Because you're mine: Forced Vows

You know you're in deep when the family that never wanted you suddenly calls you home.

Scratch that, summoning you like you're a stray mutt they forgot they owned.

I got the call at 3:06 a.m., New York time. Romano family time? Irrelevant. My father doesn't care about time zones. Or sleep. Or the fact that I hadn't spoken to him in six years. All he cared about was one thing:

"Pack your things, Siena. You're getting married."

Click.

No goodbye. No explanation. Just an order sharp enough to slit an artery.

So here I am-back in Chicago, standing in front of the Romano estate with nothing but my sarcasm and a suitcase full of regret. It's colder than I remember. Or maybe I'm just colder now. Either way, the gates creak open like the beginning of every bad decision I've ever made.

The Romano mansion is a palace of blood money and denial. A sprawling fortress behind wrought-iron fences and manicured lies. Growing up, it looked like something out of Architectural Digest. Now it just looks like a prison with better lighting.

As I step out of the black SUV sent to pick me up, I mutter under my breath, "If this is a trap, at least let it come with wine."

A suited guard with dead eyes and a scar that screams *do not flirt with me* nods toward the front door. "Mr. Romano is waiting."

Of course he is.

I walk through the familiar hallways, every step echoing with ghosts. My mother's perfume. My brother's laughter. My father's booming voice shouting orders like he's the Godfather and not just a delusional control freak in a tailored suit.

I left this place at eighteen with a middle finger and a scholarship. I promised myself I'd never come back. And yet, here I am.

Why?

Because when your last name is Romano, your choices are limited. Because when your father is Salvatore Romano-the Don of the Midwest-and he says jump, you don't ask how high. You ask how many people will die if you refuse.

I find him in his office, surrounded by cigar smoke and bad intentions. His gray hair is slicked back, his suit charcoal, and his eyes sharp as ever.

"Look at you," he says, not smiling. "Still dressing like a disappointment."

"Nice to see you too, Dad," I say, flopping into the leather chair across from him. "I missed your emotional abuse."

He waves off the sarcasm like a mosquito. "You've been gone too long. You forget who you are."

"Oh, I remember exactly who I am. That's why I left."

"You're a Romano," he snaps. "And you owe this family."

"Pretty sure I paid in trauma."

He doesn't laugh. He never does.

"This isn't a request, Siena. You're going to marry Luca Moretti."

My heart freezes.

I laugh. It sounds wild, cracked. "You're joking. Please tell me you're joking. The Morettis? As in the people who shot up your cousin's wedding? That Moretti family?"

"Peace requires sacrifice."

"You mean 'I' require sacrifice."

His jaw clenches. "You're the only Romano daughter of marrying age. Your brother is dead. Your cousins are married. That leaves you."

"So I'm a pawn in a mafia chess game? Charming."

He leans forward, voice low. "This marriage is the only way to end the blood feud. It's been five years of silence and sniping. If we don't unify, the Russians will take over everything south of Cicero Avenue."

"I'm not a treaty," I say, standing up. "I'm a person."

"You're a Romano," he repeats. "You don't get to be both."

I storm out of his office, blood pounding in my ears. The hallways blur. I see flashes of the life I almost had-college, career, quiet. All gone now.

I slam the guest room door shut and sink onto the edge of the bed, trying to breathe through the storm in my chest.

Luca Moretti.

The devil in an Armani suit.

Cold. Calculating. Rumored to have killed his own uncle to take power.

I've never met him. But I've heard the stories. Whispers of a man who doesn't flinch at blood. A man with more enemies than friends, and more charm than conscience. If the Romanos are fire, the Morettis are ice. And I'm being thrown in the middle like a sacrificial lamb with attitude problems.

It's not just a marriage. It's a trap.

But here's the thing about me: I don't go down easy.

If they think I'm going to be some quiet mafia bride, smiling at photo ops and popping out little heirs, they've clearly mistaken me for my mother.

God rest her miserable soul.

The next day is a blur of fittings, warnings, and thinly veiled threats disguised as advice.

"Smile more, Siena."

"Try not to curse in front of him."

"Don't bring up the dead cousins."

By nightfall, I'm exhausted. My hair's in curls I didn't ask for, my dress is too tight, and I'm about ten seconds from setting this whole damn estate on fire.

Then comes the knock.

Three sharp raps on the guest room door.

I open it-and there he is.

Luca Moretti.

Tall. Impeccably dressed. Jet-black hair, slicked back. Eyes like winter storms and a mouth that looks like it was made for lies and dangerous promises.

He doesn't smile.

Neither do I.

"Siena Romano," he says, voice smooth as sin. "You're even prettier than your file said."

File?

I blink. "You've been researching me?"

"I like to know what I'm buying."

"Oh, sweetheart," I say, stepping closer, my chin raised like a challenge. "If you think you're buying me, you've already lost."

He tilts his head slightly, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Then maybe I'll enjoy breaking you in."

And just like that, I know: this isn't a truce.

This is war.