Prolog
BLAINE
The photo was a few days old, but I kept coming back to it. The memory of taking it still fresh.
Click.
The shutter had been silent, but I’d held my breath anyway.
She was sitting on the edge of the fountain, head tilted back, the early light catching the curve of her cheek. A sketchbook balanced across her knees, her pencil moving in short, thoughtful lines. She wasn’t aware of me—not directly. But she always had that tension, like her instincts whispered something her conscious mind refused to hear.
Good.
I adjusted the lens.
Click.
Another shot. This time her lips were parted slightly, distracted by whatever image was blooming beneath her fingertips. She always drew when she needed to feel something. Control something. It was a ritual. One of many I knew by heart.
Because I’d been watching her for years.
Because she was mine—even if she didn’t know it yet.
Not legally. Not romantically. Not in any way anyone could name … but she was mine. From the moment I first laid eyes on her—back when we were just kids. As soon as I saw the fire in her eyes, heard the defiance in her voice, and witnessed the strength in that small frame, I knew. I knew I needed to have her. That she was meant to be the woman at my side—to rule in the dark and dazzle in the light.
Soon, she’d turn eighteen. Then I’d stop circling and watching from a distance.
I’d introduce myself.
Not the way others might. Not with charm or flowers or rehearsed smiles. That wasn’t who I was, and it wasn’t what she needed. No, I’d introduce her to the truth—of who she really was, and who she was destined to become.
But not yet.
There was still work to do. Debt to collect. Enemies to neutralize. Plans to secure. I wouldn’t offer her a life she could run from. When I took her, it had to be airtight. Unshakable. The perfect storm—so overwhelming there’d be no room for second thoughts. No path backward.
I lowered the camera and let myself look at her without the glass in the way.
She smiled at something she was sketching. It was soft. Unaware. I felt it in my chest like a bruise forming under the skin.
Not long now, I told myself. You’ve waited this long. You can wait a little more.
I set the picture down on my desk, letting the image of her linger. Then I rolled my cuff and reached for the file in front of me—Owen Williams. Just seeing the name made my jaw clench. I despised that man. That lowlife was only still breathing by sheer luck. He hadn’t paid back his debt. Again. Left it in the brothel or gambled it away.
My jaw ticked. He was a pain in the ass, and I understood why my father had scheduled another meeting with him, but I wished he hadn’t. Just two more months, and we could pull our support and make him suffer the way he deserved. But right now, unfortunately, he was still useful. So I had to keep him alive.
For her sake.
I was halfway through a page of his latest activity when my phone buzzed.
Fate had a funny way of challenging control. Especially when it came to her.
Unknown: She’s suspicious.
I sat up straighter.
Me: About what?
Unknown: Says something’s off. She’s packing a bag.
Me: Where is she going?
Unknown: She says she’s following him. She’s close to figuring it out.
The file in front of me no longer mattered.
Me: His only meeting today is with my father.
Unknown: I know. That’s why I’m texting you.
I stared at the screen, jaw tight.
She was thinking about following the thread that would lead her straight to the center of it all. Straight to me. She was already pulling at strings. Digging at cracks. If she saw what lay beneath...
This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.
The plan was for her to celebrate her birthday, maybe even graduate first.
But this—this was a live wire. A shortcut. A rupture in the plan I hadn’t authorized.
Still…
I’d waited so long. Too long. I’d mapped every piece of her routine, curated every variable in the life she thought she chose. Built the walls of the world she lived in and watched from the other side. And now fate was handing me the door.
She wouldn’t walk in gently. She’d fall.
Hard. Fast.
But maybe that was better.
Maybe if I dropped her into the deep end—if I shattered the illusion all at once—she’d stop running from who she was meant to be and start reaching for it instead.
Reaching for me.
The logic was flawed. I knew that.
But somehow … I didn’t care.
Unknown: Do you want me to stop her?
I stared at the message.
Then typed:
Me: No. Make her go.
There was a pause.
Unknown: Capo... this isn’t how you planned it.
Me: Plans change.
Unknown: You’re throwing her into the deep end?
Me: Yes. Let’s see if she swims.
Unknown: She’s not ready…
Me: We’ll see.
Unknown: She could hate you. No—she will hate you for this.
Me: I know.
Unknown: And you’re okay with that?
Me: I’m not interested in being liked by her. My interest is in having her.
Unknown: You’re sick.
Me: And you’re sentimental. Give her a reason to follow him.
Another pause. Three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then the buzz of a new message.
Unknown: Are you sure about this?
Me: This is an order, soldato.
I slipped the phone into my pocket and leaned back in my chair, the weight of the moment settling over me.
I’d waited years for her and I could’ve waited longer.
But I didn’t really want to.
There was no guarantee that time would make her understand. No promise that patience would make her mine.
So I chose the faster path.
Cold water. No warning.
Because no matter how she arrived—by choice or by force—she was going to stay.
And when she did, she’d understand.
Maybe not today.
But eventually.
Eventually, she’d see that fate didn’t make a mistake when it gave her to me.
And neither did I when I took her.