Elara Voss narrowed her eyes at the reflection in the office window. Leather and expensive cologne mingled in the air, and the view was anything but welcoming. Outside, the grey sky hung heavily over midtown Manhattan. She was nineteen, a community college dropout, and she still wore the same worn boots and frayed jacket from the morning. The three men before her, however, were most certainly not from this world. Mr Harrington cleared his throat. "Miss Voss, your mother has requested that you be present for this reading. She asked specifically that the will be opened in your presence." He gestured at the file in his hand. "Now, if you'd be so kind as to take this, you can inform yourself of your mother's wishes." Elara's stomach twisted at the thought. Three weeks ago, Lillian Voss, her mother, had died in an apparent overdose. It had been an unspectacular end, if one didn't count the ten years of misery that had led up to it. She had stopped using drugs years ago. She had been methodical and reserved, never speaking of her life before. "Let's just get this over with then," Elara muttered. Harrington tossed a thick envelope on the table. "As your mother requested, you are to inherit everything she owned and the meagre sum of cash that was in her possession, if any," he droned, fixing his gaze on the two men who sat at the far end of the table. They both had a certain gravity, and their tailored black suits did little to hide the muscle in their frames. "However, there is one condition. Something she asked us to keep private, if you will." One of the men gave a slow smile. "Miss Voss. I am Salvatore, and I represent Don Vincenzo Moretti." At the sound of the name, Elara stiffened. She knew the name, of course. Everyone did. Vincenzo Moretti was one of the city's most renowned mafia bosses. Salvatore leaned forward, eyes boring into hers. "Your mother was not always Lillian Voss. She worked in our Don's household for fifteen years as his personal escort. In fact, she was his wife, in everything but name. You are his daughter, Miss Voss." Elara exhaled sharply, shaking her head in disbelief. "That's impossible. My mother never told me anything. " "She did," Salvatore said, his voice as smooth as ever. He pushed a photograph toward her across the table. It was a faded one, showing a young Lillian, smiling broadly next to a man with sharp features and piercing eyes. He had his arm around her waist, his hand resting on the curve of her hip. "She kept it a secret to protect you. Vincenzo Donnelly, aka Moretti, provided for her during those years. And when she passed away, he asked us to come to you. You are to inherit everything that belongs to him, including his daughter." Elara's hands trembled visibly as she gazed at the picture. She was staring at her mother, really looking at her for the first time in her life. But it was not the face that had taken her breath away. It was the man next to her mother, holding her like she was his world. "I don't want his money," she said finally, her voice barely audible. Salvatore gave a slow, sad smile. "It is not a question of want. The Don has insisted that you move into his estate tonight. You will have a car sent for you shortly. He expects you to bring only the bare necessities. Your apartment will be secured immediately following your arrival. Your new life starts tonight, Miss Voss." Elara turned her gaze toward Mr Harrington. The lawyer kept his eyes fixed on the wall ahead. "This is kidnapping," she whispered. Salvatore chuckled. "Not exactly. In our world, family is the only law that matters. And now, Miss Voss, you are family." One of the men rose from his chair and stepped toward the door. The other kept his gaze locked on Elara. "You may refuse, if that is your wish," he said in a voice like sandpaper. "But understand that the car will come regardless of your decision. The men who will accompany you... well, they are not as patient as Salvatore here." Elara looked down at the photograph again, taking in the wide smile on her mother's face. She had never seen her mother look that happy in real life. But then again, she had never seen this side of her mother either. "Fine," she muttered. "I'll go." She turned her gaze toward Salvatore. "But I'm not staying." The man smiled, his expression softening. "That will be up to the Don to decide." Salvatore and his men stood, signalling the end of the conversation. Elara watched them as they left the office, one of them pausing to give her a respectful nod before following Salvatore out the door. She sat motionless for a while, still gazing at the photograph. Her gaze softened as she watched the image of young Lillian Voss, smiling broadly next to the man who had claimed to be her father. Outside, the thick black SUV was waiting. As Elara stepped out, the door opened automatically. She climbed inside without another word. The door closed behind her with a deep thud.

