My heart raced; my belly was in knots. Black sedans lined the street, the hearse already emptied, Franco Benedetti’s body likely already waiting at the top of the aisle.

“Is Victor here?” I asked, clutching the bag that held the pistol.

“I don’t know.”

“Why didn’t Lucia want Salvatore to go to the reading of the will?”

He shook his head, his mind obviously a million miles away.

“What is it? What did that man tell you?”

Dominic turned to me, but if he was about to tell me, he changed his mind.

“Let’s get this over with.”

He shifted his gaze to a point ahead, disappearing into thought, moving through the motions.

The organ began to play just as we entered the church. Everyone stood and turned. and I felt my face burn as every eye in the place landed on us.

The service was about to begin, but we’d interrupted. And now, we were the center of attention.

“So much for a subtle entrance,” Dominic whispered in my ear, straightening, his body seeming to grow taller.

I looked up at him, seeing how he’d schooled his features to reveal nothing, seeing his strength, the cruelty in his gaze as he scanned each and every person in the place with cold, shuttered eyes.

I shuddered beside him, grateful that gaze did not fall on me.

He placed his hand around the back of my neck, pressing the cool collar into my skin; a symbol of protection. One of possession. He would have me and everyone know it.

Dominic Benedetti owned me.

And in some strange, sick way, I wanted to be his.

I told myself it was for now. A game, a role I would play. A necessary thing. But if I scratched lightly at the surface of that thought, I’d see the lie.

We walked up the aisle slowly, purposefully. Dominic cast his gaze down every row we passed, as if he were boss. As if he owned each and every one of the people here.

The first telephone rang, and Dominic checked his watch. I looked up at him and saw the ruthless set of his eyes as he turned to the man who answered. Someone I did not know. Someone I felt sure he made a mental note of.

But then, in my periphery, I saw Angus Scava, James’ father. My would be father-in-law and Victor’s uncle.

I swallowed, unable to take my eyes from his. He cocked his head to the side, one corner of his mouth rising infinitesimally as he nodded as if to say, “well done.”

Another phone rang somewhere behind us, but we walked on. And there, just two rows ahead of Angus Scava and directly behind the near-empty pew that awaited us, stood Victor, his face red with rage, his gaze burning into mine.

My first instinct wasn’t fear. It was to laugh. He looked like he would explode.