Chapter 1 - THE MILLION-DOLLAR BETRAYAL
The last thing Violet Anderson remembered before losing consciousness was her boyfriend telling her he loved her.
The first thing she saw when she opened her eyes was a man being dragged across a marble floor, leaving a trail of blood behind him.
And the first thing the stranger sitting across from her said was:
“Your boyfriend sold you to me for one million dollars.”
Violet stared at him.
For a moment, she genuinely believed she was dreaming.
The room was enormous, illuminated by a crystal chandelier hanging above a long black marble table. Heavy velvet curtains covered the windows. Two armed men stood beside the double doors.
And sitting in a leather armchair, wearing a perfectly tailored black suit, was the most terrifyingly handsome man she had ever seen.
Dark hair. Sharp cheekbones. Broad shoulders. Cold gray eyes that seemed incapable of mercy.
He looked to be in his early thirties.
A silver watch rested against his wrist.
A pistol lay on the table beside him.
“My name is Vincenzo Mercante,” he said.
Violet's blood turned cold.
Everybody in Chicago knew that name.
Vincenzo Mercante.
The billionaire who controlled half the city's luxury real estate, shipping terminals, and private security companies.
The man newspapers called the King of Chicago.
The man federal investigators had spent years trying to put behind bars.
The man people whispered had inherited an empire built on blood.
Violet pulled herself backward against the sofa.
“Please,” she whispered. “I think there's been a mistake.”
Vincenzo studied her.
“That's what I'm beginning to think.”
A terrible scream came from the other side of the room.
Violet turned.
The injured man had fallen to his knees.
“Please, Mr. Mercante! I told you everything!”
Vincenzo didn't even look at him.
“Take him downstairs.”
Two guards dragged the man away.
Violet pressed a trembling hand over her mouth.
“What is this place?”
“My home.”
“Why am I here?”
Vincenzo leaned forward.
“Because tomorrow morning, you're going to become my wife.”
Silence.
Violet blinked.
Then she laughed.
It was a small, frightened sound.
“I'm sorry. What?”
“You heard me.”
“I have a boyfriend.”
“I know.”
“His name is Derek.”
“I know that too.”
Violet stared at him.
Something about the way he said Derek's name made her stomach twist.
“Where is he?”
Vincenzo reached for a black leather folder.
He opened it and pushed a photograph across the table.
Violet recognized Derek immediately.
He was standing outside a bank.
Smiling.
Holding a briefcase.
Beside the photograph was a transaction receipt.
$1,000,000.00.
Recipient: Derek Collins.
Violet's hands began to shake.
“No.”
Vincenzo said nothing.
“No, Derek wouldn't do this.”
“He delivered you personally.”
“That's impossible.”
“He told my men you agreed to the arrangement.”
Violet shook her head violently.
“No. We were supposed to celebrate his birthday tomorrow.”
Her voice cracked.
“I've been saving for months.”
She looked down at her hands.
There was still a faint streak of blue paint beneath her fingernail.
She had spent fourteen hours finishing a mural at a downtown restaurant. The payment would finally allow her to buy Derek the expensive camera he'd been dreaming about.
She had skipped meals to save money.
Worked double shifts.
Sold two paintings she hadn't wanted to part with.
And when Derek arrived at the restaurant that evening, he had brought her a bottle of water.
You look exhausted, baby. Drink this.
Violet suddenly remembered the strange taste.
The dizziness.
Derek catching her before she fell.
His voice against her ear.
Don't blame me, Violet.
Her breathing stopped.
“Oh, God.”
Vincenzo watched her expression change.
“You remember.”
Violet pressed both hands against her mouth.
Tears spilled down her cheeks.
“He drugged me.”
Vincenzo's jaw tightened.
Across the room, his right-hand man, Giovanni Russo, exchanged a glance with one of the guards.
Vincenzo had been told the woman was willing.
He had paid Derek to arrange an introduction and secure her agreement to a marriage of convenience.
He had not authorized an abduction.
And he did not tolerate men who lied to him.
“Find Derek,” Vincenzo said quietly.
Giovanni nodded.
“Alive, boss?”
Vincenzo looked at Violet.
“For now.”
Violet barely heard them.
She was staring at the photograph.
Seven years.
Seven years of loving Derek.
Seven years of believing his promises.
She had paid their rent when his art career failed. Bought groceries when he claimed he couldn't afford them. Painted canvases he later sold under his own name because he insisted they were building a future together.
She had believed every word.
And now he had sold her.
For a million dollars.
Violet slowly raised her head.
“I want to leave.”
Vincenzo's expression became unreadable.
“You can't.”
“I'm not asking permission.”
“Then you're making a mistake.”
Violet stood.
Her knees nearly gave way.
She gripped the back of the sofa.
“I don't care who you are. I don't care how much money you have. You don't get to buy another human being.”
For the first time that evening, something changed in Vincenzo's eyes.
Interest.
Perhaps even admiration.
“You're right,” he said.
Violet froze.
“Then let me go.”
Vincenzo stood.
He was much taller than she'd realized.
“Unfortunately, there are circumstances you don't understand.”
“Then explain them.”
“My father died six days ago.”
Violet swallowed.
“I'm sorry.”
