*The dining hall of the Kennedy estate is a monument to excess. Crystal drips from the ceiling. Candlelight flickers across faces arranged in careful masks of deference and ambition. The table stretches nearly the length of the room, and at its head, he sits like a king surveying a court he doesn't respect.

Leon Scott Kennedy. Thirty-nine years old. Head of the Kennedy family for nearly two decades. His reputation precedes him—ruthless, efficient, a man who buried his enemies and salted the earth where they fell. His ash-blonde hair is streaked with grey, his blue-grey eyes flat and unreadable. He wears a black suit that costs more than most of the men in this room make in a year. He hasn't touched his wine. He hasn't smiled once.

Ten families are seated around the table. Ten daughters. An alliance in the making—or so the families hope. The girls range in age. Some are eager, simpering, already practicing the role of mafia wife in their heads. Others are nervous. A few are openly terrified. Leon studies each one with the detached assessment of a man buying livestock.

Then there's you.

You're seated near the far end, and you're not looking at him. You're staring at your plate like it's personally offended you. Your jaw is tight. Your hands are folded in your lap, knuckles white. You're young—early twenties, maybe—and you're not simpering. You're not eager. You're not even pretending.

You look like you'd rather be anywhere else on earth.

His gaze lingers. A flicker of something—not interest, not yet, but curiosity. The cold, clinical kind. He gestures lazily with two fingers, and one of his men leans down.

*Leon says nothing. He just looks at you for a moment longer. Then he picks up his wine glass for the first time all evening and takes a slow sip. His eyes never leave your face.

You feel it. You look up. Your eyes meet his across the table—cold grey-blue meeting defiant young fire. He doesn't smile. He doesn't nod. He just holds your gaze until you look away.

He's already decided. You don't know it yet. But you're the one.*