Chapter 1
Her boyfriend of three years lost her in a poker game — then posted her old photo to the dark web so the whole underworld could laugh at the "gift" the Rossi family had sent the Don. Tomorrow night she's expected to show up as the prize. She does. Fifty thousand dollars of her own money says she's on time. And no one in that room recognizes the woman who walks in. Not yet.
The wheels of the plane barely touched down at JFK when my phone blew up with over a dozen encrypted alerts.
I grabbed my luggage, walked down the jet bridge, and swiped open my screen. Plastered across the homepage was a big, bold red banner: [Congrats Don Valenti on your heavyweight gift from the Rossi Family!]
Below it was a receipt from a high-stakes underground poker game. The loser's signature: Julian Vance.
The stake: Chloe Rossi.
My secret boyfriend of three years—the guy who swore he missed me every single day while I was in Europe—had just traded me away like a chip the second I landed. He handed me over to Lucian Valenti, the top Mafia Don in New York.
Before I could even swallow the disgust, the encrypted chat room went wild.
Julian uploaded a photo of me himself.
It was my old profile picture from four years ago. One hundred and eighty pounds. Oversized gray sweats, a bloated face, and cowardly eyes.
Julian Vance: [Everyone, meet Miss Rossi, fresh back from her European studies! Don Valenti, if she's not heavy enough for you, I'll throw in two cases of fine wine.]
The mocking comments poured in like a tidal wave.
[Hahaha! Second-in-command, you're wild! Is this a gift or a prank?]
[European butter really plumped her up. She must be two hundred pounds by now!]
[Can the Don even sleep tonight? Or will this pig crush him to death?]
Ding.
A private message popped up from Julian. A voice note. His voice sounded hungover, fake, and callous:
"Chloe, listen to me. Put your European fairy tale aside for a second. Don Valenti was at the table tonight. If I didn't lose something major, the Rossi family wouldn't get the arms deal for next quarter. As the old Don's daughter, it's your honor to step up for the family. Be a good girl and show up at the club tomorrow night. Don't embarrass me."
I squeezed my phone, my knuckles turning white, my stomach churning.
Three years together. One year apart. In his eyes, I was just a stepping stone for his ladder.
Right then, someone started a high-stakes poll in the chat: [Betting time: Will Miss Rossi actually show her face at the club tomorrow night after a whole year?]
Julian dropped a public bet without hesitation: [30 grand says she stays home hiding in her hole.]
Next, Camilla—the city's infamous socialite—dropped a voice note into the group. Her tone was sweet, dripping with pure malice:
"Julian, how could you do that to little Chloe? Sure, she's a bit chubby and weak, but she's still the former Don's bloodline. Chloe, sweetie, if you're scared, just beg Julian. I'll ask the Don to go easy on you."
I stood in front of the giant mirror in the private lounge. I put on my sunglasses and slid off my heavy trench coat.
In the mirror stood a woman in a tight black slip dress. Sculpted collarbones, sharp shoulders, and a waist without a single drop of extra fat. Drop-dead gorgeous proportions.
That year in Europe, I trained four hours a day, transforming from 180 pounds to a stunning 105. I earned my title as a top jewelry designer from the Royal College of Art. I washed away all my fear and self-doubt.
I thought I came back to New York for love.
Turns out, I came back to crush a bastard's pride.
Looking at Julian's 30-thousand-dollar bet, I stayed silent. Inside, my heart turned to ice.
I opened the betting channel, linked my card, and dropped fifty thousand dollars on one option: [Shows up on time].
The chat room froze. Everyone lost their minds.
[Holy crap! Who just dropped fifty grand on her showing up?!]
I wiped away a stray tear. My fingers flew across the keyboard.
Amidst the chaotic laughter and taunts, I sent my very first message since coming home:
[I'll be there on time. See you all soon.]
