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...Dear Miss Ricci You don’t know this yet, but you will be my wife. Sincerely Your soon-to-be husband He thought I was his—that’s what his emails indicated. He thought that because our families signed on the dotted line many years ago, it was a done deal. But I ran away from that life for a reason. Little did I know, he would find me. And he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Cruel wanted me to be his wife. And all I wanted was him in my bed....

CHAPTER 1

Rya Fourteen years ago My feet drag on the cobblestones. It’s hot, and I don’t mean cool-breeze-flowing-up-my-shirt hot. I mean, damn hot. It’s meant to start cooling down in Rome in September, but here we are, and I wish I could tear off my clothes. But my father may very well kill me if I did that, even if he isn’t here right now. I know he would find out. That’s what happens when he has connections—everywhere. I walk past restaurants, and people nod to me and quickly look away. I’m only sixteen, but they all know who I am. It’s in their best interests, and they would be silly not to. My sister laughs as she kicks off her shoes and starts running ahead, not concerned about our father’s wrath or how we’re viewed or should be acting. She’s three years younger than me and somewhat free-spirited. I have no doubt she’ll be giving Papa a run for his money when she turns sixteen.

I look back to Marco, who has basically been our bodyguard for as long as I can remember. He’s shaking his head but trying to hide a smirk. She wants to see the Colosseum together one more time before I leave. Butterflies dance in my stomach with excited energy at the thought of the one-way ticket to New York I’ll be putting to use in only a few hours. Who am I to deny my little sister one more outing before I leave? It also gives me time to say goodbye for the last time to my friends. “Rya.” Tourists walk around us as Honey yells out my name. She’s easy to spot even amidst the crowd with her bright pink dress and dangling shoes in hand. We are a stark contrast as I wear my sandals with baggy jeans and a cropped T-shirt. I sure as hell should have worn a dress, it would have been much cooler. “I don’t want you to go.” Honey runs at me, her arms wrap around my waist, and I awkwardly brush my hand down her back to return the hug. Honey’s hair is long and chestnut colored—she takes after her mother, my stepmother—whereas mine is almost caramel in color. I’m going to live with my mother, which does not make my father happy. But I feel like living here, I can’t really live. I know that’s not the entire reason. What I mean is I can’t live without being watched. And I’m always watched living here. I hate it. I want to sneak out. I want to kiss a boy I don’t know. I want to be felt up without the fear of one of my father’s men shooting him for touching me. I want it all.

I want my freedom. And yet, it breaks my heart to leave Honey. I love her. Yes, she can be annoying like any other little sister. But for as long as I can remember, I have put her to sleep every night by reading a book to her. Who’s going to read to her now? Her mother drinks—a lot. Our father—he’s always busy. So it’s just her and me against the world. It’s been fun. But I want to escape. No, I need to escape so badly that I want to pull my own hair from my scalp. But how do I explain that to a thirteen-year-old? “I’m sure you and Papa will come visit me in New York, and I’ll come back here for visits as well,” I say, trying to reassure her. She’s tall, almost my height now. Her mother was a supermodel whom Papa met at Fashion Week in Milan. She saw his power and money, and that was more than enough of an attraction to stay. She gave him a child, hoping it would be a boy, but out came Honey instead. Beautiful Honey. The only way you can tell we’re sisters is our eyes—almost cat-like in shape and silverish in color. Marco stays back as we weave through the last of the crowd. I spot Angel straight away. She waves at me, but what stops me in my tracks are the two men behind her. They look older, not our age, at least I think. But possibly not quite as old as the men who surround my father and stare at me in ways that make me extremely uncomfortable.

“Rya, hurry up. I have a drink for you,” she shouts through the crowd, not caring what they might think. I look over my shoulder at Marco, who shakes his head but doesn’t say anything to stop me. I pull back from Honey and look down. “Go and stay with Marco. I won’t be long. I have to say goodbye.” She obediently nods as she looks over my shoulder, curious about the men. “Go,” I encourage again, with a huff of a laugh she walks away. Most definitely, her curiosity is going to give Papa grief. I make my way over to meet Angel. She smells of fresh linen. I’ve always loved that scent, as it almost feels homey. Our laundry has never had a scent. It’s as though it conspires with my stepmother to ensure nothing about our house is homey. Angel’s arms tightly embrace me as she utters, “I’ll miss you when you’re in New York.” I struggle in her tight hold, trying to take in a deep breath. I’m going to miss her too. But this is way too many hugs for my liking in one day. “New York?” someone says from behind her. She pulls back but holds my arms. I look over her shoulder at the two men, both good-looking. But one—the one who’s looking at me as if he’s almost angry—holds my stare. “This is Crue and his brother Dominic.” She waves at them. “Friends of the family,” she says with an eye roll. “Ignore them. They saw me sneak out of Mother’s party and insisted they come, or they were going to tell her I snuck this.” She pulls out a bottle of wine with a Cheshire cat smile. “And this,” she says, gesturing to a small bottle of whiskey shoved between her breasts. She pulls me in for another hug. As she does, she passes me the bottle, and I glance over my shoulder to ensure Marco isn’t watching before I lift the small bottle and drain half the whiskey. Dominic whistles before he steps forward and places his arm around Angel. I embrace the burn down my throat, but I am confused. She hadn’t told me about a new man. Angel happily takes the bottle and shrugs him off, saying, “Dominic, knock it off,” before taking a swig. “I recall you calling me God the other night.” I gasp at his words. Angel’s cheeks blush and she hands me the bottle of wine, leaning in close as if that’s the chaser. “Don’t judge. I was sad about you leaving. He was there.” “You lost your virginity to him?” I ask while opening the bottle of wine, and then I take a sip. “Yep,” he answers, obviously overhearing us. “Rya.” I turn around to see Marco has Honey leaning against him. She’s tired. I swear, sometimes she still reminds me of a child. “I’m not ready to go yet,” I tell him. “Your father—” he starts, but I cut him off. “Will do nothing. I’ll be back later.” Marco shoots a glare at the bottle still in my hand. “I’ll come back for you. That’s all I am giving,” he says. I nod and give him my sickly-sweet smile. One that he doesn’t seem all too delighted by, but that always works for Honey. Marco is basically our uncle, not by blood but by marriage. We love him, but he always lis-

