On a stormy night, Vivienne, a homeless girl from the New York slums, was hit by a Maybach in the street. The man who stepped out wasn't taking her to the hospital—he knelt down and stared at the blood seeping from her inner wrist. Golden blood. Three days later, Vivienne woke up in a penthouse suite at the top of Manhattan, wearing silk nightgowns she could never afford, with a million-dollar diamond necklace around her neck—except the clasp was welded shut, impossible to remove. Dante, head of the Corsetti family, told her: "You're mine now. From today, you live for me, you die for me." Vivienne thought she'd been trafficked into a wealthy family as a plaything—the truth was far more terrifying. When she woke up in the bathtub after her first "death," watching her golden blood spread through the water, she finally understood why one of the nine tiny diamonds engraved on the welded necklace was missing. She had nine lives. Someone was killing her one by one. And the man who sat in the corner of her room every late night, watching her coldly—Dante Corsetti—was the pain that occasionally flashed in his eyes a disguise, or the last struggle of a man imprisoned by fate?
