ella

of my own blood. The fire on my cheek had dulled to a throbbing, relentless agony

didn't groan this time; it swung silently,

the dim light. He wasn't Marco, and he wasn't Dr. Russo. He moved with a lethal,

mbling, starved frame. He didn't ask questions. He didn't offer comfort. He simply slid

t light from outside caught the silver pin on his da

ti. The Ghos

hadn't been saved by an angel. I had been claimed by a mo

weeks

Falcone estate. From the tinted window of the unassuming black seda

eneath the bandages, my mind had never been clearer. Damien Moretti had given me sanctuary, top-tier medical

ought-iron gat

ested the "Tears of Sicily"-the seven-strand pearl necklace my mother had given me on my wedding day. Angel

ding court in the center of the room was Donna Vittoria, accepting condolences with the regal dignity of a true Mafi

a low rasp from the driver's seat. The Shadow had been

bled on their floor," I r

dark coat, but I felt no cold. I walked through the gate

g quartet faded into silence as

us room. "Her tragic kidnapping has left a void in the Falcone family that can never be fi

rs open. They hit the wall

e entrance. The silence that followed wa

cked onto me, then widened in horror as they took i

r hand flying to her throat. Marco froze at the podium, his mouth hangin

frantic whispers. I kept my

nds gripped her cane so tightly her knuckles were white. The arroga

lips. I turned my head slightly, lock

gelica," I said, my voice carrying effortlessly through the

mother, my tone dripping

r plans to inherit my estate will have to be postponed." I leaned in closer, ensur