After the Donovan family fell, I was cornered by creditors. That's when he returned—Cian Rourke, the man I once cast out, now the formidable new Don of the Chicago Outfit.

He loomed over me, a king judging a beggar. "Willow Donovan," he said, his voice cold as steel, "belong to me, and I'll settle your family's blood debt."

To survive, I accepted without a second thought.

The woman he now faced was no longer the proud, untouchable Principessa of the Donovan family.

When he brought his fiancée to humiliate me, I lowered my eyes and poured their drinks.

Even when he paraded another woman before me, I would only offer a faint, hollow smile and turn away.

I had become the obedient plaything he'd always wanted.

But when I had finally paid my "debt" and was ready to leave, he grabbed me, his eyes blazing with a desperate fire. "Who said you could go?"

"Willow Donovan," he snarled, "you don't love me anymore. Do you?"

————————

1

The wind in the back alley cut like a razor on a bitter Chicago night.

I huddled in a corner slick with grime, my body trembling uncontrollably.

The cigarette burn on my arm was a searing, bone-deep ache.

It was a "greeting" from Cian's men.

"Miss Donovan, if you can't scrape together the money tonight, the next butt gets put out on your pretty face."

They left me with nothing but their foul laughter and my torn coat.

A blinding beam of headlights sliced through the darkness, laying my pathetic state bare.

I instinctively raised a hand to shield my eyes, peeking through the gaps between my mud-caked fingers.

An armored Cadillac pulled up silently, its tinted window lowering halfway.

It was a luxury I'd taken for granted before the fall of the Donovan family.

The door swung open, and a polished, custom-made leather shoe met the murky puddle with a soft splash.

My gaze traveled up, past sharply creased trousers, to a finely tailored, handmade suit.

That suit alone was worth enough to buy this entire godforsaken street.

The man held a black umbrella, his eyes colder than the icy rain as he looked down on me.

I froze.

Cian Rourke.

The Soldato whose street-rat origins I had once despised, the man I had personally cast out of the Donovan family.

Now, he was the Don of the Chicago Outfit, the new king of the city's underworld.

And I was a fugitive, shackled by a blood debt.

The Soldatos who had been so vicious moments ago were instantly fawning at the sight of Cian.

"Boss! What brings you out yourself in this weather...?"

Cian ignored them, his sharp gaze locked on me.

He strode over and suddenly lifted his foot, grinding the tip of his shoe into the back of my hand where it was pressed against the asphalt.

I didn't flinch, letting him crush it.

The cold was so absolute that the pressure of his foot was a strange, paradoxical warmth.

He slowly applied more pressure, twisting his heel.

The sickening crack of bone echoed in the alley.

"Willow Donovan, does it hurt?"

His voice was a low rumble, wrapped in a chilling frost.

"Does it feel anything like that snowy day I was thrown out of your gate like a dog?"

I clenched my jaw, refusing to make a sound.

It hurt. God, it hurt.

But I had lost the right to cry out.

His men understood. Before this new Don, I was nothing but prey.

Cian removed his foot, disgustedly scraping the filth from his sole on a nearby brick wall.

"Willow Donovan, beg me."

I looked up, snowflakes and rain mixing as they streamed into my eyes, cold and stinging.

"Cian, can you lend me fifty thousand dollars? My brother, Finn... he needs surgery..."

"Lend?" He let out a short, cruel laugh. "The Donovans are ash. What's your collateral? That body every man in Chicago wants a piece of?"

I remained silent, my nails digging into my palms.

He bent down, his fingers clamping around my chin, forcing my gaze to meet his.

"Belong to me, and I'll wipe your family's slate clean."

I had no hesitation.

Faced with Finn's exorbitant underground surgery fees, dignity was a luxury I couldn't afford.

"Alright."

The word was a raw, hoarse thing I barely recognized as my own.

My quick compliance seemed to displease him, a flicker of violence crossing his eyes.

"Get in the car."

The heat inside was stifling, mingling with the cold scent of cedar and gunpowder that clung to him.

On the passenger seat sat a delicate velvet cushion. Scarlett Montgomery's style.

Soaked to the bone, I hesitated, afraid of leaving a mark on the plush leather.

Cian got in and saw my state, his jaw tightening in disgust.

"Stop pretending you're so pure."

He grabbed my waist, pulling me onto his lap with irresistible force.

Mud and blood smeared his expensive trousers.