Listens to orders from Papa. There are times when he offers me a sliver of freedom, but it’s not often. I watch them walk off and feel someone step up next to me. “You a princess or something?” I don’t even turn to him. Earlier, he stared at me as if I had a second head. Or like he was mad at me. Instead, I shake my head and focus on Marco and Honey as they disappear into the crowd. “That’s the princess leaving,” I say, lifting the bottle to my lips and drinking as much as I can. “Whoa, there. Just because you aren’t a princess doesn’t mean you should trust us,” he says. I pull the bottle from my lips. “Trust us?” I ask, now finally turning to look at him. His skin is tanned, his black shirt clings to his body—possibly from the heat—and his brows scrunch together as he stands there and lets me simply stare. Crue says nothing, just licks his lips. I seem to do the same thing, watching his dark eyes drop to mine. There is a silent intensity in that stare. And if I didn’t know any better, I would say his breathing got heavier. “How old are you?” Crue asks. “Sixteen,” I reply. He shakes his head and steps back. “Why?” Crue looks over his shoulder at Angel and Dominic, who are making out, him holding her up and her legs wrapped around his waist. Right, I’m on my own with this one, then. “Are you leaving?” he asks. I don’t know why, but every hair on my body raises. It feels like there is an underlying question, but I answer anyway, “Yes.”

“Why?” Crue takes the bottle of wine from me, lifts it to his lips, and takes a sip. He offers it back to me, and when he does, our fingers touch. Butterflies take flight in my stomach. What the fuck! So I pull the bottle away and take a sip, hoping to drown them out. I don’t think I’ll ever see this man again, so there’s no point in feeling any sexual tension around him. “I’m going to live with my mother. How old are you?” I ask, and Crue smirks. “Nineteen.” He looks at his brother when Angel shouts Dominic’s name and slaps him. They’re still giggling and making out. “How old is your brother?” My eyes don’t follow his. Instead, they trace the outline of his jaw, the slight stubble of hair growing there, and I wonder if it’s as sharp as it looks. “Almost eighteen.” Okay, he isn’t too much older than Angel. Crue looks back at me. “What do you plan to do in New York?” “I plan to not have my father arrange my marriage. It’s why I’m leaving,” I answer, averting my gaze. He can’t force me to marry anyone if I'm not here. It’s basically selling ownership of my freedom, and I am not down for that. “Hmm,” is his only response. “What about you? Are you destined to marry anyone?” I ask sarcastically. “If I choose.” “Lucky you,” I grumble. “I wouldn’t say that.” Crue smirks.

“Why?” I ask, becoming invested in this conversation. “Because the one I’m arranged to marry is running off to New York.” The bottle of wine in my hand feels red hot and I want to drop it to relieve the burn. Did he just say what I think he did? No. “Bit stunned?” Crue asks. “Figured I would come meet the one I am matched to.” He turns and walks off, while I stand there, confused and slowly shaking my head. I was told I had a match, and because of that, I had worked out a plan to get away. Escape. To be free. Crue is to be my husband when I turn eighteen. This man who is walking away from me right now. “Stop!” I call after him. He does, and when he looks back, I rethink my decision to leave. Should I stay? How bad would it be to be married to someone like him? I’m not really sure. “Why would you want to know?” I ask. His hands slide into the pockets of his dark jeans, and I walk closer to stand by his side. “If you had a choice, would you marry?” I question. His response is quick and unyielding. “Yes. My father did it, and his father before that.” That means Crue is next in line. And his family?

I’ve heard horror stories about his family. My father is powerful, but his family… well, they don’t play around. And it seems that I’m about to break a family tradition. Marriage to a Monti. It’s why my father was hoping for a boy. His generation skipped being married to a Monti, but I guess now that’s not the case. “Do you not want to be in love? Not forced to marry someone not of your choosing?” I ask, baffled at his answer to my previous question. “You may be able to run away, but I cannot.” His gaze slides to his brother before coming back to me. “If I’m not married by thirty-four, I will come find you, princess.” His words take me aback. “What if I am married?” “That will be bad for your husband.” He smirks, then strides off.

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