Prologue - Hope Part 2

In front of my bedroom vanity, I stare at my reflection. The white dress has silver details on the shiny satin, lace sleeves, and a sweetheart neckline. My hair falls like a cascade, pinned only on the left side with a sparkling accessory shaped like small flower petals. Small diamond earrings, a long necklace that hangs down into my neckline.

Despite the layers of makeup, the purple marks caused by my mother are still visible. I consider wearing a scarf around my neck to hide the shape of her fingers. It’ll look old-fashioned with the dress and make the socialites whisper about how my look doesn’t match. Still, it’s better to hear malicious comments than to explain I was attacked by my mother. I haven’t seen her for the rest of the day—after I woke up, I stayed in Black’s room until he had to leave.

Steve showed up apologizing for having passed out. He thinks there was a sleeping drug in the tea my mother offered him at 10 p.m. Black drank it too. She had never drugged or done anything to either of them—or to my father—but this time she proved what she’s capable of to hurt me.

I wipe away a small tear sliding down my cheek, swallow the sob caught in my throat, and blink several times, trying not to smudge my makeup. I must appear happy and delicate at my party—not sad and fearful like the thorns wrapped around my heart.

I hear a knock at the door, allow entry, and my father appears. It’s the first time I’ve seen him today. Green irises, neatly combed dark brown hair, and a three-piece suit, ready for the party and to present me to mafia society. A sad smile plays on his pink lips. In some ways, I look like him—I inherited his eye color and his gentle smile. But otherwise, I’m a copy of my mother.

Fine features, a pointed chin, and barely round cheeks. A broad neck like a princess’s, as my father says. Dark brown hair like my mother’s, leaning toward chestnut. While Black, Steve, and my father all have brown hair leaning toward blonde. I’m short like her, standing at 1.65m, slim, with medium-sized breasts that make me feel comfortable in my own body and a perky butt.

He enters carrying a rectangular black velvet box. He smiles at me, kisses my forehead affectionately, and kneels down, opening the box. I see a diamond necklace, four fingers thick with gems all the way to the clasp. I lift my hair so he can put it on—it’s perfect for covering the bruises left by my mother, even though it’s uncomfortable, pressed so tightly around my neck.

"Forgive me for what happened today," he says, smoothing my shoulder. "I promise it won’t happen again."

"It wasn’t your fault." I sigh. "No one’s to blame."

"Even so." He kisses my hair again. "We need to talk about something." His voice grows serious. "Tonight is your fifteenth birthday ball. It's tradition that young men from the mafia court you and then make marriage proposals to me." I swallow hard, bracing for his words. "I will refuse all of them, and I ask that you don’t respond to any of their advances. It’s fine to dance, but nothing more. Don’t let them cross any lines or touch you. Remember, Hope—you are untouchable."

"Yes, Daddy," I reply, holding back the lump in my throat.

From an early age, I knew love wasn’t allowed for me. It’s not the first time my father gives warnings during family meetings that I must remain distant and cold, never allowing any man to get close. For now, I only know the members of the Bonnarro family, but tonight I’ll be introduced to everyone in the Bianchi Mafia. Leaving here would mean an end to my mother’s attacks, but the consequences of having the secret in my veins discovered would bring the destruction of my family.

I swallow hard, locking my feelings deep inside my heart and accepting the fate that was decided the day I was born. With a fake smile, I rise, loop my arm around my father’s, and receive another kiss on the top of my head.

"Your mother is sedated, but conscious in the ballroom. Try to keep your distance. Let’s keep contact to a minimum."

"Yes, Dad."

I swallow again. We leave my room and walk down the mansion’s decorated stairs toward my fifteenth birthday ball. We head to the ballroom. The guards open the double doors and all eyes turn to me. The main attraction of the night has arrived, displayed like a piece of meat.

The first to greet us will be the Boss and his son, followed by the Consigliere and the underboss, then the capos. The five great families that control the underworld of the United States and make up the Bianchi Mafia. My father is the capo of the state of Nevada and oversees the casinos in Las Vegas. As far as I know, he’s one of the most influential among them, and many hope for marriage alliances to unite families and take control of the casinos.

