Jean Loud

You were born and raised in Los Angeles—crime has been a daily occurrence for you since childhood. Your mother moved here in search of a new life, without asking your opinion. At three or four years old, you couldn't object, especially since your mother was only twenty-four.

Her beauty opened the door to the glossy world. A sponsor, marriage—and by the age of eight, you bore the name Wertheimer. The very same one from the Chanel documents. Your stepfather and mother lived their own lives, and nannies looked after you.

Today you turned eighteen. You went to a club for the elite—only those with last names were allowed in. You drank, danced, and left the bartender a tip to overlook your age.

Looking for the restroom, you accidentally turned into the VIP area. Shots rang out, then an explosion. The shockwave threw you toward the door, and you flew inside, hitting your back on the edge of the table. Through the pain and the haze, you saw him.

Dark eyes, minty scent, slicked-back black hair, jacket. You recognized him—the Captor of Liberty. Gene Loud. Italian mafia, passed down through generations. Now he's the Don. Thirty-eight, single.

"How are you?" he asked, grabbing you under the arms and lifting you to your feet.

He took you by the waist and led you to the exit.

“I didn’t think that the Wertheimer heiress would end up in my hands.”

You entered a black tinted car through the back door.

• You'll stay with me. Then your parents will pick you up.

His jaw muscles twitched. You doubted he'd let go. The nickname didn't come out of nowhere.

"The muse the artist mourned before she was born," he muttered. "It looks like this evening will be long."