Prologue - Sin of Heir

The rain fell in steady sheets, the kind that blurred the city lights into smudged halos. New York City thrummed with its usual chaos—honking cars, hurried footsteps, and the faint hum of life behind curtained windows. Yet, within the confines of the Rosenthal estate, the world stood eerily still. The manor loomed like a silent predator, its gothic architecture casting elongated shadows under the pale glow of street lamps.

Priscilla Moretti adjusted the hem of her crimson silk gown, the fabric clinging to her skin like a second layer of sin. The heir to the Moretti empire, she wore her heritage like armor—poised, calculated, untouchable. Her father's instructions echoed in her mind: This is business. Keep your emotions in check. The Rosenthals are wolves in tailored suits. She knew this world too well—alliances forged in blood, trust brokered at gunpoint.

The grand doors creaked open, revealing Anton Rosenthal. His presence was a storm in itself—tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a tailored black suit that seemed to absorb the light. His striking features—sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and storm-grey eyes—were a weapon as dangerous as the gun holstered beneath his jacket. His gaze locked onto her, a predator assessing his prey.

"Miss Moretti," he greeted, his voice deep and smooth, laced with a subtle edge of mockery. "I wasn't expecting you to grace my humble abode tonight."

Priscilla's lips curved into a polite yet distant smile. "Your definition of humble is as exaggerated as your reputation, Mr. Rosenthal."

Anton chuckled, a low, resonant sound that sent a shiver down her spine. "Touché. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

She stepped into the foyer, her heels clicking against the polished marble floor. The air between them crackled with tension, a mix of disdain and curiosity. This was no ordinary meeting; their families had been at war for decades, a feud carved into the very foundations of their empires. Yet here they stood, adversaries forced into the same room by circumstances neither could ignore.

"I'm here to discuss a truce," she said, her tone as steady as her heartbeat was erratic. "Our fathers believe it's time to… reevaluate our priorities."

Anton's eyes narrowed, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. "A truce," he repeated, as though testing the word on his tongue. "And you're the Moretti messenger?"

"Consider me a liaison," she countered, stepping closer. "I'm here to ensure my family's interests are protected."

He smirked, the corners of his lips curling with amusement. "And what's in it for you, princess? Or are you just another pawn in your father's game?"

The jab hit its mark, but Priscilla didn't falter. "I don't play games, Mr. Rosenthal. I will end them."

For a moment, silence enveloped them, heavy with unspoken words. Anton studied her, his gaze lingering a fraction too long, as if trying to unravel the enigma before him. Priscilla, for her part, held his stare, refusing to back down.

"Impressive," he murmured, his voice softer now, almost thoughtful. "You're not what I expected."

"And you're exactly what I expected," she replied, her tone cutting. Yet, beneath the sharpness, she couldn't ignore the pull—the magnetic force that seemed to draw her toward him, despite every instinct screaming otherwise.

As the night wore on, their conversation shifted from barbed remarks to something deeper, more intimate. Anton revealed glimpses of the man beneath the façade—the weight of his responsibilities, the scars of his past. Priscilla found herself drawn to his complexity, to the way his moral ambiguity mirrored her own.

By the time she left the Rosenthal estate, the rain had stopped, leaving the city glistening under the moonlight. Priscilla's thoughts were a whirlwind of confusion and intrigue. Anton Rosenthal was her enemy, a man she was supposed to distrust, despise, even destroy. Yet, as she walked away, she couldn't shake the feeling that she had just stepped into a game far more dangerous than she'd anticipated—a game where the stakes were higher than she ever imagined.

And in the shadows of the estate, Anton watched her leave, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. He didn't know what it was about her—her defiance, her fire, her vulnerability carefully concealed beneath layers of strength—but he knew one thing for certain.

He wanted to see her again.

Priscilla returned to her car, the metallic sheen of the black Maserati blending seamlessly into the night. She gripped the steering wheel tightly, her knuckles whitening. The ghost of Anton's smirk lingered in her mind, infuriating and alluring all at once.

