Bleeding for a Prince's Game

Heath Valachi, heir to Chicago's most secretive mafia family, was brutally cast out by his own father. And it was all because of me, a surgical intern. He was stripped of his multi-million dollar inheritance and cast into the streets, left to scrape by as a low-level enforcer.

For three years, he hobbled through the dark underworld on his injured leg, fighting for survival, all to pay for my tuition.

I was supposedly the luckiest girl alive. After all, I was the one who had made the arrogant mafia scion cast aside his pride, willing to throw it all away for love in the city's most dangerous quarter.

Today is the third anniversary of our first meeting.

With the signed Hawthorne family inheritance papers in my hand, I was ready to reveal my true identity and pull him from this sea of blood and misery.

I strode down the corridor of The Royal Palace, carrying a box of tiramisu—his favorite.

Through the half-open door of a private room, I saw Heath Valachi. He stood ramrod straight in an impeccable custom suit, his legs perfectly fine. And he was slipping a blood-red ruby ring, emblazoned with the Ricci family crest, onto the finger of Isabella Ricci—the Principessa of the city’s most powerful family.

"Isabella," he murmured, "for the past three years, I used that surgical intern as a cover to dodge my father's matchmaking. I've saved myself for you. You're the only one I've ever wanted to marry."

I looked down at my own hands, scarred from stitching gunshot wounds in an underground clinic, and tore the inheritance papers to shreds.

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1

Laughter from the private room bled through the heavy oak door.

Heath’s men raised their crystal whiskey glasses, their voices a chorus of mockery and flattery.

"Heath, you're a goddamn genius. Faking your exile, hiding out in the slums... And that girl—what's her name, Holly? The naive little intern actually believes you gave up your birthright for her. She’s still stitching up lowlifes in some back-alley clinic to foot your bills."

Heath let out an easy laugh. His long, slender fingers gently stroked the hair by Isabella's ear, a look of tenderness in his eyes that I had never seen before—an expression he had never once shown me in our gloomy little apartment.

"How else was I supposed to fool my father without some gullible civilian for cover? As if she's worth giving up real power for."

Isabella draped herself against his chest, her voice dripping with contempt.

"So, are you going back to that moldy little apartment tonight? I can't stand the smell of disinfectant that clings to you."

Heath pressed a deep kiss to her lips, his voice low and doting.

"Just a few more days. My father is officially announcing my return to the family tomorrow. I'll dump that nuisance then. Tonight, I'm staying with you. I'm not going back."

I froze outside the door, a blade of ice twisting in my heart.

Memories of the last three years flooded back, sharp and cruel.

I remembered him carrying me through a hail of bullets when I had a raging fever, dragging that supposedly injured leg, not even flinching when a stray shot grazed his arm.

I remembered pulling endless shifts to buy him painkillers, treating the most dangerous gunshot wounds in an underground clinic until my hands shook with fatigue.

I remembered him holding me, whispering, "Holly, I lost everything for you. You're all I have left."

It was all a lie.

I pulled out my phone, my fingers flying across the screen.

Heath, is your mission tonight safe? I made your favorite pasta.

The "typing..." bubble appeared at the top of the screen.

Half a minute later, he replied.

Bloody turf war tonight. The Capo has me on guard duty until dawn. Go to sleep. Don't wait up. I'll pick up an extra shift, and I’ll buy you that new coat tomorrow.

Through the crack in the door, I watched Heath finish typing and toss his phone onto the sofa. He turned, scooped Isabella into his arms, and carried her toward the inner room of the suite.

The door slammed shut with a thud, cutting off the raucous laughter inside.

I turned and walked away. The hallway carpet was plush, but every step was a fresh agony, like walking on shattered glass.

I returned to our basement apartment—less than 800 square feet, the air thick with the musty smell of a place that never saw the sun.

On the table sat the mushroom pasta I had made from scratch, now a congealed, greasy lump.

I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the stack of collection notices on the table. They were the only proof of our three years together.

To pay for his so-called treatment, I had sold my blood on the black market, surviving on stale bread and canned soup. He had once wept, swearing that one day, he would give me the world.

I had believed him. I had ripped out my own heart and offered it to him on a silver platter.

In his eyes, I was just a tool to get him out of an arranged marriage.

My phone screen lit up. A message from Sal Gallo, the Hawthorne family's Consigliere.

Miss Hawthorne, the Don wishes to know when you are bringing your fiancé home. The succession papers are ready.

Three months ago, the Hawthornes—the city's most powerful mafia family—had found me, confirming I was their long-lost Principessa.

To protect Heath's fragile pride, I had hidden my identity, planning to reveal the truth on our anniversary.

My fingers trembled as I typed my reply.

Leave his name off the documents. I'm coming home.