Mag-log inSeraphina Kade spent six years loving a man who was never real. On the night her father dies and her family's empire is stolen out from under her, she learns the truth: her fiancé Julian orchestrated it all, her own uncle Malcolm helped him, and the marriage she trusted was just a means to an end. When she refuses to sign away everything she has left, they kill her for it. She wakes up three years in the past, in her own bed, with every memory of her death intact. This time, she won't be naive. She won't trust Julian. And she won't wait to be saved. Instead, she turns to the one man she once feared more than anyone: Damon Voss, heir to the city's most dangerous crime family, and the only person who tried to save her the night she died. Her plan is as bold as it is dangerous. Marry her family's greatest enemy, and use his power to protect what's hers before her past can repeat itself. But Damon doesn't trust easily, and the Seraphina standing in front of him isn't the woman he remembers. She knows too much. She's changed too much. And he intends to find out why. As their strategic marriage pulls them into forced proximity, mafia politics, and a conspiracy that runs deeper than either of them realizes, Seraphina must fight to outsmart the people who destroyed her once already, all while falling for the one man she never expected to trust. This time, she intends to win. And she doesn't intend to do it alone.
view moreDr. Harriet Hale had watered the fern at ten minutes to four, as she had done every working day for thirty one years, and she had spoken to it, as she had done every working day for thirty one years, in a low voice and at some length."It is the Vosses," she told it. "I think they are going to be told today. I do not know how to say it. I have had the speech in my head since August and it has been getting worse."The fern, a Boston, enormous and lustrous and faintly smug, turned its fronds toward the window in the thin gold light of the late November afternoon and offered no advice.It was a small, quiet, familiar room. She looked at it now with the unsparing fondness of one who has seen it from the same chair for three decades. The oatmeal rug, much worn. The three armchairs in their loose triangle. The window, with its plane trees stripped bare and the last few leaves clinging, brown and curled, to the topmost twigs. She had thought, a year ago, that she would see out another ten ye
Aksel Lindqvist met his daughter's young man on the quay at half past six in the morning, in the dark, in a gale, and did not say a single word until they were a mile out to sea.It was the second Saturday of November. The ferry had put Julian ashore at the end of a long, gray, rain slashed pier in a village at the very top of the coast, a huddle of tarred houses and drying racks, and he had stood there in his second best coat, with a bag in one hand and an umbrella that had turned inside out on the gangway, looking about him for somebody to be afraid of. He had found him by a small blue fishing boat, a gaunt, upright, weathered man in oilskins and a black wool cap, with a face like something carved off a cliff and a pipe clenched upside down in the corner of his mouth against the wet."Mr. Lindqvist," Julian had shouted over the wind. "I am a friend of Mara's."The old man had looked at the coat, and the umbrella, and the shoes. After a very long pause he said, "Can you swim?""Yes."
Rafe Okonkwo had been a loader for six years, and in all that time he had never been timed in the toilet.It was a Tuesday in the third week of October, and the rain was coming down on the Northgate northern depot like a gray curtain, and he was standing at bay six with a pallet jack and a tablet strapped to his forearm that buzzed, softly and insistently, every ninety seconds. It was a very good tablet. It told him where to go and what to lift. It told him, in a calm green font, how many seconds he had spent standing still, compared with the team average, and whether he was trending up or down.He was trending down. He had stopped to wipe the rain from his face."Rafe," said a quiet voice, behind him.It was Bettina, in her new orange Northgate jacket, with her hair tied up under a cap, looking like a woman who had not slept in a month. He had known her seven years. She had three children. Her husband had been on short time since March. She had voted, in the council, with Rafe, for t
Sera found out about the money from her own lawyer, on a Thursday, in the middle of an unrelated sentence.It was ten past eleven in the morning, in Delphine's small, tidy, book lined office above the harbor, and they were going through the northern profit share agreement, clause by clause, for the third time. Delphine, in a gray cardigan, with a pen behind each ear, was turning pages with the brisk rhythm of a woman who disliked being interrupted, and she said, not looking up, "And of course, once the foundation structure is finalized for Mr. Voss's training project, we shall want to align the governance language, but I gather the initial tranche is already in place."It was such a small sentence. Sera felt it pass her ear like a breeze through a door, and did not move."The initial tranche," she said."The wage fund. The two million." Delphine turned a page. "He was very specific that it come from his personal holdings and not the house. I thought that was sensible. It keeps the Vos






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