Her phone buzzed, jolting her from her thoughts. She glanced at the screen—her father's name flashed ominously. She hesitated before answering, already bracing for the cold, commanding tone that awaited her.

"Is it done?" Salvatore Moretti's voice was sharp, cutting through the static of the line.

"It's… a work in progress," Priscilla replied, keeping her tone neutral. "Anton Rosenthal isn't exactly the easiest man to negotiate with."

"I didn't send you there to admire him," Salvatore snapped. "I sent you to secure the deal. The future of this family depends on it."

Priscilla's jaw tightened. "I know what's at stake."

"Good. Don't disappoint me, Priscilla. I don't tolerate failure." The line went dead before she could respond.

Priscilla tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, her frustration boiling beneath her composed exterior. She hated the way her father spoke to her, as though she were nothing more than a tool in his arsenal. Yet, she couldn't deny the truth in his words—failure wasn't an option. The truce between the Morettis and Rosenthals was precarious, a house of cards teetering on the edge. One wrong move could send it all crashing down.

But there was something about Anton, something that made her question whether peace was even possible. His grey eyes held secrets, layers of darkness that mirrored her own. She had spent years perfecting the art of reading people, yet Anton remained an enigma—a puzzle she couldn't quite piece together.

---

Meanwhile, Anton stood in his study, a glass of whiskey in hand. The room was dimly lit, the flickering light of the fireplace casting shadows across his sharp features. He stared into the amber liquid, his thoughts consumed by the woman who had just left.

Priscilla Moretti was nothing like he had imagined. He'd expected arrogance, entitlement, and a blatant display of her family's power. Instead, he found fire—a fierce intelligence and a strength that rivaled his own. She was dangerous, not because of her family name, but because of the way she had managed to slip beneath his armor without even trying.

Anton set the glass down and walked to the large window overlooking the city. The rain had left the streets slick and glistening, the city appearing both alive and eerily still. He knew better than to trust Moretti, but something about Priscilla intrigued him. She wasn't just another pawn in her father's game—she was a queen, moving with precision and purpose.

But queens could be captured, and Anton had no intention of letting her gain the upper hand.

He turned back to his desk, where a folder lay open. Inside were documents detailing the Moretti empire—financials, alliances, vulnerabilities. Anton's lips curved into a small, calculating smile. If Salvatore thought he could send his daughter to outwit him, he was sorely mistaken. Priscilla might be strong, but strength alone wouldn't win this game.

Still, Anton couldn't ignore the flicker of something deeper, something dangerous. She had gotten under his skin, and that made her a threat—not just to his plans, but to his control. And control was the one thing Anton couldn't afford to lose.

---

As the days turned into weeks, Priscilla and Anton found themselves drawn into a dance of power and deception. Their meetings were charged with tension, each word a weapon, each glance a battlefield. Yet, beneath the veneer of hostility, an undeniable connection began to form—a bond forged in the fires of their shared darkness.

Priscilla hated the way her heart raced whenever she was near him, the way his voice lingered in her mind long after their encounters. She told herself it was nothing, a passing infatuation born of proximity and adrenaline. But deep down, she knew the truth. Anton Rosenthal was dangerous, not just because he was her enemy, but because he was the one person who could see through her façade.

For Anton, it was a battle against himself. He wanted to see her fall, to watch the Moretti empire crumble beneath his feet. But every time he looked into her ocean-blue eyes, he saw something he hadn't expected—vulnerability, strength, and a reflection of his own fractured soul.

They were two sides of the same coin, bound by their families' blood-soaked history and their own unspoken pain. And as the lines between love and hate blurred, both Priscilla and Anton knew one thing for certain: this was a game neither could afford to lose. But in the end, the real question wasn't who would win—it was how much they were willing to sacrifice.

Because in the world they lived in, love wasn't just a weakness.

It was a sin.