CHAPTER ONE

Iinhaled the contemporary, salty air of the Maltese ocean as quickly as I stepped out of the black SUV and fought the dizzy spell and low-level nausea I’d been combating ever since waking up on a freaking non-public jet.

And never simply any non-public jet.

No.

This specific non-public jet belonged to none apart from some of the highly effective Italian Mafia households.

And it wasn’t even the “unhealthy boy falls exhausting for you and whisks you away” form of situation.

This was the “you thought you didn’t belong your complete life—effectively, wanna actually expertise the way it feels to not belong—right here you go” situation.

I glanced over at Gabe—AKA Gabriele Falcone, head of the Falcone household, who helped my cousin Sophie—his brand-new bride—out of the black SUV.

What was it with gangsters and their black SUVs anyway? Was there some form of world Mafia code that made all of them drive similar automobiles, irrespective of in the event that they had been Irish, like my household, or Italian?

And did Russian and Chinese language gangsters abide by this legislation, as effectively?

Effectively, my father most actually did. And apparently, the Falcone household did, too.

Sophie smiled at Gabe. He intertwined their fingers, leaned down, whispered one thing in opposition to her child bump, then straightened and kissed her hand.

Fuck.

They had been each clearly excited for his or her honeymoon—me? Not a lot.

“Can’t consider you lovebirds dragged me with you in your honeymoon,” I muttered below my breath, then appeared within the different course earlier than their flirting prompted uncontrolled vomiting…their flirting or the gentle sedative Gabe had slipped into my drink at their marriage ceremony.

Scheming bastards, each of them.

I rotated and squinted in opposition to the nice and cozy Maltese solar on the sight of the luxurious entrance to the seaside resort—owned by none apart from the Falcone household.

“Come on, Payment, attempt to get pleasure from your self. It’s not daily you get to remain at a spot like this,” Sophie urged as she playfully side-hugged me earlier than she and Gabe exchanged a deep look.

Rattling. Their non-verbal communication was sickeningly candy—the sort solely lovers may share.

And if I weren’t so completely happy for them, and didn’t love Sophie greater than anybody else on the earth, I might most likely demand to remain within the car and be introduced again to the non-public jet that introduced us right here.

So as an alternative of throwing the tantrum I needed to throw, I stomped into the foyer.

The resort was certainly breathtaking—white marble flooring, vaulted ceilings, and crystal chandeliers reflecting the daylight streaming via the floor-to-ceiling home windows.

The scent of contemporary flowers stuffed the air, mingling with the salty aroma of the Mediterranean Sea simply past the terrace.

However as beautiful because the setting is likely to be, I couldn’t shake the stress that appeared to observe me wherever I went as of late.

Ever since…

Not going there. I shook my head, which prompted one other bout of nausea, and targeted on the fashionable but timeless art work on the wall.

My father would throw a match if he knew I used to be right here.

This was Falcone territory. Italian Mafia. Who would’ve thought that my conservative uncle would permit his oldest daughter to marry an Italian Mafia don?

Not me.

And as a lot because the Donnellys and Falcones had entered a truce with this marriage, they had been nonetheless the enemy—scum—in keeping with my father.

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