The Collateral Bride's Final Eternal Sleep

I was holding a diagnosis that gave me six months to live when I heard my fiancé's voice behind the oak tree.

Dominic Falcone, the Don of the New York Syndicate—a man who had buried three rival Bosses before his thirtieth birthday—had my sister pinned against the stone courtyard wall.

"I arranged the betrothal to keep you inside my circle," he said, his voice a low, possessive rasp. "Drop the collateral weight, Rosa. Let her go."

The collateral weight. That was me.

My sister, who had fought off armed soldiers to protect me when we were children, pressed her forehead against his chest.