Prologue
“The trust of the innocent is the liars most useful tool.” –Stephen King
King
Sometimes I wonder.
Sometimes I think.
Sometimes I ponder.
Sometimes I drink.
Is this normal? This anger? This disappointment?
Maybe.
Maybe.
Maybe.
I twirl the whiskey glass in my hand and stare into the amber liquid. Why am I this way? Why do I need to feel so deeply? So desperately? Why am I broken?
And why is the person that’s been born to be the glue—lost and unable to keep things together?
“I would love you for an eternity,” I murmur, glancing at her across the room, watching her stare at me like it’s going to make things better when we both know we’re done. “I would die for you. Kill for you. I would bleed for you.”
“I don’t need your blood,” she whispers as a tear runs down her cheek. I want to catch it, but what do you do when you catch someone else’s tears? It’s a metaphor because, at the end of the day, the tear disappears, and so does your fucking hope.
My crown is heavy.
My love for her is heavier. But I can’t let her see me crumble, so I continue to stare, and I continue to give her a choice.
And then I experience pain so searing, so horrible that I wonder if I’ll survive it as I say the words that will damn us forever. “Go to him.”
“But—” Her eyes close. “I know what this means for us.”
“I know,” I say. “But this is how our story both ends and begins, with you walking out that door, toward him, and me carrying the weight of the Families on my shoulders. Go.”
“King—”
“How funny, right? My name… King. As if I can control anything when it’s all out of my hands when a happily ever after is a joke…” I sniff into my drink. “It’s okay though, it’s going to be okay.”
“How?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Because I have no other choice. And neither do you.”
“I care for you—”
“No.” Humiliated, I return my stare into my drink and find my voice cracking. “You love him.”
Chapter One
“We loved with a love that was more than love.” —Edgar Allan Poe
King
“No.” That’s all I really remember. That one word repeating over and over again in my head. Like sand sifting through my fingers, I am losing my grip on reality and on everything I thought I had control over.
My life.
My future.
My soon-to-be wife.
Married.
Had someone told me that I’d be having this conversation with my dad at my age, I would have laughed. Hell, last year, I was fucking my tutor—spoiler alert, it wasn’t because I was failing math.
“Sit,” Dad barks out the order.
I will have zero choice over this.
I know that, even as my ass hits the leather chair. But something in me still needs to fight it—mainly because he doesn’t know. My cousins do, my friends, they all know now after I’d hidden it for a while—super awkward, by the way, having that conversation with Maksim, but that’s an entirely different story, apparently.
I am fighting for peace in a world of nothing but war, and I am already exhausted as my dad stares me down and sighs.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I can’t let him see me break.
I am the main heir—next to my half-uncle—in line to take over the Five Families—now six.
God, six.
I still can’t believe that we sucked in another Family from Italy, completely pissing off the older families in Sicily by bringing someone else in to the fold by way of marriage.
I remember the day I found out we were combining the Five Families of the Cosa Nostra with yet another powerful Family. I laughed, nearly feeling sorry for the poor bastard that had to sacrifice his dick on the altar of marriage to someone he didn’t love.
I shake my head at my dad before he can even get more words out. I’m not shaking my head at him because I’m rejecting what has to happen.
I’m shaking my head because I still can’t believe it’s her.
Anyone else. Literally anyone else.
This is the part of the story where you feel sorry for the poor bastard because he’s marrying someone he hates, but my story’s different.
She’s someone I love.
I just wish she loved me back instead of him.
My eyes squeeze shut. Maybe they’re afraid to stay open because my dad will see too much. Nah, he’ll see it all. Of course, the one time I’m ready to commit it’s to someone who wants nothing to do with me because she loves someone else.
This is a last-ditch effort on my part to stop the world from spinning out of control, to stop myself from making the mistake of living a life where I know the person lying in bed next to me shares her heart with someone else, along with her body, because what sort of sick bastard would I be if I kept her to myself when all she wants to do is give those pieces to someone else?