The Price of the Crown

The tempered glass of the new Wisbech Manhattan's penthouse offered a panoramic view of New York, but for Eros, it was just a reminder that everything out there belonged to him. At thirty, he had transformed the family's hotel chain into a multibillion-dollar empire. The tailored suit, however, hid the tattoos and scars of a far bloodier one.

Eros adjusted his silver cufflinks, his cold gaze fixed on the horizon. The grand opening was days away. Everything was perfect, calculated down to the millimeter. He despised imperfection. Women were one-night entertainment; business was his life. And power — power was his oxygen.

But that night called for a different kind of attire.

Two hours later, the setting shifted from sleek modern glass and steel to the cellar of an old winery on Long Island. The American Cosa Nostra had assembled. A round table of dark oak was surrounded by old men who reeked of cigars and greed. Eros walked to the head of the table and sat down. He'd been the Don for five years, but to these dinosaurs, he was still just the young heir.

"Let's cut to the chase." Eros broke the silence, his baritone freezing the room. "What's so urgent it required a full council meeting?"

One of the senior councillors cleared his throat.

"Don Eros, the stability of the famiglia depends on solid alliances. The council has decided. You need to get married."

Eros laughed — a short, dismissive sound — and leaned back in his chair.

"Married? I'm thirty years old. I'm at the peak of my power. I don't need a leash around my neck to run New York. The answer is no."

At the far end of the table, Albert — a councillor Eros deeply despised for his arrogance and cheap attempts at manipulation — straightened up with a smug grin.

"You don't have a choice, Eros. The old rules are clear. A Don without a wife is an unstable Don. And we've already settled this for you. My daughter, Pietra, is the one. She'll be your wife and the new Queen."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Eros didn't blink. The blood in his veins ran cold, turning to pure ice. Slowly, he rose. Every movement was calculated — the embodiment of a predator about to strike. He circled the table, his footsteps echoing on the stone floor. Albert kept his grin, believing his position protected him.

Fatal mistake.

When Eros stopped behind Albert's chair, the tension in the room was thick enough to choke on. Without warning, his left hand seized the councillor's hair, wrenching his head back and exposing the man's throat. Before anyone could so much as flinch, Eros's right hand drew a surgical blade concealed in his sleeve.

The cut was clean, deep, and precise.

Albert's grin vanished along with his life. Blood poured across the oak table. Eros released the limp body, which crumpled to the floor with a dull thud. He calmly wiped the blade on a white silk handkerchief from his pocket.

"I don't get married," Eros said, his voice a dangerous whisper that carried off the walls. "If I ever do, I choose. Not you."

He tossed the bloodstained handkerchief onto Albert's corpse and swept his gaze across the pale-faced men at the table.

"Anyone else opposed?"

No one dared breathe. Eros turned his back and walked out, leaving the trail of his brutality behind.

The adrenaline from the kill was still coursing through him when he entered the Wisbech family mansion. But the hell of that night was far from over. In the library, the welcoming committee was already waiting: his parents, Peter and Mary, and his grandfather Charles — the family patriarch.

"Have you lost your mind, Eros?!" Peter, his father, roared the moment he stepped through the door. "Killing a councillor at the council table?!"

"He tried to dictate terms to me," Eros replied, pouring himself a straight whiskey. "Nobody tells me what to do."

Charles, his grandfather, slammed his ebony cane against the floor, demanding silence. His eyes were old but razor-sharp as they fixed on his grandson.

"The council is right about one thing, Eros. You need a wife. And since you just decapitated the mafia's diplomacy, I'll give you a direct ultimatum. You have exactly eighteen months to get married."

Eros clenched his jaw so hard the glass nearly shattered in his hand.

"I already told you — I'm not getting married because a bunch of senile old men say so."

"This isn't a whim!" Mary, his mother, cut in, her voice thick with concern and steel. "If you don't meet the deadline, the firstborn rights pass to Rael."

The name of his cruel, envious cousin echoed through the room like a curse. Rael would destroy everything Eros had built. He'd turn the hotel empire into a den of cheap money laundering and gut the Cosa Nostra's dignity.

"Rael won't inherit a damn thing. I'm the Don," Eros snarled.

Peter stepped forward, staring his son in the eye.

"Your grandfather is still the patriarch of this family, Eros. You have to get married. A real Don needs stability — he needs heirs. You're an incredible Don. You took control with an iron fist and you've held it for five years. But you haven't given us an heir. You will get married. Either you choose the woman yourself, or the council will drag another one to your altar. You have eighteen months."

Eros exhaled through his nose, rage pulsing in his neck. He stared at his own family, feeling cornered for the first time in his life. Without another word, he drained the whiskey in one swallow, slammed the glass on the table, and stormed out of the mansion. The door slammed behind him.

He got in his car and tore through the dark streets. The fury in his chest needed an outlet. He didn't want to think about the mafia, about contracts, or about that goddamn Rael.

He needed to burn off energy. He needed an expensive call girl, nameless sex with no tomorrow, somewhere he could channel all that violence before he ended up killing someone else. What he didn't know was that while he was chasing chaos, fate was already weaving his ruin into the hands of a broken hotel maid.

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