They put a ring on my finger and a Falcone in my bed.
Alessandro Falcone is cold, calculating, and everything I was raised to destroy.
He wears his suits like armor and his silence like a blade, and our fathers sold us to each other to stop a war I’ve been fighting since I was fifteen.
I’m supposed to hate him. I’m supposed to break him.
I wasn’t supposed to find out the war was a lie — that our fathers manufactured every death, every hit, every body I buried — to line their own pockets.
I wasn’t supposed to watch the Prince drop his mask and find something underneath that’s darker and hungrier than anything I’ve seen in a mirror.
And I definitely wasn’t supposed to pin him to a wall and realize the only honest thing in my life is the mouth of the man I married at gunpoint. Now we know the truth. Now we have the proof.
And the two men who built us into weapons just became our targets.
