Francis Davis gave me the medicine. He said it would save me.

I swallowed it and sank into ten years of oblivion. Ten years of loving him.

Until one day, he decided he wanted to know whether the sober me still loved him.

So he took the medicine away.

I never expected hatred and pain to run deeper than addiction.

So I jumped from the 18th floor, returning my life to him, and my freedom to myself.

The moment the pill melted on my tongue, I knew something was off.

Instead of the usual bitter taste, there was a sharp, metallic flavor, like chewing on a mouthful of coins and dirt. I gulped it down and glanced at Francis Davis, the Don of the Davis mafia family. He was standing by the window, his back to me, looking all stiff and serious.

"This pill's not right," I said.

He spun around, and streaks of sunlight from the blinds sliced across his face, making him look like he was part of a black-and-white movie. "What's wrong with it?" he asked.

"It tastes weird," I said, sitting up despite the searing pain in my shoulder from a bullet wound. "And it's not doing its job."

I had noticed the change in the pill's flavor three months back, but kept it to myself until then.

Francis came over and sat on the edge of my bed. He reached out, and for a second, I thought he was going to touch my cheek, but he just picked up a shiny little bottle from the nightstand and started fiddling with it.

Then, in a solemn tone, he said, "Natalie, what would happen if the pill stopped working?"

"I'd be a goner," I said flatly. The Davis family called it the 'loyalty pill,' and a person had to take an antidote every month. If they did not, by the third day, it would feel as if ants were crawling through their bones; the pain would be so unbearable that it would drive anyone insane. A week later, death would follow.

The scariest part was that it tampered with the mind, forcing an obsession with the person who provided it.

I had been on that stuff for a decade.

Adrian Davis, Francis' dad, was the one who got me started on it. I would have done anything for Adrian. When he died, Francis took over, and for the last eight years, I have been head over heels for him.

All because of that pill.

"If you wouldn't actually die, just feel a bit under the weather?" Francis asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're tough as nails, Natalie."

I stared at him, the pieces clicking into place. "You switched up my meds."

He did not even try to hide it. "About three months back. I came up with a new mix. You won't kick the bucket, and you won't get hooked on me because of the stuff, but yeah, you'll still hurt."

Everything went dead silent for a heartbeat or two.

Then, I burst out laughing, a raspy, ugly sound bouncing off the sterile walls. "What's your game, Francis? Running a test on me? Want to see if I'll stay your ride-or-die without the meds, wagging my tail for you?"

Francis' face turned stormy. "Don't talk like that."

"How should I talk, then?" I flung the blankets aside and shakily stood up. My legs were jelly, but I held my ground. "Should I thank you then? For a decade under your drug-fueled thumb? And now you're curious what's left when you peel that away?"

He rose, a full head taller, casting a long shadow. "I'm after the real deal, Natalie, not some drug-induced fantasy."

"The real deal?" I laughed so hard I cried.

"Francis, your dad wiped out my family, drugged me up, and made me your personal hitman. He kept me alive after he bit the dust, thinking that as long as I was doped up, I'd be your sharpest blade. And now you're talking about being real? Are you sure you can handle the real me?"

He clamped onto my wrist, his grip iron-strong. "Haven't I treated you right all these years?"

"Treated me right?" I locked eyes with him. "You turned my hands into weapons, filled my nights with nightmares, and made me a slave to those pills. You call that treating me right?"

He growled, "I saved you! My old man wanted you gone, but I convinced him to let you be! Without me, you'd be six feet under!"

I shot back, saying, "Well, maybe I'd prefer that."

He let go of my hand and jerked back as if he had touched a hot stove. For just a second, I caught a glimpse of pain flickering across his face before it vanished behind his usual icy facade.

"The wedding's next month," he said. "Nora needs a bridesmaid."

Nora Hunter. The girl who had shown up out of the blue three months ago, 20 and all sunshine with her blonde hair and blue eyes, clueless about the shadows in the world. Francis had welcomed her into the mansion, showered her with jewels, and paraded her around at every high-society event.

