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Though of course that moment could all be in my imagination, comes the heart-sinking thought again, the self-doubt which lives with me like an imaginary friend, whispering that my only purpose is to be married off as an arrangement, that my only assets are my family name and my looks.
Looks that everyone knows aren’t exactly movie-star level, even though nobody would dare say it, not even Father. But the message comes through loud and clear in the make-up artists and body-coaches he sends my way. I hear it in the way the maids and housekeepers talk about me with pity when they drink too much wine, all of them speculating that I’m not pretty enough to secure an arrangement with a top-level Family, not thin enough to even become the bride of a first-born son from one of the second-tier Families.
But what I lack in looks I make up for in smarts and spunk, I try to assure myself as I swing my legs off the footstool and stand, hurriedly smoothing out my skirt as it rides up just enough to show the bottoms of my black Spandex tennis-underwear.
“The U.S. Open Tennis starts next week in New York,” I say hurriedly, my sharp mind thankfully salvaging the awkward question into something vaguely reasonable. “Father always gets VIP tickets from the Brooklyn and Queens Families. He never goes, so the passes always end up getting tossed. He can probably give them to you if you like tennis. You can take your wife,” I add, my heart almost jumping up my throat at the obviously leading question. “Or girlfriend.”
Zedd flicks his gaze to my eyes. This time he keeps the gaze on me, moving his eyes down along my short curvy body in my carefully curated tennis outfit. My butt tightens, goosebumps prickling my smooth thighs like Zedd’s gaze is doing that to me.
“Your father offers me those passes every year. I always say no. I don’t like crowds.” His brutal jaw tightens in what appears to be a smile. “What about you? You obviously like tennis. Don’t you head to New York every year for the Open?”
“I wish!” Blinking rapidly, I shake my head. “I don’t get out much, as you probably know.”
Zedd raises an eyebrow, seems about to say something, then nods almost like he pities me too, just like the rest of them. “Well, looks like that’s about to change, Princess,” he says softly, a hint of emotion in his voice, something that feels like regret, like again Zedd’s holding something back, a question that can’t be asked, a statement that can’t be made. “Go on. Your father wants to see you.”
And with a lingering look that hints at the same desperation that tugs at my own heart, Zedd turns his back to me and strides through those glass balcony doors, his broad frame moving rapidly down the wood-paneled hallways of my mansion, my privilege, my prison.
2
ZEDD
It’s like being in prison. You’re trapped in a cage, looking out at something you can’t touch, can’t reach, can’t have.
Can’t possess.
Even though in your mind you’ve possessed her a thousand times, claimed her countless ways, owned her like the treasure she is, worshipped her like the goddess she must be.
Carlo Giani glances at me as I storm past his office like an angry monster. I’m usually cool like a polar bear in December, but right now I’m a fucking grizzly in heat. For years I’ve come to this mansion on the thirteenth of every month just to catch one glimpse of Amelia Volini, that curvy little beauty with her nose buried in some big book, her feet up on that footstool, her tennis skirt just short enough to make my head spin, her black top just revealing enough to make my blood boil.
She’s the only reason I keep coming back here.
Seven years now I’ve been on Anthony Volini’s private payroll, giving up my independence as a freelance assassin to serve just one Family. I was ready to quit after four years, but then Amelia Volini returned to America after coming of age, her skin bronzed from spending most of her teenage years hidden away in Southern Italy, protected from either her father’s enemies or other boys her age who would undoubtedly be all over a stunner like Amelia if she’d shown her gorgeous face and perfect body in any American school.
I’d never seen her before. She’d been sent to Italy before I ever stepped foot on the Volini Estate here in Florida. She’d been back less than a month when I showed up on the thirteenth to collect that month’s assignment and payment—and to inform Anthony Volini that I would no longer serve him exclusively, that I yearned for the freedom of freelancing, the ability to roam the world at my leisure, reject any job I didn’t like, no matter who was offering, no matter what was being offered.
But that changed when I saw Amelia Volini.
I was trapped and I knew it.
Trapped in a prison of desire that could never be fulfilled.
After all, she was hallowed ground, not fit for mongrels like myself. She was pure Italian blood from a well-respected—if not top-tier—mafia Family.
As for my blood?
Hah!
Good luck dissecting the origins of my murderous ass. The last memory of my parents is my father butchering my mother and then blowing his own psycho brains out. They told me I spent eighteen hours trying to wake my mother up before I passed out exhausted in a pool of her clotting blood.
I was six.
Grew the fuck up that day.
Never could figure out why my deranged dad didn’t kill me too.
Not until I saw Amelia.
I survived hell to find my heaven in her.
