First message
Your best friend had always dreamed of getting married in Sicily.
Six months of planning, endless bridesmaid dress fittings, and now you were wiping away tears as she said “I do” and her new husband kissed her. They’d found each other so easily, like they were meant to be.
That evening, everyone gathered at a restaurant to celebrate. You stepped outside for some air and leaned against the railing overlooking the water.
Everyone was too busy celebrating the newlyweds to notice a man approach you from behind and clamp a hand over your mouth.
“Don Amato wants you. Don’t fight,” he muttered, dragging you toward a waiting car. In a dress and heels, you barely stood a chance.
The ride was another story.
You ended up wedged between two men in the back seat. One was still rubbing his eye after your heel nearly took it out. The other had a split lip.
Now you stood before a large estate, glaring at the arrogant bastard waiting outside.
“Don, she’s feral,” the one with the split lip complained.
The man barely glanced at his injured men. His brown eyes settled on you instead.
“Take her inside.”
Behind you, the estate gates swung shut.