Francis kept whispering sweet nothings to me, even as he was gearing up to marry someone else.

"I'm not going to be a bridesmaid," I said.

"You have to," Francis said, heading for the door. "That's an order."

The door clicked shut, and I slumped to the floor. The withdrawal hit me like a freight train, with pain lancing through me as if my bones were made of needles. I curled into a ball, biting my wrist to trap the cries inside.

It was agony. However, even worse than the pain was the sobering clarity that came with it, the kind that sharpened everything to a brutal reality.

Memories flooded back: Francis pleading with Adrian not to kill me ten years ago, the mix of pity and heartache in Francis' eyes when Adrian forced the first dose on me, the comfort Francis offered when I was scared and crying after my first mission, and the way he looked when I lay weakened in bed, swearing my loyalty after each dose.

I remembered it all.

However, the love I once felt for him was gone.

Nora brought white roses when she visited me in the hospital. She fumbled with the flowers, accidentally tipping over the vase and spilling water everywhere.

"Oh, no. I'm so sorry, Natalie," she babbled, scrambling to clean up the mess. "I didn't mean to do that."

"It's fine," I said, even though nothing really was.

She sat down, nervously fiddling with the edge of her skirt. It was a fancy Chanel, a present from Francis, but I was the one who had picked it out. "Natalie, have you and Francis been at it again?"

"We're always arguing," I answered.

"However, this seems different," Nora said, her eyes filled with concern. "He's been in such a foul mood. He even trashed his study yesterday."

The thought of Francis breaking stuff was hard to picture. He was scary when mad, sure, but he usually kept his cool and did not wreck things.

"Why?" I asked, taken aback.

Nora hesitated, then whispered, "It's because of Mr. Collins."

Bernard Collins: heir to a rival family, Francis' supposed friend, but the man was really his competitor.

I had an idea of what Bernard had done.

More than once, Bernard had tried to charm me, telling Francis he would give up some turf if I joined the Collins family.

However, I knew it was not about romance. To guys like them, power was always more important than love.

Bernard must have made another play for me.

Francis, with his crazy need to keep me, would never let me go.

I knew how this would end.

"Mr. Collins has been kind to you," Nora murmured. "He even asked if you wanted help...help getting away."

I eyed her cautiously. "Did you tell Francis?"

"No!" Nora was quick to deny it. "I wouldn't rat you out. However, Natalie...if you really want out, I'm here for you."

I stared at her, at the innocence in her young face.

At the age of 20, she was supposed to be in college, experiencing first loves and lively parties, not caught up in the mafia's brutal power struggles. Yet there she was, having chosen this life, or more accurately, having been pulled into it by Francis.

"Why are you helping me?" I asked.

Nora looked down, her voice soft. "Because I know...you're unhappy."

She hesitated. "Just like me."

That night, Francis showed up with dinner in hand, my favorite spaghetti from the old downtown joint. He perched on the edge of the bed, flipped open the box, and twirled a forkful of noodles, offering it to me.

"Have a bite."

I turned my head away.

He set the fork down with a sigh. "Natalie, can't we just talk?"

"About what? How are you going to keep controlling me with drugs? Or about your upcoming wedding to Nora?"

"That wedding is just business," Francis explained. "Her dad owns the ports in Westcliff. I need access to those docks."

"So you're marrying her," I said flatly.

He reached for my hand, his grip firm. "It's all for show. You're the one I really want."

I tried to shake him off, but he would not let go. "You want a puppet who'll nod and smile. However, now the puppet's strings are cut, and you're freaking out."

Francis' expression turned icy. "I'm not freaking out."

"Then why switch my meds?" I asked, a challenge. "You're terrified. Terrified that without those drugs, I'll realize I don't love…"

His response was to kiss me, a fierce, angry kiss. I fought back, but he held me by the nape of my neck, deepening the kiss until the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. He had bitten my lip.

It was a kiss unlike any other in the ten years I had known him, fueled by both lust and a need to punish.

