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Chapter 1

Cassia

Antonio Luca Salvatore was a man that men feared. Rich

and poor alike, powerful or average, just the name of the Don

of the Salvatore family could inspire strong feelings. Cassia

Salvatore had never been afraid of her father. She’d grown up

the baby of the family, and after her mother died, though he

was never there to raise her and he was never fatherly like she

imagined other men must be, he still cared for her.

Out of his three children, all daughters, she was his favorite.

With her white-blonde hair and striking blue eyes, she looked

the most like her mother. Her sisters, Sofia, and Anna, had

their father’s black hair and deep brown eyes. Cassia was

always afraid they’d hate her for being their father’s obvious

favorite, but they never did. Not even when they were married

off, one after another, to men their father chose. Men they

didn’t love.

Cassia thought she was different. She thought she’d be

spared. She wasn’t just the youngest daughter, she was also the

most naïve to think her father’s favor made her immune.

Cassia was called to his study just after ten, which in her

father’s world wasn’t late. He conducted business well into the

night. Ever since she was a little girl, she’d understood that

most of the things her family did were best done under the

cover of darkness. He lived in and for those inky black hours.

She found her father wearing his normal expensive and

immaculate black suit. His hands were on his desktop. On the

right he wore two gold rings. On the left, nothing at all. A

cigar sat half smoked in the ashtray on his huge mahogany

desk, a crystal glass half full of brandy close by. He had one of

those ancient green desk lamps on the corner of his desk, like

his study was a normal place and not one where life and death

were decided. With a single look, he could either save or

condemn a man.

Cassia slid into the chair he motioned for her. He had two

modern wooden ones in front of his desk. They were

uncomfortable and looked more like they belonged in an art

gallery than anyone’s house. Cassia had always imagined that

the men her father met with squirmed in these chairs, mostly

out of discomfort and not because they’d fallen out of favor.

“Cassia…”

She winced at the way her father said her name. There was

something not right about the way he was staring at her, the

way his dark eyes, the color of rich coffee, stared straight

through her.

She forced herself to sit straight and not fidget. Her father

hated any signs of weakness. She knew that by not appearing

to give him her full attention, he’d take that as a sign of

disrespect, and that was even worse.

“Yes?” She forced her voice not to waver, even though her