Page 2 of Luca

"The night is over for me, dragon boy." I flag down a taxi. "Get the tattoo if you want, but make it small. And call your girlfriend first."

"But—"

"Trust me on this one."

The taxi pulls up, and I dive into the backseat. “Hurry,” I tell him. As we pull away from the curb, I catch my reflection in the window. Wild dark hair that hasn't seen a proper salon in months. Leather jacket that's been with me through six countries. Silver rings on every finger, including the one I bought from a street vendor in Morocco just because it had a tiny skull on it.

I look exactly like what I am; a woman who doesn't belong anywhere, by choice.

But Sofia needs me. Despite everything.

She's my twin. My other half. The part of me that stayed home with Papa while our mother grabbed me and fled when I was eight-years-old.

The taxi driver glances at me in the rearview mirror. "Emergency?"

"Something like that."

I pull out my phone and start looking up train schedules. It’ll be tight but if I’m lucky, I can be in Rome by dawn.

Hopefully enough time to figure out how to save my sister.

Because nobody hurts Sofia. Not if I have anything to do with it. Especially not a stupid arranged marriage to a man who’s practically a stranger.

I don't know what I'm going to do when I get there, but I'll think of something.

I always do.

Chapter 2: Luca

The day before my wedding starts the way most days in my life do. With my shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow while a man who needs to be taught a lesson bleeds at my feet.

This asshole won’t be skimming from my dock operations again. Not unless he enjoys pissing blood. Some men only understand fear when it’s wearing my face and breathing down their neck.

I made sure he understood.

By mid-morning, the blood’s scrubbed off my hands and I’m sitting in my father’s study, listening to him discuss tomorrow’s wedding like it’s a contract signing.

Which, in our world, it is.

"The Arcari family will bring legitimacy," he says, not looking up from his newspaper. "Their art business is clean. International connections. Perfect front for our expansion."

I nod. I've heard this speech before. The marriage isn't about love or even lust. It's about power. Territory. The form of strategic alliance that keeps families like ours on top.

“Sofia is acceptable,” my father adds, as if he’s referring to a horse he’s considering buying. “Quiet. Well-educated. Won’t cause problems.”

Acceptable.

I’ve seen Sofia four times in two years. Always in public, always with her father watching. Pretty enough, in a soft,forgettable way. Brown hair, big eyes that never meet mine. Small hands that shake if you raise your voice or move too fast.

She's afraid of me.

Which is a good thing because fear’s a foundation I can work with.

"Any concerns?" my father asks, finally glancing up.

"No." What would be the point? I don't get to choose my wife any more than I got to choose this life. At thirty-two, I've learned to take what comes and make it work for me.

He nods once. In this house, that passes for paternal approval.