Chapter 1

Five years. That’s how long it's been since my ex, Nico Falcone, broke our engagement and my family kicked me out. The next time I see him, he's married to my cousin, Bianca Rossi. He grabs my hand in secret, offering to keep me as his mistress. He has no idea I’m about to marry the most powerful Don of all: Lucas Moretti.

Five years, and I’m back at the New York mafia’s annual charity gala.

“Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. The Rossi family’s disgraced little artist?”

The mocking voice cut through the ballroom's chatter, sharp and clear.

I stopped and slowly turned.

The senator's daughter, Sophia, stood behind me, a glass of expensive red wine in her hand. Her little circle of friends fanned out behind her, all of them wearing the same hungry look. The look of people ready for a show.

“Five years, Aurora Rossi.” Sophia’s voice was sickly sweet. “You… still have such unique taste.” She paused for effect. “Oh, wait. I forgot. You’re not a Rossi anymore, are you? Jilted. Disowned. Almost ended up in jail, didn't you?”

Her eyes raked over me, from head to toe.

My cargo pants were still dusted with plaster from the church walls. My sneakers were worn from hours spent on my knees, bringing angels back to life.

I’d just come from St. Anthony's in the Bronx. Three months of pro bono work.

But here, in a room drowning in Chanel and Armani, I was a ghost from another world.

“Surprised?” My voice was flat. “The feeling’s mutual.”

“Oh, darling.” She let out a little laugh, raising her voice on purpose. “We’re not the same. I belong here.”

She took a step forward. Too close.

“And you… you look like you’re here to beg.”

Red wine flew from her glass in a perfect arc, hitting my white t-shirt. It soaked in instantly, a crimson stain blooming across my chest.

A collective gasp went through the crowd.

“Oh my god!” Sophia covered her mouth, but her eyes were shining with victory. “Aurora, why did you bump into me? This is a 1982 Lafite!”

She was a decent actress. I’ll give her that.

I glanced down at the stain, then met her eyes again.

“Sorry,” I said, my voice dead calm. “I didn’t see you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Her voice turned shrill. “You did it on purpose! Everyone saw you!”

Heads around us nodded. Of course. No one would cross a senator’s daughter.

“Ladies.”

A deep male voice cut in from behind the crowd.

Everyone fell silent. A path cleared instantly.

Nico Falcone moved toward us. The custom suit fit his tall frame perfectly. Five years hadn’t changed much. His jaw was sharper, but those deep brown eyes were the same.

So familiar it made my chest ache.

“Sophia,” he said, his voice dripping with authority. “Go get a towel.”

“But, Mr. Falcone, she—”

“Now.”

Sophia shot me a hateful glare before scurrying off. The crowd took the hint and drifted away, giving us space.

Nico stood in front of me, looking down.

“Five years, Aurora.”

There was something unreadable in his voice.

“That’s right,” I said.

“You look…” His eyes lingered on my face. “Thinner.”

I didn’t answer.

“Europe wasn’t kind to you, was it?” That classic Nico condescension, wrapped in fake concern. “I hear restoring old paintings doesn’t pay the bills.”

Always assuming everyone was worse off without him.

“I’m doing just fine,” I said.

“Are you?” He stepped closer. “Then why are you here? You wouldn't come to a Five Families gala unless you were desperate to get back in.”

He was so sure of himself. So certain he had me figured out.

“Maybe I just wanted a free glass of champagne.”

He let out a short laugh.

“Still got that fire.” His fingers grazed my cheek. “Aurora… just say the word. I’ll put you in a penthouse overlooking the park. Take care of everything.”

My blood ran cold.

“And the price?”

“No price.” His voice turned soft, intimate. “Just come back to me. You won't have to worry about family politics. You’ll just be my woman.”

His woman.

Not his wife.

His mistress.

“How generous.” I took a step back. “But no.”

His face hardened.

“Aurora.” He shot forward, his hand clamping around my wrist. “Stop playing games. You have nothing left. You think I don't know?”

His hand was warm, but all I felt was disgust.

“Let go of me.”

“You think I haven’t been watching you?” His voice was urgent, raw. “I know everything. The charity work in crumbling churches, the shitty little apartments from Rome to Paris—”

“Aurora!”

A sweet voice cut through the air.

Nico and I both turned.

My cousin, Bianca Rossi—the one who stole him from me—was walking toward us. She wore a deep navy gown, a river of diamonds sparkling at her throat. Five years of marriage had made her look more polished, but I recognized the flicker of alarm in her eyes.

She glided to Nico’s side, linked her arm through his, and gave me a perfect, plastic smile.

“Aurora. I can’t believe you’re here.”

She paused, her eyes darting between us.

“What were you and Nico talking about?”