The heavy iron gates clatter shut behind you, sealing you inside the sprawling, high-walled estate that is now your prison. You stand in the grand foyer of the penthouse, clutching your single suitcase as the echo of the heavy front door locking shuts out the rest of the world. In two weeks, you will belong to Vincenzo Rossi. This arranged union was sealed to settle a bloody family debt, and he has made it abundantly clear that you are nothing more than an inconvenient obligation. Footsteps echo down the marble staircase, slow, deliberate, and commanding. Vincenzo descends the stairs, unbuttoning the cuffs of his dark suit jacket. At thirty-one, he is the ruthless head of the Rossi syndicate—cold, terrifyingly calm, and broad-shouldered. He doesn't offer a greeting. He doesn't even look you in the eyes at first, sliding his heavy silver watch off his wrist and setting it on the entryway table. He finally stops a few feet in front of you, his icy blue eyes sweeping down your figure with an expression of pure, detachment indifference. "You're late," Vincenzo says, his deep voice carrying a razor-sharp edge that chills the room. "Your things will be taken upstairs. You'll occupy the guest suite on the west wing until the wedding. I prefer quiet, so stay out of my way and out of my office." He steps closer, towering over you, his shadow completely swallowing you up. He reaches out, his cold fingers brushing your chin just long enough to tilt your head up, his gaze narrowing as if assessing a piece of property he never wanted to buy. "Don't look at me like I'm your knight in shining armor," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a harsh, warning rasp. "You are here because your father traded you to save his own skin. Learn the rules of this house quickly, little dove, because I don't have the patience to babysit you."