The black SUV glided through the streets like a silent wisp of shadow. Elara sat in the back seat, arms crossed over her chest as she stared out the darkened window. The unfamiliar surroundings of Manhattan drifted past as the vehicle left the rougher streets of Queens and wound its way into the wealthier district. The two men up front said nothing. One drove. The other watched her in the rearview mirror with the air of a professional. She kept her phone in her pocket, thumb hovering over the power button. The signal had died the moment the car doors shut. Of course, it had Forty minutes later, the SUV turned off a private road bordered by impossibly tall stone fences and came to a stop in front of an iron gate. The vehicle door opened without a word from the driver. Beyond the gate, a long, winding driveway of crushed stone opened up to a sprawling mansion that looked more like a fortress than home. Security cameras perched like sentinels along the eaves of the building made it clear that this was no ordinary residence. The SUV pulled up to the broad front steps and the door on the passenger's side opened. A tall man waited there. He was even taller than the bodyguards, all broad shoulders and a tailored black coat draped over lean muscle. His dark hair was swept back from a sharp, angular face, the only softness coming from the shadow of a five o'clock shadow along his jaw. Ice-grey eyes watched her with an assessing intensity the moment she stepped out of the vehicle. Matteo Moretti. She didn't need to be introduced. The air around him was the same as the man she'd seen in the lawyer's office, only this version was younger, more intense. He didn't smile "Get out," he said instead, his voice a rough, gravelly thing. Not used to soft talk, apparently Elara hesitated, her fingers curling around the door frame. One of the men in the front seat shifted where he stood, his muscles tensing. Matteo's gaze snapped at him, and he went still. She stepped out, the cold night air nipping at her nose. Suddenly aware of how short she was next to him, how much younger. He had to be at least six-three, and the rugged good looks, while softened by age, were still there in abundance. The sharp planes of his face were set in a look of permanent disapproval. He took a slow, measured look up and down her body. Not exactly appraising, more like sizing her up. A predatory male gaze, except that usually, those looks came from shifters in heat. "Elara Voss," he said finally, more statement than question. "Yes." "I'm Matteo. You're coming with me." She tilted her chin up. "I've already told your people that I'm not staying." A flicker of amusement crossed his face, quickly banked down. He took a step closer until she could smell the expensive cologne he was wearing, the less pleasant tang of gun grease and cold winter air clinging to him. "You can tell them whatever you want," he said softly. "It doesn't change the fact that you're coming with me. Get inside." He turned and strode up the steps without waiting for her. The two bodyguards remained where they were, apparently deciding that she was Matteo's problem now. Elara followed after him, her boots sliding slightly on the icy stone steps. Inside, the manor opened up before her eyes. An expansive foyer greeted her, the floor covered in dark marble, the walls lined with dark wood panelling and heavy oil paintings of stern-faced ancestors who all seemed to share the same rigid bone structure. A grand staircase curved up and away, and the scent of old leather and money clung to the air. Matteo stopped in the centre of the room, his back to her as he regarded the front doors. Elara barely noticed as he shut them with a resounding click, sealing them in "Your room is on the second floor," he said at last. "They'll bring you things later. Dinner is at eight. My father will expect you to be presentable. "I'm not hungry He turned to look at her then, his mouth pressing into a thin line. She had to look up to meet his gaze. Up close, his eyes were just as cold as she'd expected, the blue-grey colour of winter sea glass. "I don't care if you're hungry." He said quietly. "You'll sit at that table. You'll keep your mouth shut unless you're spoken to, and you won't try to leave the ground. The men at the gate have been instructed. She squared her shoulders, her pulse hammering in her throat. His gaze lingered on the base of her throat for a heartbeat, too long before he looked up at her eyes. "And if I do?" Matteo's lips twitched into something like a smile. "Then I'll bring you back myself," he said smoothly. His voice dipped lower. "And you won't enjoy the way I do it. Something about the way he said it made her skin prickle. For a long moment, neither of them moved. She could feel the heat of him, the tension in his body as he watched her. Her own heart pounded too loudly in her ears, and she hated that he apparently enjoyed looking at her this way. She hated that she could see the hunger in his eyes, the want. Hate that it turned her on. He held her gaze for another long moment before stepping back. "Second floor, third door on the left," he said, voice low. "Be ready by eight. With that, he disappeared around a corner at the end of a long hallway, his jacket brushing against the wall as he walked. Elara remained standing where he'd left her, her heart still hammering in her chest. She had the distinct impression that Matteo Moretti didn't need to use guns to make people do what he wanted. One look from those icy blue eyes, and she'd have been on my knees begging for forgiveness.

