My Dead Husband’s Very Much Alive
My husband, Don Axel Thorne, died protecting me in a mob war. I was his widow for six years, until I turned thirty.
The old guard of the Family told me it was time to move on. My friends told me to let him go.
Even in my dreams, his bloody hands would cup my face, begging me to live again.
So I agreed to an arranged marriage.
But first, I went to his grave for one last goodbye.
I’d just left the cemetery when a post appeared in my feed.
[Thanks, hubby, for the six-year anniversary gift! A fifty-million-dollar penthouse in Miami!]
My blood ran cold. My hands shook. The phone nearly slipped from my grip.
In the photo, the man I buried six years ago was slipping a massive diamond onto another woman's finger.
The background was a lavish penthouse. His style.
I put my people on it. We had the location in minutes. Drove straight there. I knocked, the door opened, and I froze.
The woman standing there was Seraphina. His adoptive sister. The one the Family exiled six years ago for her obsession with him.