I scrambled to get up. "Cian, I'm dirty..."

"So you admit you're filthy?"

His tone was a whip, his fingers tracing mercilessly over the raw burn on my arm.

"This is all you're worth now."

The car sped through the city, pulling up to a luxurious penthouse apartment downtown.

This was Cian's new den.

He pointed toward the bathroom as soon as we were inside.

"Go wash up. Don't get my place filthy."

There were no clean clothes for me.

I emerged wrapped in a bath towel to find Cian on the sofa, cleaning a handgun.

He casually tossed a black silk nightgown at me.

It looked expensive. It also wasn't new.

"Put it on."

I unfolded it and the scent hit me immediately—Scarlett's perfume, rich and aggressive.

I turned my back, letting the towel drop, and slipped on the nightgown that belonged to another woman.

When I turned around, Cian was on a video call.

On the screen, Scarlett Montgomery was smiling sweetly. "Cian, are you in bed? I miss you."

His face, dark and grim moments ago, softened with a tenderness that made him a stranger.

"Not yet. Just dealt with a little stray cat. Go to bed, sweetheart. I'll pick you up tomorrow."

I stood ten feet away, a ghost in his home, listening to him whisper promises to another woman.

The moment he hung up, the tenderness vanished.

He looked at me, his eyes a toxic cocktail of desire and disgust.

He stood, crossed the room in two long strides, and shoved me down onto the sofa.

I squeezed my eyes shut, my body tensing like a drawn bow.

The violation I braced for never came.

A sneer brushed against my ear.

"You reek of poverty and blood. Disgusting."

He released me, then pulled out a wet wipe and cleaned each of his fingers as if scrubbing away a contamination.

"Get out. Sleep on the rug in the guest room. I don't want to see you."

Clutching the collar of the borrowed nightgown, I scrambled into the guest room.

The room was enormous, but I didn't dare touch the soft, sprawling bed.

I curled up on the Persian rug, my fingers tracing the faint indentation on my left ring finger.

A ring woven from a bullet casing had once sat there.

It was made for me by the boy who was then a simple Soldato, his hands stained with blood in the family's shooting range.

He had said, "Willow, one day, I'll replace this with the real thing."

Now, the ring was gone.

And so was the girl who wore it.

At six in the morning, I fried the eggs just so, toasted the bread, and trimmed the crusts with practiced precision.

Cian didn't eat leafy greens. He didn't eat fully cooked yolks.

I remembered his habits better than my own birthday.

I made the sandwich with bacon, not the ham he'd always hated.

At seven, Cian came downstairs.

He paused when he saw the breakfast laid out on the table.

I stood by the dining table, hands clasped before me, my posture a study in submission.

"Breakfast is ready."

He walked over, his gaze landing on the sandwich.

The next second, his hand swept across the table, sending the plate crashing into the trash can.

The sound of shattering porcelain was deafening in the silence.

Cian's eyes were glacial. "Willow Donovan, what do you take me for? I stopped eating that trash years ago."

I stared at the food scattered in the bin, a dull ache blooming in my chest.

I had once complained his street-food diet was too coarse, forcing him to adopt my own refined tastes.

He had changed for me, shedding his old habits like a second skin.

Now, he sneered at the flavors he once loved.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize your tastes had changed."

I knelt to clean up the mess.

A porcelain shard sliced my finger, and a ruby-red bead of blood welled on the tip.

Cian didn't even glance at it, stepping over me to retrieve a bottle of expensive imported water from the fridge.

"There's a private poker game tonight. You're coming with me."

He took a sip of water, his tone flat.

"Given my current status... I don't think it's appropriate..."

"What status do you have?" he interrupted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "A whore who sells her body, or the fallen Principessa of the Donovan family?"

The words died in my throat.

"If you're my property, you'd better start acting like it."

He tossed a black gift box onto the floor beside me.

"Wear this. Don't embarrass me."

That afternoon, a stylist arrived.

Inside the box was a tight, black slip dress.

There was barely any fabric to it. The back was cut impossibly low, the slit running all the way up my thigh.

It was something a stripper would wear, not a dress for a high-stakes game.

But I had no right to refuse.

I slipped it on and faced the mirror, lowering my gaze. The woman staring back looked no different from chattel for sale on the black market.

At eight that evening, we arrived at a discreet private club.

I entered on Cian's arm.

Through the haze of cigar smoke, countless gazes fixed on me.

