Chapter 1: The Birthday Gift
The bass from the downstairs speakers was a distant throb under the soles of her shoes, a heartbeat for the sprawling mansion. Julienne leaned against the polished banister, watching a cluster of Sophia’s cousins take shots in the marble foyer. Her own plastic cup of warm soda felt childish.
“You are so bored.” Sophia appeared at her elbow, smelling like vanilla perfume and vodka cranberries. “I can see it from space.”
“I’m not bored,” Julienne lied, forcing her bright, bubbly smile. “It’s a great party.”
“It’s a family thing. It’s loud and someone’s definitely going to cry later. Come on.” Sophia tugged her arm. “Let’s find Lorenzo. He brought his friend from college, the one with the stupid car.”
Julienne’s eyes drifted past the crowd, down the shadowed hallway that led to the west wing. To his study. She’d only ever seen the door—dark oak, always closed.
“In a minute,” she said, pulling her arm free gently. “I just… I think I left my phone in the sunroom. I’ll catch up.”
Sophia rolled her eyes, already turning toward the music. “Don’t get lost.”
The muffled chaos of the party faded with every step down the hall. The carpet here was thicker, silencing her footsteps. Wall sconces cast pockets of buttery light on dark wallpaper. It was quieter, heavier. The air smelled different too—less like spilled beer, more like old books, lemon polish, and something else, something sharp and clean like expensive cologne.
The oak door was slightly ajar.
A slice of amber light cut across the hallway floor. Her pulse, previously a lazy thump, kicked up against her ribs. He’s probably not even in there, she told herself. It was a party. He’d be hosting, smiling that perfect, controlled smile, clasping shoulders.
She peeked.
The room was a cave of dark wood and subdued luxury. A massive desk, orderly yet lived-in, dominated the space. One wall was floor-to-ceiling books; another held a single, imposing oil portrait of a stern old man with silver hair and eyes that seemed to follow her. But her gaze snagged on the man presently standing by the tall window, his back to her, a crystal glass of amber liquid held loosely in his hand.
Vittorio Mancini.
He was just… looking out at the night. The perfect drape of his charcoal suit jacket across his shoulders, the way his dark hair was precisely groomed but still looked like he might have run a hand through it once. Power wasn’t a costume he put on. It was in his stillness.
She must have made a sound, a breath maybe.
He turned. Not startled. Slowly. As if he’d known she was there the whole time.
“Julienne.” Her name in his mouth wasn’t the teenage shorthand ‘Jules.’ It was all three syllables, smoothed by a faint, unplaceable accent. “Lost?”
“I… was looking for a bathroom.” The lie was weak, even to her.
A slight smile touched his lips. He didn’t call her on it. He just gestured with his glass toward the room. “Come in. Shut the door. The noise from the children is distracting.”
Her hand was damp on the cool brass knob. She pushed the door shut. The tumult of the party vanished, replaced by a silence so profound she could hear the ice cube settle in his drink.
“Happy birthday,” he said, his eyes traveling over her simple dress—blue, Sophia had insisted it made her eyes pop.
“Thanks.” Her voice sounded too high in the thick quiet.
“Eighteen.” He took a slow sip, watching her over the rim. “An adult. In the eyes of the law, anyway. Do you feel like an adult, Julienne?”
She shifted her weight. “Sometimes.”
“Sometimes,” he repeated, as if tasting the word. He set the glass down on a ledger book, its pages covered in neat, dense script. “My daughter says you find our family… interesting. That you ask questions.”
A hot flush crept up her neck. She’d been careful, or so she thought. Just casual curiosity about his travels, his business. “Sophia talks a lot.”
“She does.” He took a step toward her, then another. He moved like a predator who had all the time in the world, because he did. “But she didn’t tell me this. I observed it. You watch. You listen. You want to know how things really work. Not the story we tell at the dinner table.”
He was close now. She could smell the whiskey on his breath, the subtle spice of his soap, the rich leather of his shoes. Her back came up against the edge of his massive desk.
“It’s just… different from my house,” she managed to say.
“It is.” He placed his hands on the desk, one on either side of her, caging her in without touching her. His gaze was unbearably direct. “This life, Julienne, it is not a game for bright, bubbly girls. It is not parties and fast cars. It is ledgers.” He nodded to the book under his glass. “It is silence. It is decisions made in rooms like this one. Consequences.”
Her heart was a frantic bird in her throat. She was scared, deeply scared. But under that, a treacherous, thrilling current surged. This was real. This was the something more she’d ached for without even knowing the shape of it.
“I’m not a child,” she heard herself whisper.
His smile returned, darker this time. “No?” He lifted a hand. His fingers, calloused and strong, brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, then trailed down the line of her jaw to her throat. His thumb rested on the frantic pulse there. “You tremble like one.”
She couldn’t breathe. His touch was electric, freezing and burning her all at once. She wanted to lean into it. She wanted to run.
“You look at this world and you see a dark fairy tale. You see the king in his castle.” His voice dropped to a murmur, intimate and dangerous. “You do not see the blood on the crown. You wanted a taste of it, though. Didn’t you?”
All her denials died. She just stared into his dark eyes, mesmerized.
His thumb pressed gently against the hollow of her throat. “Happy birthday, little girl.”
From the hallway, clear as a bell, came Sophia’s laughter, followed by her voice calling, “Jules? You in there?”
The spell shattered. Julienne flinched.
Vito’s hand didn’t move from her throat. His eyes held hers, a warning and a promise in one look. He leaned in, his lips almost brushing her ear. “This is the first rule,” he whispered, his voice so low it vibrated in her bones. “You never get to be scared. Not where anyone can see.”
He straightened, his hand falling away. He picked up his glass as if nothing had happened, as if her world hadn’t just tipped on its axis.
“The bathroom,” he said coolly, nodding toward the door, “is back down the hall to the left.”
She stumbled away from the desk, her legs unsteady. Her skin still burned where he’d touched her.
“Julienne,” he said, just as her hand found the doorknob.
She turned, helpless.
He was standing by the window again, silhouetted against the night, his face in shadow. “Close the door on your way out.”
She slipped into the hallway, pulling the heavy door shut until the latch clicked with finality. The sounds of the party rushed back in—the music, the shrieks, the ordinary chaos. She leaned against the wall, pressing her cool hands to her burning cheeks.
Sophia rounded the corner. “There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere. You look weird. Did you find your phone?”
Julienne pushed off the wall, forcing her practiced, easy smile back onto her face. It felt like a mask now, something thin and fragile. “Yeah,” she said, her voice miraculously normal. “Yeah, I got it. Let’s go find Lorenzo.”
She linked her arm with Sophia’s, letting herself be pulled back toward the light and the noise. But her mind stayed in the dark study, with the scent of whiskey and leather, and the feeling of a crown, heavy and invisible, being placed upon her head.