Nine Months Later
Nate clings to my hip as I confront the home-wrecking woman standing at the front door. I can’t deny that she’s beautiful; her inky black curls hang down her back, and silver eyes flash as she snarls back at me.
I can see why Daniel was attracted to her.
This is my punishment for “cheating” on him; for his life not turning out the way he had planned it. It’s all my fault.
“I wasn’t made to be a mother,” she spits at me. Gesturing at the three-week-old strapped into the car seat on the porch, she narrows her eyes. “Daniel said he wanted kids, so he can fucking take care of him. I’m done.”
And with that, I watch in shock as she storms down the stairs, jumps into her car, and speeds off, the smell of burning rubber making my nostrils twitch. Looking down at the baby, he stares up at me with solemn eyes, the same gray color as his mother’s.
Running my hands through my hair, I sigh. I can’t believe that bitch left her kid on my doorstep. What am I supposed to do with him?
Five Years Later
I can’t take it anymore. I just can’t. I know it’s not fair to take it out on Eric—he’s only a little boy. But I have to put my anger, fear, and hopelessness somewhere. I barely recognize the person I’ve become as I hold him upside down, hitting him over and over for stealing a cookie. A fucking cookie. I haven’t let him eat since yesterday, and I hate myself as I scream at him, spittle flying from my mouth as I pour all my loathing for Daniel into the small boy.
Daniel walks in, home early from work. His face turns a mottled red when he sees what I’m doing. Ripping Eric away from me, he tosses him to the floor, where he crawls to Nate, looking for comfort, tears pouring down his chubby cheeks.
“I’m fucking sick to death of looking after your filthy little bastard!” I scream at Daniel, no longer able to hold back my hatred. It pours off of me in poisonous waves, while Nate and Eric huddle into the corner, trying to escape my wrath.
Daniel goes crazy. His eyes flash dangerously as if something snaps inside him. I’m so used to the beatings that I barely feel it at first; my rage too violent, my bitterness too great.
It’s only when my nails are snapping off on the hardwood floor as I try to pull myself away that I understand that this time, he isn’t going to stop. I’m already dead—I just haven’t realized it yet.
Nate’s eyes meet mine, so like my own, his face the image of his father’s. I wish I had found a way to tell Vincenzo about his son.
Nate cries out, “No, Father!” as a snapping sound causes a scream to rip from me, just before all goes black and I know no more.
Prologue 2
Eilidh Buchanan
Twenty-Eight Years Ago
Stronghandscomedownon my waist, the strobe lights flashing, music thumping. I’m lost in the sensations, the beat of the music pounding through my blood, keeping time with the rhythm of my heart.
Tossing my head back, I take in the stranger holding on to me like I’m his. Fucking hell. He looks like Zeus, or some other god of old; he’s tall, very tall, with broad shoulders and hands the size of dinner plates. Obviously of Italian or some other Mediterranean descent, he sports thick dark hair, olive skin, and deep brown eyes that are currently locked on mine.
Spinning in his arms, I come face-to-face with him, wanting to make sure I’m not daydreaming. For surely, no mere man could look like him. He catches his bottom lip and sucks it into his mouth, his gaze roaming down to my breasts which are heaving with my exertions.
Leaning down, he catches my earlobe in his mouth, and shivers run down my spine.Danger, whispers my mind.Need,roars my body.
He pulls back slightly and runs a fingertip over the pulse point in my neck. “Beautiful,” he murmurs before once more meeting my eyes. “Vincenzo Gianelli,” he offers, arching a brow when I don’t immediately answer.
Clearing my throat, I reply huskily, “Eilidh Buchanan.”
Two Years Later
She blinks up at me through bleary eyes, and my heart swells with love. My daughter. Daniella Isabella Sophia Gianelli.
“You’ll be amazing,” I whisper to her, stroking her downy soft cheek. “I just know it. You have the blood of Highlanders running through your veins, and they were a strong and loyal people.” She squirms in my arms, letting out a tiny belch, and I laugh at her temerity. “As your granny would say, ‘Aye, lass. Ye’ll do.’”
As I rock her and keep my eyes locked on this little miracle, a nurse comes into the private room I’m located in. She checks my chart, bustling about, studiously ignoring the bruising surrounding my wrists and ankles. The fading gash on my cheek.
Everyone tried to warn me about Vincenzo. My parents. My friends. Even my brother Harris, an FBI agent, took me aside and told me who he is. Vincenzo Leonardo Gianelli—next in line for the coveted throne belonging to the Gianelli crime family. Drugs, guns, women—they rule New York City with an iron fist.
Vincenzo promised to make me his queen; instead, I was his slave, punching bag, and personal whore.