"Isn't that Willow Donovan?"

"Some high-and-mighty Principessa she was. The Donovans are finished. I heard she's desperate to pay off that blood debt."

"Tsk, tsk. Dressed like that? Must be Cian Rourke's new pet. She used to have her nose so high in the air you'd think she'd drown in a rainstorm."

Cian acted as if he heard nothing, guiding me through the predatory crowd.

The family bosses who once bowed to me now gawked at me with lecherous, malicious eyes.

A portly Russian, a Capo named Petrov, ambled over with a glass of liquor.

"Rourke. Good taste," he rumbled, his lecherous gaze crawling over my chest. "The girl looks familiar... and what a figure."

I recoiled, trying to hide behind Cian.

But he deliberately sidestepped, leaving me completely exposed to Petrov's predatory gaze.

He took a sip of whiskey, a cruel smirk playing on his lips.

"She's a handful, alright. If you like her, Petrov, I can have her pour you a drink sometime."

I looked up at him, searching his face.

There was no protection in his eyes, only a chilling, vindictive satisfaction.

"Then it's a deal!" Petrov boomed, reaching out to grab my waist.

I fought back a wave of nausea and sidestepped his touch.

"Ooh, a feisty one," Petrov noted, displeased.

"Taming them slowly is more fun, isn't that right, Willow?"

Cian's voice was a soft, terrifying caress as he turned to me.

I lowered my head.

"Yes, you're right."

Just then, Scarlett Montgomery swept in, a vision in a long white gown.

A sweet smile bloomed on her face when she saw Cian.

"Cian! I got held up, I'm so sorry I'm late."

Cian dropped my arm and strode to her, his own arm wrapping possessively around her waist.

Only then did Scarlett feign surprise at seeing me, her hand flying to her mouth.

"Oh, isn't that Willow? Long time no see. My, why are you dressed like that...?"

A flicker of triumphant malice crossed her eyes, quickly masked by a look of perfect concern.

"Have you been having a hard time? You've gotten so thin."

She stepped closer, and the hand holding her whiskey glass suddenly "trembled."

The amber liquid spilled down my chest.

I instinctively raised a hand to block it, my knuckles brushing her wrist.

"Ah!"

Scarlett cried out as the glass shattered on the floor.

She clutched her wrist, her eyes instantly filling with tears as she looked pleadingly at Cian.

"Cian," she whimpered, "I only wanted to say hello to Willow, but I suppose she's still angry that I have you now."

The room fell silent.

Cian stormed over, grabbing Scarlett's wrist to inspect it before turning his furious glare on me.

"Willow Donovan, are you looking for a death wish?"

A mixture of indignant rage and a heart-stopping chill sent a tremor through my body.

"I didn't push her. She spilled it on purpose."

"And why would Scarlett spill whiskey on herself?"

Cian sneered, his eyes filled with not a shred of trust, only pure, unadulterated disgust. "Apologize to Scarlett."

Scarlett tugged on his sleeve. "Cian, let it go. She didn't mean it, and everyone is watching..."

His gaze on me grew even colder. "Willow Donovan, don't make me say it again."

Whatever pride I had as a Donovan had long been ground into dust by this man.

I bent at the waist, facing Scarlett.

"I'm sorry, Miss Montgomery. It was my fault."

My quick surrender didn't satisfy him.

He pointed to a row of high-proof spirits on the bar.

"Since it was an accident, drink these to prove it. Finish them, and we'll call it even."

There were five or six different kinds of hard liquor.

I looked up at him. "Boss... my stomach... I have an ulcer. I can't drink that."

"That's your problem."

He put his arm around Scarlett and turned his back on me.

The room watched, hungry for the spectacle.

My hand trembled as I picked up the first glass.

The liquor burned a path down my throat, and a searing pain erupted in my stomach.

One glass. Two. Three...

By the fifth glass, my stomach seized in a violent cramp.

I covered my mouth and ran for the restroom.

I retched until my head spun, until all that came up was blood.

I wiped the corner of my mouth and stared at my ghostly reflection in the mirror.

From outside, I could hear the muffled laughter of men.

"Watching that proud Donovan Principessa on her knees? Now that's a damn satisfying sight."

I hid in the restroom stall until my phone began to vibrate wildly.

It was the doctor from the underground clinic.

"Miss Donovan, your brother's had a complication. He needs emergency surgery now. You need to pay the fifty-thousand-dollar fee immediately, or we can't operate."

