Page 2 of Trapped

She arched a brow.

I wasn’t after love, just a man dangerous enough to protect me from my fiancé. I’d spent weeks studying the Costas, no easy feat considering they were the most powerful mafia family in Boston. I’d done my homework, weeding out the married guys first. I had no interest in becoming anyone’s side piece. Then I sorted through the single ones by rank and status. I hated it, but I had no other way out.

“What do you think he’d say if I asked him for a favor?”

Her brows shot up. “Depends on what it is. But trust me, nothing comes free with Santino.”

Not surprising. I’d grown up around men like him. They never gave without expecting something in return, and the price wasalways steep. But if I was going to survive, I had to be willing to pay. Staying with Dimitri was no longer an option.

I glanced at the broad-shouldered silhouette bathed in shadows. I had to make my move soon.

Glasses clinked as the bartender loaded a dishwasher. She closed the door, the snap jolting through me. Her wary gaze settled on mine again.

“Look, I don’t know what you’re planning, but be careful. He isn’t easy to walk away from.”

I forced a smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Walking away was the least of my problems.

I took out my phone, scanning the list of missed calls from one number. Dimitri was supposed to be at a poker game with his friends. He must’ve found out I’d ditched my guards because he’d left me a string of colorful messages.

Dimitri

Did you forget who you belong to?

Don’t make me come find you.

This is your last warning.

Just wait until you get home.

I rolled my eyes and paid for my drink. Soon, I wouldn’t have to deal with this asshole. My fingers shot off a quick text, and I slid off the barstool and headed for the exit.

I drove back to Providence.

I lived in a duplex owned by Dimitri. Months ago, I’d moved in with my father’s encouragement. The ceilings were low and it was thirteen hundred square feet, small compared to my father’s mansion. Barely any sunlight touched the dreary walls. It felt like a dungeon.

Ivan, one of my fiancé’s henchmen, waited in the driveway. He bristled when I got out of the car. It probably stung that I’d outsmarted him again. I hurried past him and approached the front door. I dug out my keys and unlocked it.

Pushing it open, I stepped inside. My heart thudded as my gaze swept over Dimitri’s bland furniture. My breathing hitched as I dropped my purse onto the kitchen counter and dashed into the living room.

Oh no.

Racks of clothes I’d collected over the years—sourced from estate sales, thrift shops, and online auctions—were ripped to shreds.

All of it.

Metal stands and hangers were scattered on the floor. My hands shook as I kneeled, running my fingers over strips of ruined fabric. The air smelled faintly of something burnt. My throat tightened.

I rushed to the bedroom, praying he hadn’t destroyedeverything. I threw open the closet door, choking back a cry.The shelves holding boxes of carefully preserved vintage fabrics, accessories, and handbags were bare. Only a few tattered pieces lay in the corner, half crumpled as though he hadn’t cared enough to finish his destruction.

A deep anger settled in my chest. The hours I’d spent building this collection, dreaming of my boutique, my escape, my future—all of it, gone in one vicious sweep.

And I couldn’t do anything about it.

Because I’d agreed to marry Dimitri.

It hadalwaysbeen about pleasing the Pakhan of the Bratva. My father had orchestrated this engagement like a business deal. He made it sound like an honor. Marrying Dimitri would keep the family strong, reinforce alliances, and cement my place in the organization. I’d only said yes to please my father.

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