The Collateral Bride's Final Eternal Sleep

From the back cover

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. Her shoulders shook.

"Surviving this life would be a million times easier," Rosa whispered, "without having to carry her."

I stood frozen behind the bark. My fingers tightened around the medical report—Somnus Decay, terminal, six months—until the paper crumpled in my fist.

I didn't confront them. I didn't scream or cry or demand an explanation.

I closed my eyes, made a silent vow to whatever god watched over this blood-soaked Family, and took the first step toward orchestrating my own quiet disappearance.