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Prologue
The surface of my bedroom window is cold against my skin as I stare out, one of the curtains tugged back just far enough to give me an unobstructed view of the sloping driveway. My breath fogs up the glass as I watch, hardly daring to blink, waiting for the telltale flash of headlights in the darkness. Although I can’t see it from here, I know Dad’s car is already parked out front, his driver waiting for the go-ahead as my father gathers his bodyguards and makes his way out from the foyer. I can almost picture him, dressed in his finest suit, his face a stone-cold mask that combines corporate charm with professional ruthlessness.
Most people would think it unusual of him to arrange his business meetings for eleven at night. But then again, most people aren’t in charge of the second-biggest crime family in London.
I hear the sound of the front door opening and closing, and my heart starts to pick up, beating a staccato rhythm as my father crunches down the gravel drive, his entourage in tow. An engine starts, and a moment later headlights pierce the darkness as the black limousine speeds down the driveway and away onto the street.
It’s showtime.
I yank the curtains shut and leap to my feet, my heart beating even faster than before. I’m already dressed to kill, in a sleek, form-fitting cocktail dress, the diamond hoops hanging from my ears already glinting in the dim light of my bedroom. I pause at the mirror to smooth my dress out for the millionth time and check my reflection. I’ve swept my chestnut hair into a loose bun that isn’tquitesmooth, and I know some eye shadow would help make my green eyes pop, but there’s no time for fucking around. Not unless I want to risk one of the household staff intercepting me. I’ve spent my entire life sheltered. A year from now, I’ll be married to a man I barely know, knee-deep in the life of a mafia wife, and my duty to the alliance will overshadow everything else. I’ve got twelve precious months to live like a normal twenty-year-old, and I intend to make the most of it.
I slip out of my room and down the long corridor that leads to the front entrance. My heels click against the pristine marble tiles as I pass my older sister’s room, but Violet doesn’t emerge to give me shit for sneaking out. Sometimes, I think maybe that’s the reason my folks arranged for me to be married off first, even though I’m younger: getting rid of the problem child before finding a match for the good daughter. Not that I resent Violet for escaping the arranged marriage. I love her to bits, and I can’t shake the feeling that she wishes she were the one walking down the aisle next year, not me. I would gladly trade places with her if that were an option.
The house is silent around me, and I have to remind myself to keep moving instead of stopping to glance into the rooms on either side of me, taking in the opulence of the gilded cage where I’ve spent my entire life. I’m so nervous I nearly stumble on the way down the grand staircase, and by the time I’m out the front door, I’m half-expecting one of the guards to snipe me from the roof, thinking I’m an intruder.
But the guards are relaxed, and with good reason. People know better than to mess with the family of Andrew Dalton.
Well,mostpeople, anyway.
I don’t dare have one of our private drivers take me into the city; instead, I call a cab once I’m safely out of view of the family estate, and then we’re speeding off toward London’s South Bank.
A call from my best friend, Callie, provides a welcome distraction from my nerves. “Vivian?”
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I reply, unable to stifle a grin at the sound of her voice. “You sound out of breath.”
“That’s because Iam,” she replies. “I just got off work.”
I frown. “Wait. Seriously? It’s almost eleven.”
“A couple idiots stayed until closing, and guess who got stuck organizing tomorrow’s event?” She groans. “Honestly, whoever said working at an art gallery was all cocktail parties and VIP openings was smoking something.”
“You’re lucky,” I remind her. “You get to spend all day around art. Do you know what I’d give to be able to do that?”
“Maybe we should trade,” Callie jokes. “You can run the gallery, and I’ll spend all day sitting poolside and drinking martinis. Easiest way to pay for university I’ve heard of yet.”
“Dude,” I tell her, “you know we don’t have to swap lives just so you can finish your degree. If you need help, I could ask my—”
“Ah, ah, ah,” Callie cuts me off. “Not another word. You’re awfully generous, Vivian, but I’m old enough to know when I’m being used as a charity case, thank you very much.”
“Would it help if I told you it was just to stroke my own ego?”
“No,” my friend fires back, “because I know that’s not true. But will I razz you about it anyway? Absolutely.”
“One of these days I’ll wear you down, Callie,” I reply, laughing.
“I’ll hold you to that.” She sighs. “Seriously, though, Vivian, sometimes I wish I had your life.”
“Which part?” I joke. “The endless stream of dinner parties? All the drunk businessmen trying to feel me up? Or not being able to do anything without Dad’s permission?”
“Okay, well,besidesall that,” Callie says after a moment’s thought. “I was thinking more in terms of the rest, you know:Fortune 500heiress, gorgeous fiancé, already having your life all sorted out for you...”
“You don’t know the half of it,” I tell her. She really doesn’t. It’s not like I can go around telling all my friends the truth about my family’s business—not even the friends I’ve had since primary school. “And please, don’t call Lucas my fiancé. It just makes me feel weird.” I pause. “Well, weirder.”
“But it’s the truth,” Callie protests.
“Okay, new rule,” I proclaim. “No talking about Lucas at all tonight. Tonight’s a Lucas-free night. I just want to get shitfaced and make bad decisions for once in my life. Is that too much to ask?”
Callie laughs. “I like the way you think, Vivian. Tell you what: I’m on my way back, so give me an hour or two to spruce up and I’ll meet you at the Diamond Lounge. Don’t get too pissed without me.”