When he finally released me, we were both panting.

"You love me," Francis said, locking eyes with me, each word deliberate as if willing it to be true. "You'll keep loving me. The drugs are irrelevant."

I could not help but laugh. "Francis, who are you kidding?"

Francis acted like he did not hear me. He just stood up and smoothed out his suit. "You're getting out tomorrow. Come stay at my place."

"That's not my home," I said.

"It's been your home since you were 15," he said, pausing at the door with a stern look. "Natalie, don't test my patience. You know what happens when you do."

With that, he was gone.

I sat there on the bed, wiping the blood that had trickled from my lip.

I knew the consequences all too well.

My first night back at the Davis estate, sleep was a stranger.

The withdrawal hit hardest in the dead of night.

Curled up in bed, I shook with chills, my pajamas drenched in cold sweat. Memories assaulted me: my dad getting shot, my mom's last scream, the red liquid Adrian handed me...

I remembered my first kill at 18: a traitor. Francis had shoved a gun in my hands and said, "Show your loyalty."

I pulled the trigger, and the bullet found its mark.

I spent that night throwing up, while Francis sat silently by my bed, patting my back with a tenderness that then felt like a distant memory.

At 3:00 a.m., I stumbled to the kitchen for water. As I passed the study, I overheard Francis talking.

"I refuse to believe she doesn't love me, that all these years mean nothing to her," he said.

I froze outside the door.

The butler's voice came through, saying, "Don't rush it, Don. After the wedding, you'll have all the time in the world to shape her."

"I can't wait that long," Francis replied, his voice icy. "She's getting out of hand, talking back to me, today of all days."

The medicine's magic had faded, and the butler knew it. "She'll be back, begging for more when the pain's too much," he said.

However, Francis was pensive. "And if she doesn't beg?"

With a weary sigh, the butler said, "Then, Don, you'll have to handle her. Just like her parents."

Francis' voice sharpened. "Are you asking for trouble?"

"I misspoke, Don. It's just... Ms. Stewart might turn on us. However, you can always lock her up in the basement. Maybe even start a family. She'll come around eventually."

My fingers clawed into the wooden doorframe, splinters biting into my skin.

I should have seen that coming. Francis would do anything to keep me under his thumb.

The next morning, Nora's knock was soft but urgent. "Natalie, get ready. Francis wants you at the club tonight."

"No way," I said.

"He insists. You're going." Nora stepped in, voice hushed as she said, "Mr. Collins will be there too. He said...it's your chance."

I eyed her. "Chance for what?"

"Your ticket out." She slipped me a note with an address and a time. "Stick to the plan."

I gripped the note, nodding once.

...

The Davis family's club was a playground for the high-stakes crowd, a haven for the allied families' vices.

Francis held court at the poker table, a redhead on one arm, Nora on the other. Nora's dress left little to the imagination. Her makeup was flawless, but her eyes darted around, restless.

I hung back at the bar, nursing a glass of water. Bernard sidled up next to me.

"Holding up okay?" he asked.

"Still kicking."

Bernard fell silent for a moment before asking, "Did Nora give you the stuff?"

"Uh-huh." I gave a noncommittal grunt, not elaborating further.

Bernard let out a wry chuckle. "If Francis ever learns the truth, he'll hunt me down no matter where I go."

I turned to face him. "You don't have to help me, you know."

There was a touch of sympathy in Bernard's eyes. "I really admire you, but I think you're in deep trouble... And I'm not talking about the physical aspect because Francis really cares about you."

"I don't want his care."

I glanced over at Francis, who was seated at the head of the table. He was watching Bernard and me with a brooding look. I could not tell how long he had been observing us.

Out of the blue, Francis said, "Bernard, let's make a thrilling bet."

Bernard arched an eyebrow. "On what?"

"The drug supply chain in Westborough," Francis said.

"Ha! You know that's not what I'm after." Bernard turned to look at me, and all eyes followed. "If I win, Natalie's mine for the night."