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Chapter 1
Cassia
Antonio Luca Salvatore was a man that men feared. Rich
and poor alike, powerful or average, just the name of the Don
of the Salvatore family could inspire strong feelings. Cassia
Salvatore had never been afraid of her father. She’d grown up
the baby of the family, and after her mother died, though he
was never there to raise her and he was never fatherly like she
imagined other men must be, he still cared for her.
Out of his three children, all daughters, she was his favorite.
With her white-blonde hair and striking blue eyes, she looked
the most like her mother. Her sisters, Sofia, and Anna, had
their father’s black hair and deep brown eyes. Cassia was
always afraid they’d hate her for being their father’s obvious
favorite, but they never did. Not even when they were married
off, one after another, to men their father chose. Men they
didn’t love.
Cassia thought she was different. She thought she’d be
spared. She wasn’t just the youngest daughter, she was also the
most naïve to think her father’s favor made her immune.
Cassia was called to his study just after ten, which in her
father’s world wasn’t late. He conducted business well into the
night. Ever since she was a little girl, she’d understood that
most of the things her family did were best done under the
cover of darkness. He lived in and for those inky black hours.
She found her father wearing his normal expensive and
immaculate black suit. His hands were on his desktop. On the
right he wore two gold rings. On the left, nothing at all. A
cigar sat half smoked in the ashtray on his huge mahogany
desk, a crystal glass half full of brandy close by. He had one of
those ancient green desk lamps on the corner of his desk, like
his study was a normal place and not one where life and death
were decided. With a single look, he could either save or
condemn a man.
Cassia slid into the chair he motioned for her. He had two
modern wooden ones in front of his desk. They were
uncomfortable and looked more like they belonged in an art
gallery than anyone’s house. Cassia had always imagined that
the men her father met with squirmed in these chairs, mostly
out of discomfort and not because they’d fallen out of favor.
“Cassia…”
She winced at the way her father said her name. There was
something not right about the way he was staring at her, the
way his dark eyes, the color of rich coffee, stared straight
through her.
She forced herself to sit straight and not fidget. Her father
hated any signs of weakness. She knew that by not appearing
to give him her full attention, he’d take that as a sign of
disrespect, and that was even worse.
“Yes?” She forced her voice not to waver, even though her