Fifty thousand.

Once, the price of a handbag.

Now, the price of a life.

I burst out of the restroom. Cian was with Scarlett, admiring a custom weapon in a display case.

I rushed to him, grabbing his sleeve.

"Cian, I'm begging you, give me fifty thousand dollars, now! Finn is critical!"

Cian frowned, shaking my hand off as if I were something vile.

"What kind of a scene are you making?"

Scarlett giggled beside him. "Willow, there's a time and place for begging. Cian is picking out a gift for me."

"Cian Rourke, that's a life on the line! It's Finn! He used to worship the ground you walked on!"

Cian's hand froze for a fraction of a second.

Then his expression darkened even further.

"He's a Donovan. What's that to me? The world is better off without Donovans."

He turned back to the dagger, tossing a final, careless remark over his shoulder.

"Payment is for service rendered. You displeased me tonight. No service, no payment."

"What do I have to do? Tell me what I have to do for you to give me the money. I'll do anything."

Cian turned, his gaze dropping to my knees.

"You want my money? Fine. Kneel. And polish my shoes."

His custom leather shoes were spotless.

He was breaking me for sport.

But Finn was lying on an operating table.

I didn't hesitate. I dropped to my knees with a dull thud.

The impact on the hard marble floor sent a jolt of pain up my spine.

The room filled with sharp gasps and stifled sneers.

With trembling hands, I used the hem of my dress to meticulously wipe his shoes until they reflected the club's garish lights.

"They're clean."

I looked up at him, my soul stripped bare.

Cian looked down, a flicker of some unreadable emotion in his eyes before it was stamped out by a wave of fury.

He kicked my hand away.

"Too bad. Now I'm in an even worse mood."

With that, he wrapped his arm around Scarlett and strode away.

He left me on the floor to be devoured by their mockery.

I fled the club, sprinting through the heavy snow toward the clinic.

I rounded a corner and collided with a hard chest.

"Careful."

A pair of strong hands steadied me.

I looked up into a cool, intelligent face, his gold-rimmed glasses giving him an air of refined menace.

But I had no time for him. I tried to push him away.

"Move! I have to save someone!"

The man didn't let go. Instead, he handed me a payment receipt.

"The bill for Finn Donovan's surgery has been settled. You can repay me in installments."

I was stunned, my mind a complete blank.

"Who are you?"

"Julian Blackwood. The Donovan family's 'liquidator,' and the representative for your creditors."

He took out a handkerchief and gently wiped the snow and tears from my face.

"Miss Donovan, your family may be in debt, but there's no need to debase yourself for scum like him."

I stayed at the clinic all night. Finn was stable.

It was noon the next day when I returned to the penthouse.

I was wearing the cashmere coat Julian had lent me, which carried the clean scent of mint and tobacco.

The moment I opened the door, a wall of oppressive silence hit me.

Cian was on the sofa, surrounded by a sea of cigarette butts.

The instant he saw the man's coat on me, he exploded.

He launched himself at me, tore the coat from my shoulders, and ripped it to shreds.

"Willow Donovan, you have some nerve! The moment you crawled out of my sight, you found a new master?"

His eyes were bloodshot, the eyes of a cornered beast.

"Who is he? Julian Blackwood? How long have you been crawling into his bed?"

He grabbed a cigar cutter from the table and sliced the expensive cashmere into ribbons.

"I wasn't! He saved Finn!"

I lunged for the coat; it wasn't mine to let him destroy.

Cian slammed me down onto the coffee table, right onto the shards of the whiskey glass he'd smashed the day before.

Sharp glass bit into my back, and I gasped from the pain.

"Saved Finn? Or are you just addicted to selling yourself? You'd spread your legs for any man to save that half-dead brat, wouldn't you?"

Smack!

With all the strength I had left, I slapped him hard across the face.

Cian's head snapped to the side, a stark red handprint blooming on his cheek.

He slowly turned back, his tongue pushing against the inside of his cheek, his eyes terrifyingly dark.

"Willow Donovan, you dare hit me?"

I panted, tears of rage and humiliation finally breaking free.

"Cian Rourke, you can insult me all you want, but don't you dare insult Finn! And don't you dare insult the man who helped me!"

It was the first time I had fought back.

That slap shattered the fragile, twisted peace between us.

He suddenly laughed, a low, chilling sound.

"Fine. You want to show me your backbone? Let's see how easily it snaps."