The sharp, biting crack of the thin leather riding crop echoed like a gunshot through the vaulted ballroom of Sterling Manor, instantly knocking the silver serving tray from my hands.

The Harborview Pavilion sat at the edge of the Boston waterfront, surrounded by black SUVs, private security convoys, and armed sentries stationed on every rooftop. Rain turned to freezing sleet, pattering against the armored windows of Dominic’s Maybach as we pulled past the iron security gates.

Inside the car, Dominic adjusted his cufflinks. He looked impossibly handsome in a bespoke three-piece midnight tux, but his eyes never strayed far from me.

I looked down at myself. The emerald velvet gown hugged every curve of my hips and waist with uncompromising grace. The bruises on my collarbone were concealed beneath artfully draped emerald and diamond chokers, while the silver Moretti locket hung proudly in the center, polished until it gleamed like liquid moonlight. My dark hair was swept up into an intricate braided crown, interwoven with silver pins.

"Nervous?" Dominic asked quietly.

"Terrified," I admitted, turning to him. "And exhilarated."

"Good." He took my gloved hand in his, raising it to his lips and pressing a slow, deliberate kiss against my knuckles. The heat of his mouth sent shivers cascading down my spine. "Remember who you are, Elena. They are wolves, but you were raised by dragons."

The car door opened. Marcus stood in the rain holding an enormous umbrella as Dominic stepped out first, offering me his arm.

I took it. Together, we ascended the grand marble staircase leading into the pavilion’s grand amphitheater.

Inside, over three hundred syndicate bosses, senators, shipping magnates, and their entourages were gathered in hushed, tense conversation. At the center of the elevated stage stood Senator Vance, an austere, silver-haired man in his late fifties, his face flushed with righteous indignation as he addressed the assembly through a microphone.

"—and this unprovoked barbarism proves that Dominic Sterling is unfit to hold the Northern territories!" Vance thundered to the crowd. "My daughter Cassandra was beaten, brutalized, and falsely imprisoned in his home! I demand the council vote immediately to strip Sterling of his title and execute martial law!"

A murmur of agreement rippled through the older dons.

Then, the heavy oak double doors at the back of the auditorium swung wide open with a resounding bang that echoed off the vaulted ceiling.

The silence that fell over the amphitheater was instantaneous and absolute.

Dominic walked in, perfectly composed, radiating absolute menace. But nobody was looking at Dominic.

Every single pair of eyes in the room was fixed on the voluptuous, breathtaking woman beside him—the emerald velvet trailing behind her like a royal banner, the diamonds catching the chandelier light, and the silver locket resting against her chest like an unexploded bomb.

Old Don Cavallo, the eldest member of the commission who had served alongside my father forty years ago, dropped his glass of whiskey. The crystal shattered on the floor, identical to the champagne flutes Cassandra had broken only twenty-four hours before.