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PROLOGUE
ADA
They told me he was dead, and I believed them.
Two weeks later, the first book arrived.
There was no postmark, no return address, but I knew it was from him.I’d been holding a copy the day he set fire to my soul in a stolen car on the edge of darkness. When for twelve hours the world had sparked with light and colour before they’d shrouded it in black again.
After that, they appeared once a month, and it was always the same book, just different versions. Some had discreet covers. Others were straight-up classics. French, German, Italian, Arabic… Every translation you could think of.
Most were torn with age, but a few had been newly reprinted that year. No two copies were identical, but the story never changed because it wasourstory now. They’d turned him into the villain, and me into a footnote: framed for a crime we didn’t commit, and then punished and kept apart for years because of it.
One was so rare it had been auctioned off for a huge amount of money—the highest anyone had paid for a first edition. The buyer was anonymous, of course. I read about him in a newspaper someone had left behind in a coffee shop. According to the by-line, the final bid had come in from Monaco.
Monaco.
I remember thinking then how sad and strange it was that for all the blood money we had, we were both still bankrupt in all the ways it mattered.
Then, five months ago, the books stopped arriving.
I figured he was dead now for sure, and my grief was so great it felt like every chamber of my heart was being pierced by a bullet.
I waited weeks for my Bratva bastard of a husband to show up and taunt me with the news, but he never came.
That’s when I knew the truth:
Our chains had finally broken.
The war was finally here.
Frankie was coming back for me, and the whole of London was going to burn because of it.
CHAPTER 1
FRANKIE
Twenty-One Years Ago…
“Sinners don’t die well, Francesco… The Devil makes sure of it.”
I’ve heard my father speak these words before, but never when he’s splayed out on a dirty kitchen table, red dripping off the edges. With five holes in his chest, there’s a dull acceptance in his eyes.
“Come closer,figlio mio.” His fingers slip from my wrist, leaving a jagged smear of crimson behind.
It’s spelling out my own fate and sealing it with blood.
Silence.
Honour.
Revenge.
These are the oaths ofOmertà. The promises my father swore when he became a made man three decades ago. The same ones I’ll make when my own time comes.Not that he’ll be around to see it.The man who created, loved, and protected me for twelve years is dying in front of me, and all the promises in the world can’t stop it.
Silence.
Honour.
