I am the wife of Declan Rafferty, the Don of the Chicago mob.
After we married, his devotion became an obsession. He made a spectacle of our love, and I believed it all. I thought his flamboyant gestures were born from a passion so great, the whole world had to bear witness.
Until the night I found him by the lake, kissing another woman—Sloane Castillo. I heard him whisper to her, "The only way to keep you safe, Sloane, is to make Willow my weakness. She has to be your shield."
I finally understood. All the dangers I had faced, all the bullets I had taken for him, were nothing but a sick, twisted joke.
Fine. Two can play at that game.
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1
"Are you insane, Declan? Your wife took a bullet for you, Willow lost the baby, and she's barely clinging to life—and you're running off to Sloane Castillo because she got a little spooked? This will destroy you. It will destroy what's left of you and Willow."
The voice of my husband's Consigliere, Caleb Flynn, seeped through the wall.
I froze, my hand hovering over the doorknob.
This villa was filled with soundproofed rooms and hidden passages. I shouldn't have been able to hear a thing unless someone was screaming.
A moment later, a sickening thud echoed from the room—the sound of something heavy slamming against the wall.
"What do you mean, Sloane is the only one you love? Do you have any idea what being your wife has cost her? She's been a living target for five years, all for you! If you don't love her, then for God's sake, let her go! You know damn well if the roles were reversed, Sloane would have sold you to the Feds without a second thought!"
"Shut up! How else am I supposed to guarantee Sloane's safety if I don't use Willow as a shield? Besides, I've given her everything the wife of a Don could ever dream of. This life is more than enough payment for the risks." Declan's voice was a low growl, laced with an indisputable, chilling authority.
I leaned against the cool wall, my legs threatening to give out as the words washed over me.
All these years, he loved someone else? And I was just a shield?
I staggered back toward my bedroom. The wound in my abdomen, a fresh souvenir from the bullet I’d taken for him, throbbed with a searing pain. Fresh blood was already soaking through the bandages. Still, the physical agony was nothing compared to the chasm that had just opened in my heart.
On the bedside table, an apple slice he had peeled for me sat browning on a plate, a cold, mocking relic of a love that was never real.
He had always been so good to me. Everyone in our circle envied the way he flaunted his affection for me.
He was Declan Rafferty, the Don of Chicago's Irish mob, a man who held the city's underworld in an iron grip.
And for five years, as his wife, I had survived two assassination attempts and nearly bled out in a back-alley gunfight.
I had risked my life for him, again and again, clinging to the belief that his love for me was as fierce and true as mine was for him. It was all a lie.
"Did you leave the room?"
His cold voice cut through the silence from behind me.
I spun around, and tears instantly welled in my eyes as I met his deep-set gaze.
I had so often felt like the luckiest woman alive to have married such a handsome man. Now, all I saw in his eyes was a terrifying void.
"Willow? Did I startle you? What is it?"
He was sharp, dangerously perceptive. I forced a brittle smile. "I woke up and you were gone. It just... it scared me. I'm just… trying to catch my breath."
The truth wasn't far off. Overnight, I had gone from a quiet painter to a Don's wife. After that last gunfight, I’d been diagnosed with PTSD. The slightest thing could set me off, and I couldn't bear it when Declan was out of my sight.
He didn't seem to suspect a thing. He leaned down, pressing a soft, soothing kiss to my forehead. His long fingers traced my jawline, his thumb gently rubbing my earlobe. His fingertips trailed down the curve of my neck, finally coming to rest on my spine.
A gasp escaped my lips.
His broad palm settled on my waist, the heat of it a brand against my skin.
"I have to leave for a bit tomorrow. Be a good girl and stay home for me, hmm?" He kissed the corner of my mouth, his hot breath fanning against my ear.
I flinched, my hands instinctively gripping his shirt. "Declan, the wound... I'm still healing."
His expression soured. He swiftly pulled back the covers, his gaze falling on the blood-soaked gauze. He swore under his breath, his brow knitting in concern. "Willow, you're going to be the death of me."
He changed the dressing himself, his touch surprisingly gentle.
I watched the genuine worry in his eyes and felt a fresh wave of nausea. My mind kept replaying Caleb's words, Declan's words.
He had to leave tomorrow. Where was he going?
To her? To the woman who was worth more than my life?
