The trees flash past as I stare out the window, desperately trying to keep my mind off of my destination. I know we're almost there. We've been on the road for at least half an hour now, so I know we're close. I may not have lived here for the past 5 years, but I could never forget these streets. I spent my entire childhood roaming them, cooped up in the vehicle of whichever security guard was assigned to me for that day. I've never travelled these streets alone, and I know I never will. Even if I could, I wouldn't want to — and not just because I hate being alone.

These streets are tainted. They're riddled with violence and destruction, and I have a target on my back.

"Make sure you get changed before dinner, Sofia. I don't want to see any cleavage, okay?" my mother glances over her shoulder, eyeing my outfit in disapproval. "Have some self-respect, will you?"

"My clothes are fine," I tell her. She's been nit-picking every little thing about me since my plane landed; almost as if she doesn't realise that's the reason I moved away in the first place.

"You are representing the family," she states. "The way you present yourself affects us all."

This look isn't that revealing at all. It does show a bit of skin, but it's not too bad. Even my shoulders are covered. It's just a simple bodycon dress. The neckline is a little low and the hem is short, but this is what I would wear any day. My parents are just disappointed I didn't turn out to be the perfect little Virgin Mary daughter they had hoped for.

When I stepped off the plane, I was wearing a pair of white stilettos, but my mother didn't even greet me before she began her tirade. Those shoes are now in the dumpster outside the hanger. My father was furious when he realised I hadn't packed any 'sensible' shoes, as he calls them. Now I'm stuck wearing a pair of my mothers Birkenstocks.

If any of my clients saw me like this, they would fire me on the spot. Nobody would hire a personal stylist who can't even dress themself.

The rest of the car ride is silent and short. I almost wish I had snuck a bottle of booze into my suitcase. I could really use something to take the edge off, but I don't think I'll be getting it anytime soon.

I take in the area as we drive through the gates of the estate. I've been here plenty of times before. It's a secluded block of land on the outskirts of town, surrounded by a 30-foot high fence, and surveillance cameras covering every inch. The land is so big, you barely ever see the fence. I was never allowed to explore the place, though. There was only one building I had access to—the training gym.

I spent hours there as a kid. Every day after school, my driver would drop me off here, instead of my parents home. I would be taken to the gym, along with all the other children in the family, and trained in basic combat. That's where I met Jordan, the only kid who didn't make fun of me for showing up in dresses.

Back then, Roberto Sainte was in charge. He was the head of the family. We were taught to respect him and fear him, just as our parents did. One misstep and he could send you into exile without a second thought. Hell, he could take your life without a second thought.

And his son isn't any better.

Salvatore Sainte took over five years ago, just after I had moved to New York. I've never met him, but we've had plenty of run-ins over the years. He must be about six or seven years my senior, and absolutely terrifying. I would see him train in the gym occasionally, especially in my freshman year of high school. While I was being taught to shoot a gun, he was being shot at, forced to fight his way out of the room with no weapon of his own.

I never had to do anything like that. His training was far more intense than mine, and it would have to be. He had to become a villain. He had to become a killer. Others had to fear him, or else they wouldn't follow him.

And now, I have to marry him.

No, no. I don't have to. I've been asked to.

I've always known I was going to have an arranged marriage. It's tradition. My parents' marriage was arranged, and so is everyone else's. Its how we do things here. It's common in crime families and expected in ours. And as the daughter of one of the most prominent West Coast Italian families, I knew I was destined to marry into the familia.

I just didn't know it would be to the boss.

The main house finally comes into view as the car pulls to a stop. It's almost exactly as I remember it. A large, brown, Mediterranean style mansion, twice the size of my parents' place. I used to see it every time I came here, daydreaming about being the medieval princess who owned it. I've never been inside, though. But I guess there's a first time for everything.

I reach for the door handle, but my father stops me.

"Women do not open doors, Sofia," he tells me. I scoff. I shove the door open, stepping out right away.

"Sofia!" my mum scolds. "Sainte is never going to approve of this attitude of yours!"

I ignore her, following my father to the boot of the car. Two other men have already hurried out of the house, jumping in to help. It isn't hard to spot the weapons on them. I stay back, letting them do the heavy lifting.

"Sofia Delfino?" one of the men says.

"Yes?" I respond.

"Please come with me."

"What?" I scowl.

"I've been instructed to escort you to your room."

"Right now?"

"Yes. Right now."

"But I-."

"Now, Miss Delfino," he insists. I want to protest, but I know it's no use. I agreed to this. And even if I didn't, I wouldn't have a choice.

"Come on, Sofia," my mum complains. "For once in your life, do as you're told."

Fuck.

"Fine," I give in. I follow the man's lead, taking a few tentative steps into the house. The inside looks a lot more modern than the outside, but not modern enough for my taste. The floors are tiled, the walls are painted a strange beige or cream shade, and there are golden details all over the place. It looks like a renovated castle. It's not ugly, just not my style.

This place already looks like a maze. I want to see more of it and figure out the floorplan, but I don't get a chance to. The man ushers me up the stairwell right beside the door, barely giving me a chance to look around.

The second floor isn't as beautiful as downstairs, but just as grand. There's a bunch of doorways and hallways to walk through, and I feel completely lost. There's another staircase leading upwards, but we walk right past it.

The man stops before a door, pushing it open to let me in.

The room is fairly big, but there's nothing but a bed in it. There's grey coloured carpet over the floor and a large window above the bed. There are two other doors in here, one leading to a small ensuite, and the other to an even smaller wardrobe.

There's no way all my clothes will fit in there. A small bathroom I can deal with, but I'll need extra mirrors in my room. There's nowhere to store all my makeup, either. This isn't going to work.

"Your luggage will be brought up to you shortly," the man tells me. "You can order food by pressing 7 on the intercom. The wifi code should be written there. You are expected to remain in your room until further notice."

"What?" I scowl at him, taking a step inside the room. "Are you serious?"

"Bosses orders," he says. "One of our men will be outside your door at all times. Don't bother trying to leave."

"But I-."

The door slams shut in my face.