Chapter 3

Abby Talley POV

The orchestra swelled, a crescendo that signaled the beginning of the Rite.

I moved toward the dais where the Don sat ensconced on a velvet throne, watching his kingdom with tired, heavy eyes.

But Jana intercepted me.

She held a glass of red wine, her knuckles tight around the stem. Her eyes were bright with malice. She timed it perfectly.

Just as I passed a group of Capos and their wives, Jana lunged forward, feigning a stumble on her high heels.

The wine splashed across the front of my red dress, darkening the silk like a fresh, arterial wound.

"Oh my god!" Jana shrieked, dropping the glass.

It shattered on the marble floor with a violent crash. "Abby! Why did you push me?"

The room went deathly silent.

Jana fell to her knees, sobbing dramatically, even picking up a shard of glass and slicing her palm. "I was just trying to congratulate you! Why are you so jealous?"

It was a performance worthy of the stage. In my past life, I would have stammered, apologized, and scrambled to help her up.

Instead, I stood still, looking down at her.

"Get up, Jana," I said, my voice devoid of warmth. "You're embarrassing yourself."

Connor appeared instantly. He didn't look at the spilled wine. He didn't ask what happened.

He saw an audience, and he saw an opportunity to assert his dominance.

"What is wrong with you?" Connor shouted, his voice booming across the silent ballroom.

He grabbed my shoulder and spun me around to face him.

"She's your cousin! She has nothing, and you treat her like trash because you're insecure?"

"She threw the wine, Connor," I said calmly. "Ask the Capo behind me. He saw it."

But Connor didn't care about the truth. He cared about the narrative. He cared about breaking me down publicly so that no one would question it when I disappeared into his penthouse later.

"Don't lie to me!"

His hand moved faster than I could dodge.

*Crack.*

The sound of his palm striking my cheek echoed through the hall like a gunshot.

My head snapped to the side. My cheek burned. The metallic taste of copper filled my mouth.

The gasp from the room sucked the air out of the space.

Striking a Made Man was a death sentence. Striking a woman under the Don's protection, at a formal ceremony, was... complicated.

But Connor was the Golden Boy. He was the heir. He banked on his privilege protecting him.

Slowly, deliberately, I turned my head back to face him. My cheek throbbed, but I didn't touch it. I didn't cry.

Connor looked momentarily stunned by his own violence, or perhaps by the fact that I hadn't crumbled. Then, his arrogance returned.

"You needed to be calmed down," he announced, loud enough for the Don to hear. "She's hysterical. Look at her."

I wasn't hysterical. I was ice.

"Is that how you treat your property, Connor?" I asked, my voice clear.

"You damage it before you even sign the deed?"

"I can do whatever I want with you," he sneered, leaning in close. "I can strip you of your inheritance. I can throw you on the street. You are nothing without me."

I looked past him.

The shadows in the far corner of the room seemed to detach themselves from the wall. A figure was moving. Not walking-stalking.

The crowd parted, not out of respect this time, but out of pure, primal fear.

Brannon Walls stepped into the light.

He was huge, broad-shouldered and towering, a monolith of a man. A scar ran through his left eyebrow, giving him a permanent scowl.

He didn't look at Connor. He didn't look at the Don.

His dark, empty eyes were locked with lethal focus on the red handprint blooming on my cheek.