My fiancé kissed my sister at the altar, never knowing I had married the mafia boss he feared that morning.

By Sunday evening, the fallout from the church had detonated across the financial press.

*The Wall Street Journal* ran a front-page headline: **HARTWELL HEIRESS MARRIES MORETTI IN SHOCK UNION; LOCKWOOD CAPITAL CRUMBLES UNDER DEBT PRESSURE.**

*The New York Post* was far less restrained: **ALTAR OF ASHES: MOB BOSS STEALS BILLIONAIRE'S BRIDE WHILE GROOM KISSES THE SISTER.**

I sat in Roman’s private study, wearing a soft cashmere sweater and tailored trousers his staff had procured for me, watching the television screen on the wall. Damian Lockwood was caught by reporters outside his firm's midtown headquarters. His face was pale, his tie askew, looking like a man who hadn't slept in thirty-six hours.

*"The marriage is a sham!"* Damian snarled into the microphones. *"Arya Hart was coerced by an organized crime figure! We are filing an emergency petition to freeze all Vance trust assets immediately!"*

The screen went black as Roman tapped the remote control on his desk.

"He's panicking," Roman said, sitting behind the massive desk, reviewing a series of corporate filings. "The European syndicates called his margin loans two hours ago. Lockwood Capital has until noon tomorrow to deposit sixty-five million dollars in liquid collateral. If they don't, the receivers take the keys."

"He doesn't have sixty-five million," I said. "He was counting on my voting shares to push through a convertible bond issue."

"I know," Roman said, looking up. "Which is why he just called your father."

"What can my father do? He’s packing his bags in Westchester."

"Your father," Roman said with a cold, humorless smile, "has made a desperate move. He met Damian at the Harvard Club an hour ago. They are preparing to forge your mother’s 2008 secondary codicil to invalidate the trust dissolution."

I felt a surge of cold fury. "They wouldn't dare. The state registry has the originals."

"They don't need to win in court, Arya," Roman said quietly. "They just need to create enough legal cloudiness to delay the liquidation for forty-eight hours. Just long enough for Damian to borrow from loan sharks in New Jersey to cover the margin call."

The library door clicked open, and Roman’s right-hand man, Marco—the scarred man from the courthouse—stepped inside.

"Boss," Marco said, glancing at me before looking at Roman. "The little sister is downstairs."

I stood up instantly. "Vivian?"

"She slipped past the gate guards in a cab," Marco said. "Claimed she needed to see Mr. Moretti privately. Said she had information that would save his investment."

Roman didn't look surprised. He leaned back in his leather chair, a look of profound disgust washing over his face. "Send her in."

Two minutes later, Vivian was escorted into the study.

She had abandoned the champagne silk maid-of-honor dress, but she had dressed with obvious, pathetic intention: a tight black cocktail dress, her blond hair falling in loose curls, her face painted to highlight her wide, innocent eyes.

She looked at me, her lip curling with momentary hatred, before turning her gaze entirely on Roman. She dropped her voice into that breathy, helpless register she had used on Damian for nine months.

"Mr. Moretti," Vivian whispered, taking two hesitant steps toward the desk. "I... I had to come. My father and Damian are insane. They’re going to do something terrible."

Roman looked at her as if she were a roach crawling across a clean table. "Speak quickly."

"Arya is lying to you," Vivian said, taking another step closer, leaning slightly over the desk to expose the neckline of her dress. "She doesn't care about you or your family. She’s using you to punish me and Damian. But I... I never wanted Damian, Mr. Moretti. My father forced me into that. I always knew who the real power in New York was."

I stood by the window, watching this spectacle with a mixture of pity and revulsion. Vivian truly believed that every man was Damian Lockwood—that every man could be swayed by a trembling lower lip and a flash of bare skin.

Roman stood up slowly.

He didn't look at her body. He walked around the desk until he was inches from her. Vivian smiled, a tiny, triumphant glimmer entering her eyes. She thought she had him.

Roman reached out and grabbed her by the throat.

Vivian gasped, her eyes flying wide in shock and terror as Roman’s large hand lifted her slightly off her heels. He didn't squeeze hard enough to crush her windpipe, but the threat was unmistakable.

"You look like your mother," Roman whispered, his voice deadly and quiet. "A leech who survives by feeding on the scraps left by better women."

Vivian clawed at his wrist, her face turning crimson, tears of genuine panic streaming down her cheeks.

"If you ever speak my wife’s name again," Roman said, leaning down so his lips were an inch from her ear, "I won't send you back to Westchester. I will send you to a shipping container in Newark and ship you to a brothel in Constanța. Do you understand me?"

Vivian nodded frantically, choking on a sob.

Roman dropped her. She hit the hardwood floor with a sharp thump, gasping for air, clutching her bruised neck.

"Marco," Roman barked without looking down.

The door opened instantly. "Boss."

"Throw this garbage onto the sidewalk," Roman said, turning his back on her. "And tell the gate security that if anyone with the name Hart or Lockwood steps within fifty yards of this house, they shoot them in the knees."

Marco hauled Vivian to her feet and dragged her out, her pathetic whimpering echoing down the grand hallway until the heavy doors slammed shut.

Roman exhaled slowly, adjusting his cufflinks. Then he turned to look at me.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

I looked at this man—this supposed monster whom the entire city feared—and for the first time in six years, I felt completely, untouchably safe.