit him like a physical blow. The breath actually hitched in his chest. "You've never done this before."
I looked away, tears of humiliation burning my eyes. "The tabloids lie, Mr. Santoro. It sells more papers to call a politician's daughter a slut than it does to call her a virgin who spends her weekends in the law library."
Niko stood completely paralyzed. The ruthless, untouchable head of the Santoro syndicate stared at me as if the ground beneath him had just given way. He looked down at his own hands, then back at me, a profound, heavy guilt washing over his sharp features.
"Dio mio," he breathed out, running a hand through his dark hair.
May you like
He didn't advance. Instead, he walked over to the velvet armchair, picked up one of his heavy, expensive cashmere throw blankets, and gently held it out to me.
"Lock the door behind me," Niko said, his voice remarkably gentle, thick with an emotion I couldn't place. "No one will enter this room. No one will touch you. Not even me. Sleep, little bird. Tomorrow, I am going to find out exactly why your father gave you to a monster."
