Chapter 1

I clawed my way through ninety-nine rounds of the Marchetti family's death trials to become his bride — and in the hundredth, my fiancé put a bullet in my chest to crown someone else.

They call it the Queen's Gauntlet. Every time Dante Marchetti collects ten girls, he runs an elimination. Whoever survives moves on. Whoever wins all one hundred rounds becomes his wife.

I'm the one who made it to ninety-nine.

I'm tough enough. I played every sick game he threw at me without making a sound. He started looking at me differently — something close to awe. He paraded me through the Five Families, made every soldier and capo call me Madonna.

I was about to win it all.

Then, twenty minutes before the final round, I see him outside the private room — pressing Anya Rossi against the wall, kissing her like she's oxygen.

"Fifth chamber's the live round."

"Got it."

My heart seizes. Something invisible wraps around it and squeezes until I can't breathe.

But I don't get time to think. The game has already started.

I watch Anya draw the rigged order — second shooter. My stomach drops through the floor. If I keep playing, I lose. That's a certainty.

I take a slow breath and look up into Dante's calm, unreadable eyes.

"Wren-bird." He swirls the whiskey in his glass, voice dripping with warmth and adoration. "Still want to play? You know I'd never let you lose a game like this."

The room erupts. Whistles. Catcalls. The made men lounge around the table, trading looks between him and me, voices thick with amusement.

"Boss always favors his Madonna. This round's pointless."

"New girl thinks she can challenge the Madonna? She doesn't even know who Dante's heart belongs to."

"Be smart, sweetheart. Fold now and you walk away with your dignity."

Across from me, Anya is shaking head to toe — but she sets her jaw. "I'm not folding. I'm playing."

I catch it. That flicker in Dante's eyes. Admiration.

"Interesting." His lips curl into a lazy smile, and he turns to me. "Then let's make it quick, Wren-bird. I've got something new for us tonight."

Disgusting.

He's already rigged this for her. He's already chosen. And he's still putting on this devoted-lover act for me.

My chest goes numb. Ice-cold.

I lift my chin and meet his gaze. "Let's start."

I want to see it. I want to see if this man — the one who keeps swearing he'll never let me lose — actually has the stomach to watch me take the fall.

The revolver hits the table. The room goes quiet.

I draw first slot. I pick up the gun, press the muzzle against my own chest, and pull the trigger.

Click.

Empty. The room exhales. Someone laughs. Bets start flying.

Dante's eyes soften, just barely. "Wren-bird. Don't worry. I'll always bet on you."

Anya's turn. Her hand trembles — prettily, perfectly — and she pulls.

Click.

My turn again. Third chamber. Still empty.

But my heart is hammering now, because I heard what he said. Fifth chamber. Fifth. That's mine.

My whole body starts to shake. My eyes burn. My vision blurs.

The slip that gave me first shot — he arranged that too. He set me up to take the bullet.

Anya fires the fourth — knowing she's safe — and lets out a delicate little whimper of fear.

The men jeer. "Just quit, sweetheart! Get on your knees and kiss the Madonna's ring — the Boss might let you walk!"

"Kid, these rounds aren't real bullets, but they still hurt like hell!"

Anya doesn't back down. She slides the gun across to me.

My heart is in my throat.

I stare at Dante. Waiting. Stop this. Stop this right now.

He just watches. There's even a faint smile on his lips. He doesn't lift a finger.

Seconds drag. His brow creases, just slightly.

"Wren-bird. Don't be scared. The winner is always going to be you."

My mouth twists — bitter, broken. I raise the gun to my chest with trembling hands.

BANG.

The round slams into me. Specialty rubber — not lethal — but the pain explodes white-hot through my ribs and I can't breathe, I can't —

Anya screams. "Oh God — I'm so sorry — I didn't know it would be like this —"

Every face in the room goes pale. They all turn to Dante.

The rule is simple. Whoever takes the bullet loses. The winner becomes his bride.

"Boss, this —"

Dante rises. Slowly. He looks down at Anya, voice glacial.

"It's fine. A loss is a loss."

Then he bends, scoops the trembling girl into his arms, and lifts her clean off the floor.

His movements are steady, absolute. His gaze sweeps the room. His voice cuts like a blade.

"Wren. You lost. I'm disappointed. But the only Queen in my heart is you."

In his arms, Anya flinches — then shoots me a look of pure triumph.

A sharp pain stabs through my chest. My lips curve into something cold.

He carries her toward the door. Steady. Certain.

He doesn't look back at me. Not once.