The chandelier in the penthouse living room cast long shadows across the marble floor as Shanaya stormed in, her heels clicking like gunfire. At twenty-five, she was no longer the wide-eyed girl who’d been thrust into Dev Pratap’s world when her mother married the mafia don eight years ago. Her mother was dead now—cancer, swift and merciless—and the empire had swallowed Shanaya whole. But she still fought the chains.

“You think you can lock me in like one of your whores, Dev?” she spat, slamming the door behind her. Her black dress clung to every curve, the slit riding high on her thigh from the club she’d just escaped.