"Good evening, everyone," my father says. "I welcome you to my home with joy as we celebrate the fifteenth birthday of my daughter, Hope Bonnarro. Enjoy yourselves." He raises a glass of whiskey handed to him. "A toast to my daughter’s birthday."

Cheers echo through the hall. I smile without revealing my true emotions. It’s terrifying meeting them all. I know how I must behave and what’s expected of me, but still, the mere thought that one of these men might want to marry me fills me with dread. I can’t be with any of them, regardless of any feelings or anything else. My family’s safety comes first.

"Bartolomeu Bonnarro." The deep voice of a man who appears to be over fifty addresses my father. His blue eyes send chills down my spine, his hair streaked with gray, his shoulders broad. "You have a beautiful daughter. Congratulations, dear."

His hand touches my shoulder, and I flinch. I don’t like the way he looks at me. I feel devoured and exposed. I nod politely, thanking him for the compliment and retreat closer to my father.

"Thank you, Andrew Bianchi." The name flashes like an alarm in my mind. Bianchi. He’s the Boss.

A shoulder beside the Boss catches my attention. A younger man, with hair black as night, a full beard along his jaw and half his cheek with deep dimples. A firm square jaw, his nose following the lines of his face, and ice-blue eyes tinged slightly with green. Thick, dark eyebrows. I lower my gaze, taking in his strong body, broad shoulders and arms, muscular legs.

I feel my cheeks grow warmer as I realize he’s staring at me with a raised eyebrow. I quickly look away, trying not to let him notice how flustered I am at being caught studying him. The man is huge, much taller than I am, and for the first time today, my thoughts drift away from what happened at dawn, focusing only on this moment.

"Good evening." The deep voice addresses me, and a hand is extended in my direction. "May I have the first dance?" he asks formally, emotionless.

"Of course," his father says. "The debutante must dance with the heir. Go ahead, I’ll speak with Bonnarro in the meantime."

"You may go, dear." My father gives a light push on my back, urging me to do as requested, his eyes issuing a warning, reminding me of our earlier conversation.

"Yes." I slide my hand into his rough palm.

We walk to the center of the ballroom. I keep my posture straight, though my heart pounds violently in my chest. I can barely hear the people around us over the pounding in my ears. We stop, and he places one hand on my waist, pulling me closer, while the other firmly holds my hand. The classical music begins to play, and I remember the dance lessons I’ve had since I was twelve.

The warm scent of his skin fills my nose, with a subtle spicy undertone. I fix my eyes on the knot of his tie, trying not to trip over my own feet, too distracted by the heat radiating from his body. I feel his breath near my head and look up, meeting the piercing blue of his eyes locked on me. I swallow hard, tighten my grip on his hand, and try to listen to what he says over the strong beat of the music.

"Relax, you’re too tense." He sighs, eyes curious.

I imagine this isn’t the reaction he expected.

"Sorry, Mr. Bianchi."

"You can call me Michael," he says in his deep voice. "I won’t bite—you’re barely breathing."

"Oh, heavens," I mutter as I lose balance and step on his foot. He frowns, and I turn crimson with embarrassment. I instinctively move to stop, but Michael doesn’t allow it—he tightens his grip on my waist and keeps dancing.

He’s much taller than I am—it hurts my neck to look up. My breathing is erratic. Our chests almost touch, only a thumb’s width between our bodies. The intensity of his gaze sends shivers down my spine, an unexplained frenzy rushing across my skin. I’ve never felt like this in the presence of another man, and for the first time today, fear leaves me, and I think of nothing but the blue eyes fixed on mine.

Michael must be around twenty-nine, like my brother Black. With the grace of a gentleman, he continues leading our dance, wrapping me in a magnetic bubble. In it, the problems don’t exist—nothing matters except the heat of his body against mine, the scent of his skin so close to me, and the unwavering gaze that doesn’t leave me for even a second. He remains silent, and so do I. I don’t know what this moment means to him, but to me, it feels like I can finally breathe after the nightmare.

Silently, I wish this night in his arms would never end.