“Don't be. He wasn't a good man.”
Vincenzo walked toward the windows.
“His will states that I must be legally married before I can inherit control of the Mercante family.”
“Then marry someone who actually wants you.”
“I intended to.”
He turned toward her.
“Until your boyfriend lied.”
Violet stared at him.
“So this is my problem now?”
“No.”
Vincenzo's voice lowered.
“It's mine.”
For one brief, impossible moment, Violet thought he might release her.
Then Giovanni's phone rang.
He answered.
Listened.
And went pale.
“Boss.”
Vincenzo looked at him.
“What?”
“There's a problem.”
Giovanni glanced at Violet.
“Derek's already spent part of the money.”
“On what?”
“A car. Jewelry. A hotel suite.”
Violet felt sick.
Giovanni hesitated.
“And he wasn't alone.”
Vincenzo's eyes narrowed.
“Who was with him?”
Giovanni looked directly at Violet.
“Her best friend.”
Violet's lips parted.
“Madison?”
Nobody answered.
They didn't need to.
Violet stumbled backward.
Madison Blake.
The woman who had held her while she cried over Derek's financial troubles.
The woman who had encouraged her to keep supporting him.
The woman who had promised she was lucky to have such a devoted boyfriend.
Violet suddenly remembered Madison laughing with Derek at a birthday dinner two weeks earlier.
The private jokes.
The secret messages.
The way they always stopped talking when she entered a room.
“Oh, my God.”
She could barely breathe.
“They were together.”
Vincenzo watched her silently.
“They were together the whole time.”
Her knees buckled.
Before she could hit the floor, Vincenzo caught her.
His arm wrapped firmly around her waist.
For a second, she found herself pressed against the chest of the most dangerous man in Chicago.
“Easy,” he murmured.
Violet pushed him away.
“Don't touch me.”
He immediately released her.
She wiped her tears angrily.
“I don't want your pity.”
“Good,” Vincenzo said. “I wasn't offering it.”
He reached into his pocket and placed a phone on the table.
“Call him.”
Violet stared at the device.
“Why?”
“Because I want you to hear the truth from his mouth.”
Her fingers trembled as she dialed Derek's number.
He answered on the fourth ring.
“Hello?”
Music played in the background.
A woman laughed.
Madison.
Violet felt something inside her break.
“Derek.”
Silence.
Then a sharp intake of breath.
“Violet?”
“Yes.”
Another silence.
“How are you calling me?”
Violet closed her eyes.
“Is that really your first question?”
“Baby, listen—”
“Did you sell me?”
“Violet, it's complicated.”
“Did you sell me for a million dollars?”
“Look, you don't understand what kind of opportunity this is.”
Her heart stopped.
He wasn't denying it.
“You actually did it.”
“Come on, Violet. Don't act like this is some tragedy. Vincenzo Mercante is a billionaire. Women would kill to be in your position.”
Madison laughed in the background.
Violet heard her say, “Tell her to stop being dramatic.”
Violet's face went completely still.
“Madison's with you.”
Derek sighed.
“Listen, sweetheart—”
“Don't call me that.”
“Fine. Look, Madison and I have been together for a while. I was going to tell you eventually.”
Violet couldn't speak.
“And honestly,” Derek continued, “you should be thanking me. You were never going to become anything special painting restaurant walls.”
Violet looked at the paint beneath her fingernails.
Something inside her turned cold.
“You're right,” she whispered.
Derek paused.
“What?”
“I was never going to become anything special while I was wasting my life on you.”
She ended the call.
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Then Violet placed the phone on the table.
She looked at Vincenzo.
“Give me twenty-four hours.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“For what?”
“To get my life back.”
“And then?”
Violet took a slow breath.
“Then we can discuss your marriage proposal.”
Vincenzo studied her for a long moment.
A faint smile touched his mouth.
“Interesting.”
But before he could answer, the doors flew open.
A guard rushed inside.
“Boss! We intercepted a message from Dark Blood.”
Vincenzo's smile disappeared.
Giovanni stepped forward.
“What message?”
The guard swallowed.
“They know about the wedding.”
Vincenzo's expression hardened.
“And?”
The guard looked toward Violet.
“They've already sent someone to kill the bride.”
At that exact moment, a red laser dot appeared on Violet's chest.
Vincenzo saw it first.
“GET DOWN!”
He lunged toward her.
The window exploded.
A gunshot tore through the room.
Violet screamed as Vincenzo threw himself between her and the shattered glass.
Something warm splashed across her face.
Blood.
His blood.
And as the mafia king collapsed into her arms, he whispered four words that made absolutely no sense.
“Don't let them know.”
Violet stared at him.
“Know what?”
Vincenzo's bloodstained hand closed around her wrist.
His gray eyes locked onto hers.
“That you're the daughter…”
His voice faded.
Violet leaned closer.
“The daughter of who?”
He struggled to breathe.
Then he whispered a name.
A name Violet hadn't heard since her mother disappeared eighteen years earlier.
“Isabella DeLuca.”
May you like
And somewhere outside the mansion, the sniper received a second message.
THE GIRL IS ALIVE. FINISH WHAT WE STARTED EIGHTEEN YEARS AGO.
