Chapter 1

At my mafia wedding, in front of five hundred made men and their wives, my husband grabbed the mic and called me a whore.

That day, everything had started out perfectly.

The emcee smiled, soaking up the excitement.

"Mr. Moretti and Miss Shaw have been together seven whole years. Tell us — what are you two best at?"

Every eye in the ballroom turned to us, full of envy. Half the East Coast underworld was in that room, and every one of them was smiling.

My cheeks went hot. I was so sure he'd say something like, "I'm best at loving her."

Instead, Dante lazily spun the ring on his finger and let out a small laugh.

"Me? I'm not really good at anything."

"But my wife, Nina — she's a pro at turning tricks."

Dead silence. Except his crew at table one, howling like it was open mic night at a strip club.

The emcee coughed into his fist, sweat rolling down his temple.

"Mr. Moretti, always such a jokester. I'm sure Miss Shaw is a wonderful cook at home."

Dante cut him off flat.

"Not cooking. Hooking."

"You don't get it? She's slept with half this city. Been passed around like a party favor. Clear enough for you?"

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Five hundred people. You could hear a pin drop.

I stood there beside him in the wedding dress I'd spent three months designing, my ears ringing like somebody had fired a gun right beside my head.

Third row, my mom froze in her seat, lips trembling so hard the nurse beside her had to grip her shoulders to keep her down.

Dante's mother sat perfectly straight. Donna Moretti lifted her champagne flute and took a delicate sip.

She knew. She'd known exactly what he was going to say.

I squeezed my bouquet so hard my nails cut into my palm.

Whispers started snaking through the ballroom.

"Wait—she used to be one of those girls?"

"No wonder Donna Moretti waited seven years before letting them marry…"

"Look at her face. I'm not shocked."

The emcee stared at the wedding planner. The planner shook her head so hard I thought it might snap off.

I finally found my voice, dry as sandpaper. "Dante. What the hell are you saying?"

He turned to me, unhurried, and reached out to wipe a single tear from my cheek.

Soft. Gentle. Like he was a totally different man from the one who had just spoken.

"Nina." He murmured my name, his thumb sliding along my jaw.

"You really think I'd talk crazy at my own wedding?"

One of his soldiers down front whistled.

I was shaking all over.

Seven years. Seven years with Dante Moretti.

College. First jobs. Cheap rentals. Then the Moretti estate up on the hill.

Seven years of him pulling me out of bad rooms, sitting with me in ERs, and walking me through every stupid romantic moment I'd ever wanted.

I thought he loved me.

Now I wasn't so sure.

It took everything I had to stay upright and not black out on the marble.

The wedding wrapped up in a mess. Guests filed out whispering, with half of them filming.

I couldn't even imagine what was already blowing up online.

Dante dragged me by the wrist into the hotel penthouse suite.

The second the door shut, he let go and walked straight to the bar to pour himself a whiskey.

I stood by the door, my train pooled around my feet.

"Why?" I asked.

"If you didn't want to marry me, you didn't have to. Nobody in the family could've forced you. Why humiliate me like that?"

He tossed the whiskey back in one gulp. Then he turned and smiled.

"Who said I didn't want to?"

He walked over slowly, one step at a time, until we were less than an arm’s length apart.

Then he leaned down and kissed me.

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