The Bride-to-Be's Revenge: Marrying Her Ex's Sworn Enemy

This is the ninth year Dante and I have honored the Month of No Masters.

The Corinni family's heir apparent believes this will make our relationship last longer.

For one month after our dating anniversary each year, he is free, and we stay out of each other's lives.

If either of us finds someone more suitable, we are to wish them well. If not, we go back to the way things were after a month.

Around me, the men of the family are spraying champagne with abandon.

"To another year of freedom! Congratulations to our Underboss on reclaiming his bachelor status!"

"The family betting pool is open! Place your bets on the left if you think they'll still get married, and on the right if you think it's over for good!"

Through the hazy cigar smoke, I sat on the corner of a leather sofa, a cold observer, as if this whole farce had nothing to do with me.

Dante's hand was curled around Scarlett's waist as he brushed past me, whispering,

"Don't get any ideas. You'll always be my only Donna."

"I'm a kite. No matter how far I fly, the string is always in your hand."

I pressed my cold fingers against the gentle swell of my belly, my expression a blank mask.

Dante, this time at the family's betting table, I'm putting my money on "the end."

I'm going to vanish from your world completely.

That kite string you're so proud of? Tonight, I'm cutting it myself.

...

A shaken bottle of champagne exploded overhead as everyone in the private room erupted into a frenzy.

They were celebrating the Corinni family's youngest, most untamable wolf finally slipping his girlfriend's leash.

One moment I was the revered future Donna of the family, the next I was a ghost in the corner, unnoticed.

Dante was rebellious by nature. He usually scoffed at this kind of crass celebration, and his men practically had to beg him to make an appearance.

That was precisely what made this annual "Month of No Masters" all the more thrilling.

Dante and I met in Colombia. The youngest mafia heir and the most talented designer.

Youth is the most combustible kind of danger.

The collision of his raw wildness and my quiet composure had been the talk of the town.

But over time, even the most potent attraction wears thin.

On the anniversary of our fourth year of dating, I had just blown out the candles.

Dante's long fingers, holding a cigar, paused. He stared at me through the smoke.

"Aurora, after four years of sleeping next to the same face, don't you feel suffocated?"

I looked up, stunned, only to see his eyes, as deep and dark as an abyss.

They swirled with emotions I couldn't comprehend.

He suddenly pinned me against the wall, his searing lips tracing my collarbone as he coaxed in a low, husky voice, "To keep our relationship passionate forever, starting today, give me one month of absolute freedom every year. We don't interfere with each other."

"If one of us finds someone more exciting, we let go gracefully. If not, when the month is up, you are still my Donna."

I jolted back in shock, knocking over our custom-made cake. The colored frosting splattered across the floor like a chaotic abstract painting.

With his arms now empty, Dante's jaw tensed. He rubbed his thumb over his knuckles in annoyance, but his eyes held a fanatical glint. "Promise me, will you?"

Perhaps it was the shock, but my limbs felt numb.

But I had my own pride. I bit out, "Fine."

Seeing me yield, the tension in Dante's shoulders instantly eased, his eyes alight with the thrill of getting his way.

The first time we entered the Month of No Masters, I used family contacts to track his every move, almost torturing myself.

I obsessively compared every woman he was with to myself.

Did they hold hands? Did they hug? Did they sleep together?

Every sordid rumor was a new wound.

My sanity frayed. I would wake up on our cold bed in the middle of the night, shaking with despair.

One night, when I couldn't bear it any longer, I called him. He answered immediately. He didn't complain about the interruption or accuse me of spying.

Instead, he told me a childish fairy tale in a gentle voice, lulling me to sleep.

"Aurora, is this month too hard on you?"

The next day, with three days still left in the month, we reconciled early, ending the game.

On our fifth anniversary, I thought he wouldn't bring it up again. I was wrong.

And now, this is the ninth year.

The same drama, year after year.

He insisted on draining every last second from those thirty days. A minute less, and the month wasn't whole, his freedom incomplete.

It had become the most sensational gossip in the entire criminal underworld. Every year on this day, enormous sums of money flowed into the betting pool.

The odds of us reconciling were one-to-one. The odds of us breaking up for good were one-to-a-hundred.

A cloying wave of perfume washed over me as Victoria sat down beside me with a sly laugh.

"Aurora, what are you betting on this year?"

I gave a faint smile. "I'm just watching."

I lied.

This time, I was betting against us.