Where Wild Mustangs Can't Run

All of New York knows me as the Cianci family's most infamous Donna.

Not for my grace, but for my madness and jealousy.

I once threw the Cianci family into chaos over my husband, the Don Lucian Cianci, and his precious "Principessa," Cassandra Valenti.

In the end, he locked me away on a remote Long Island estate—all for Cassandra.

After my release, I was a changed woman—as quiet and hollow as a ghost.

At a family dinner, one of Lucian's Capos mocked me for being "tamed."

"The Don really has his ways! No matter how rabid a dog is, a little confinement is all it takes to make them obedient."

"Besides, what's the big deal? A Don needs a Principessa under his wing, right?"

I kept my head down, my expression unreadable, as I sliced into the steak on my plate.

Lucian Cianci seemed pleased by my newfound compliance.

But he didn't understand the reason for my sudden docility.

Just this afternoon, the hospital had called with news. A match had finally been found for the rare P-type blood my mother so desperately needed.

And the only match... was Cassandra.

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1

When Lucian’s gaze swept over to me, I was methodically sawing at my steak, not a ripple of emotion on my face.

His brow twitched, almost imperceptibly.

The men at the table were already flushed with wine. I set down my cutlery, stood, and pushed back my chair.

"I need some air," I murmured, my voice low. "I'll be on the terrace."

On the terrace, the cold wind sliced at my face like a thousand tiny blades.

I glanced down and peeled back the gauze on my wrist. A new scar, gruesome and deep, stretched from my palm all the way to my wrist bone.

Lucian's voice came from behind me. "What happened to your hand?"

"An accident."

I snatched my hand back, quickly wrapping it with fresh gauze.

He probably didn’t expect such a calm response.

For a man who’d never had any patience with me, he was actually trying to explain himself.

"Rory, I know you're angry," he said, his tone devoid of warmth. "But Cassandra has a heart condition. It was your fault for pushing her down the stairs."

I nodded. "Yes. It was my fault."

His voice softened a fraction. "Now that you've admitted your mistake, learn your place. You are still the Donna of the Cianci family. Stop making a scene over every little thing."

I nodded again. "Okay."

His brow furrowed even deeper, as if he had more to say. From inside, one of his Soldatos called out, "Don! Are we cracking this bottle or not?"

He turned and strode back inside.

Three years of marriage. That’s all it took to become “Mad Dog Rory,” the scandal of New York’s high society. I was a girl from a Montana ranch, wildness in my bones, and we had clashed from the very beginning.

The first year, he left me burning with a fever on our anniversary to fly to a gala in Europe with Cassandra.

The second year, I lost our first child while he spent his nights on overseas calls with her.

The third year, Cassandra returned, and he poured a fortune into making her a Hollywood superstar.

I would become hysterical, and he would drag me back from the brink, time and time again.

A month ago, Cassandra had staged a fall down the stairs and blamed me. Lucian had me locked away on the Long Island estate without a second thought.

I was tortured there until I was barely human.

I had planned to disappear for good this time. But fate, it seemed, wasn't done with me yet.

This afternoon, the doctor called. My mother could be saved. The donor with the rare P-type blood was Cassandra.

So when Lucian came to fetch me, I got into his car without a word.

I had to endure. Endure until she gave the blood. After that, I would ask for nothing more.

The cold seeped through my dress. I turned and walked back into the banquet hall.

Lucian gestured, and one of his men pushed a gift box toward me.

"Happy birthday, Rory."

He’d barely finished speaking when the banquet hall doors were thrown open.

Cassandra stood framed in the doorway, draped in a whisper of a white slip dress. The fabric was scandalously sheer, the neckline plunging to an audacious depth.

"Oh, are we celebrating Rory's birthday?" Her voice was honey-laced poison. "May I share in the good fortune?"

A low, appreciative whistle cut through the room.

Lucian was on his feet in an instant, grabbing his suit jacket and striding over to wrap it around her.

"It's freezing out and you're dressed like that. You have a death wish?"

Someone beside him chuckled. "That's the bond of childhood sweethearts for you."

Cassandra flashed me a saccharine smile. "Happy birthday, Rory. I came in such a hurry, I didn't have time to prepare a gift."

I forced my lips into a twitch. "No need."

From the side, Lucian spoke. "Cassandra heard it was your birthday and rushed over. She said she's willing to let the last incident go."

I nodded numbly. "Thank you, Miss Valenti."

Before I could finish, the jet-black Doberman at her feet suddenly lunged at me.

It slammed into the gift table, sending an exquisite music box crashing to the floor, where it shattered.

The dog immediately buried its snout in the fragments, sniffing.

Cassandra cooed, "He wants to wish you a happy birthday, too."

She let out a small "Oh!" and rushed toward me as if in concern, her posture eerily identical to the moment before her "fall" last time.

Ice flooded my veins.

I couldn't let her get hurt. Not now. My mother's life was on the line.

The instant she moved toward me, I threw myself backward, my body instinctively reacting to avoid another one of her setups.

A sickening thud echoed as the back of my head slammed hard against the sharp corner of a metal ice bucket. Warm blood trickled down from my temple.

Cassandra let out a piercing scream.

"Rory! Why are you trying to hurt me again?!"