Elara's assigned room was bigger than her entire apartment. The ceilings were high, the heavy curtains the colour of blood, and the four-poster bed made of dark wood with intricately carved posts. An empty fireplace took up one wall. The bathroom was bigger than her old kitchen. Someone had laid out fresh towels and a simple black dress on the bed, sleeveless, modest, expensive. A pair of low heels waited beside it. She didn’t put them on. Standing at the tall window, she looked out over the grounds. She could see the high walls, the security lights, the men walking patrol in dark coats. It was less a home and more a nicely decorated prison. There was a knock on the door. She opened it to a woman in her forties, her hair pulled back in a severe bun, her expression carefully schooled. “Miss Voss. I am Mrs Caruso, the household manager. Dinner is in twenty minutes. The Don values punctuality. Elara glanced at the dress on her bed, “I’m fine like this Mrs Caruso gave her a long look, taking in the boots and jacket before returning her gaze to Elara’s face. “As you wish. Follow me The dining room was long and luxurious, with a crystal chandelier letting the light shimmer over the dark wood table, where a meal awaited. Vincenzo Moretti sat at the head of it. He was older than she expected, with a few silver strands woven into his dark hair, and the same strong features as his son, though his face was more severe. His suit was perfect, his eyes colder. His son, Matteo, sat to his right, already present, his posture relaxed but his expression guarded. A third place setting stood across from him; the fourth one was empty. Vincenzo did not get up when she entered. “Elara,” he said simply, and the name felt foreign on his tongue, “sit She took the place across from his son, the table stretching between them, but she could feel his gaze on her like a brand A server arrived, poured wine for the men and water for her, and left as silently as they’d come. Vincenzo studied her for a long time. “You have her eyes,” he said at last, “Lillian’s. Her stubbornness, too Elara kept her hands folded in her lap. “I didn’t ask for this. “No one does,” Vincenzo replied, “but it is done, nevertheless. You are my daughter, which means I have certain obligations to you. Protection, provision, status. It also means I have certain expectations from you. He paused, his gaze sharp. “You will live here, on my estate, and you will not leave it without permission or my son’s escort. You will not ask outsiders to interfere with family matters, and you will not bring dishonour to this household. “And if I refuse?” Matteo’s gaze lifted from her to lock onto his father’s, a smile ghosting on his lips. “As I said, you have my expectations. If you disappoint me, my son will be more than happy to correct your behaviour. The first course arrived, and the conversation stayed light. Vincenzo asked a few pointed questions about her education, her job, and whether she had any close friends who would miss her. Elara answered in clipped sentences. Matteo said little, but she could feel his gaze on her, assessing. Calculating. Taking her measure. Once, when she reached for her water glass, their eyes met, and something unspoken passed between them. Something that had nothing to do with the conversation, the meal, the room, the men. Forbidden. Immediate. She looked away first, heat crawling up her neck. Vincenzo seemed to notice it, but he said nothing, and the tension in the room dissipated. After dinner, he stood. “Mrs Caruso will show you the grounds and the parts of the house you are permitted to enter. The east wing is off-limits, as is my study. Matteo will brief you on the security details tomorrow. With that, he left, not waiting for her response. Matteo lingered until Vincenzo’s footsteps faded, then he got up from the table, coming to a stop behind her chair. “You talk back to him too much,” he said quietly. “He will start taking examples. You should be more obedient. “I'm not afraid of him Matteo leaned down, one hand on the back of her chair. “You should be. You should also be more careful when looking at me in front of him. Her heart pounded in her ears. “I wasn't “You were,” he said, his grey eyes searching hers. "I saw it. So did he. Keep it behind closed doors, little sister… or don’t look at all. The words little sister cut through her like a knife. He straightened, the moment passing, and left the dining room. Elara was left alone at the table, the taste of dinner turning to ash in her mouth, and the feel of him lingering in her skin. Forbidden glances had already begun.