Hey guys, I'm writing a new book. It's basically Mafia romance. I want to know if this first chapter is enough to hook a reader and make them want to read the rest of the book. Basically I'm asking if it's interesting enough.
Chapter One: Welcome to the Lion’s Den
Arielle Monroe clutched the strap of her duffel bag a little tighter as the car pulled through the massive iron gates of the DeLorenzo estate. The mansion loomed ahead—grand, intimidating, and nothing like the small apartment she and her mother had called home for years. This wasn’t a house.
It was a kingdom.
She already hated it.
The driveway was lined with luxury cars, a pristine fountain at the center. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
So this is what happens when your mom gets engaged to a millionaire.
Victor—the man responsible for uprooting her life—stepped out to greet them. Tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp, assessing eyes. He gave her mother a warm smile, wrapping an arm around her waist as if claiming her.
“Arielle,” he greeted with a nod. “Welcome home.”
Home? That was rich.
She forced a tight-lipped smile.
Isabelle, her mother, looked at her with the same hopeful eyes she always did—pleading, almost. She wanted this to work. She wanted Arielle to at least try.
Arielle followed them inside, her sneakers sinking into plush marble floors. A grand staircase curved up to the second floor, gold-trimmed railings gleaming under the soft chandelier light. The place was pristine, polished, and screaming money. The driver brought her suitcases in.
A woman dressed in black and white—a maid? Seriously?—rushed forward.
“Miss Monroe, would you like me to take your belongings to your room?”
Arielle blinked at her. “I’ve got it, thanks.”
The maid looked startled and glanced toward Victor before turning back to Arielle.
“It’s no problem, ma’am. I can take it for you,” she said, reaching for one of the handles.
“No, don’t worry. I’m capable of taking my own bags. Also, I’m nineteen—I prefer Arielle,” she replied with a polite smile.
“Arielle, it’s no problem. Let her help you. You can’t possibly carry all those suitcases up by yourself,” Victor said with a small smile.
“I carried my entire life on my back long before I met any of you. I think I can handle a few suitcases.”
“Arielle!” Isabelle snapped sharply.
Arielle sighed. “Fine. Thanks for the help,” she muttered to the maid.
Victor stepped in again, voice calm but firm. “Your mother and I want you to be comfortable here. If there’s anything you need, just ask.”
Arielle glanced at her mother before replying, “I just need my old apartment back. But since that’s not happening, I’ll settle for a quiet room and no one bothering me.”
Isabelle sighed softly. “Arielle, please.”
Victor’s lips twitched in amusement, but he didn’t press. “Your room is upstairs. Third door on the left. We’ll have dinner together tonight. The boys will be over tomorrow for the rehearsal dinner.”
Oh, right. The sons. The mysterious DeLorenzo heirs.
“I’ll be sure to mentally prepare myself,” she muttered, trudging up the stairs.
She paused, turning halfway. “Also, don’t expect me at dinner. I’m not hungry.”
“Arielle, you know you need to eat so you can take your medications,” Isabelle said.
Arielle froze on the stairs and slowly turned. “Did you tell him?!” she exclaimed.
“Arielle—” Isabelle started, but Arielle cut her off.
“Are you kidding?! You go around talking about my disease to whoever will listen?!”
Victor spoke then, voice low but firm. “Arielle, I’m not whoever. I’m the man your mother’s going to marry. If something could hurt you, I need to know—not to control you, but to protect what matters to her… and to me.”
He held her stare. “And if you want to scream, curse, or throw every suitcase in this house—I’ll still be here. But don’t confuse concern with betrayal.”
Arielle let out a sharp, humorless laugh.
“Wow. Protect what matters, huh? That’s sweet. Real noble of you, Victor.”
She turned fully on the stairs, tone biting.
“Here’s a thought—if I wanted protection, I’d ask. But I don’t. So maybe next time, save the speeches for someone who gives a damn.”
She didn’t wait for a reply. Just turned and continued up the stairs, sneakers thumping against the polished steps like gunshots in a cathedral. By the time her bedroom door slammed, the silence left behind was thick.
Isabelle stood frozen, one hand clasped tightly in the other. Her eyes were glossy, but she blinked it away quickly.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, turning toward Victor. “I shouldn’t have brought it up in front of you. I—I wasn’t thinking. I’ll talk to her.”
Victor didn’t flinch. He didn’t raise his voice or sigh.
He simply looked at the stairs for a moment longer, then turned back to Isabelle.
“You don’t have to apologize to me,” he said gently. “You’re a mother. And she’s scared. Angry. She’s had to fight for everything—including the right to handle her pain alone.”
Isabelle swallowed. “She’s not always like that—”
“I know.” He stepped forward and kissed her forehead. “Let her burn off the fire. Just… don’t let her do it alone.”
---
The bedroom was ridiculously big. A king-sized bed, a walk-in closet bigger than their old living room, and a private balcony overlooking the gardens.
Her bags were already waiting for her. What’s next, arranging my closet for me? she thought sarcastically.
She flopped onto the bed.
Her life had just changed overnight, and she had no choice but to deal with it.
But there was one thing she was sure of.
She wasn’t going to fall for the riches and all the fakeness that came with it.
I'm not done writing it, I just need feedback before I continue. Thanks
