Where the Wrong Love Died

In the Chicago underworld, the daughters of the Donovan family had the privilege of choosing an exclusive personal bodyguard when they came of age.

On the day I turned eighteen, from a hundred elite candidates, I chose the cold-eyed, statue-like Julian.

For five years, he was my sharpest blade and my deepest obsession.

The one rule between us: I was forbidden to touch him.

After every mission, those hands—stained with blood for my sake—would meticulously disassemble and clean his weapon three times, as though scrubbing away any trace of my scent.

I had fantasized that one day I would truly possess him, until that fantasy was shattered when I stumbled into his room, drunk.

Beneath his bed, I found a locked compartment. It contained no money or weapons, only a shrine dedicated to a photograph of my adopted sister, Flora—the one who had caused my mother's death—and a phone filled with evidence of his pathological obsession with her.

On the screen, the man who was always so calm and self-possessed in my presence was staring at a silk scarf that belonged to my adopted sister, groaning her name hoarsely, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Flora... I love you..."

Only then did I understand. All his protection was merely a stepping stone to get closer to the woman he truly wished to serve. So, when I took my sister’s place at the altar, it was jarring to see Julian—a man who’d always begrudged me so much as a glance—standing in the shadows, his eyes rimmed in red.

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1

"Fine. I'll marry that madman from the Accardi family in Flora's place."

For the first time in years, my stoic father, Don Declan Donovan, nearly flipped the table.

He shot to his feet, a flash of manic joy on his face. "Anya, you've finally seen sense! The Accardis are pressing the issue; the wedding has to be next week. What kind of dress do you want? I'll have it all arranged immediately—"

"Don't bother. I only have two conditions. Meet them, and I'll marry him."

The joy on his face vanished in an instant. He sat back down, his eyes turning wary. "What do you want? If you're thinking of harming Flora—your sister—you'd better drop that thought. Now. Don't test me."

"My real sister is long dead. Have you forgotten?" I offered him a smile that held no warmth. "You were the one who ordered her coffin to be moved."

Flora Russo was the daughter of my father's late, loyal Made Man.

She was only a year younger than me. Eight years ago, after her parents died, my father, obsessed with his code of loyalty, brought their orphaned daughter home and adopted her.

The first day she set foot in our home, my mother fell down the stairs. That day, both she and my unborn sister died.

Less than a week after my mother's death, Flora begged my father to remove my mother's memorial plaque and replace it with her own mother's. My mother wasn't even allowed to rest in peace.

My father's face darkened.

He snatched the heavy crystal ashtray from the table, raising it as if to throw it at me before checking himself. He squeezed his eyes shut, his voice turning sharp. "Name your conditions."

"First, I want Flora's mother's memorial plaque removed from the family chapel. She will never be laid to rest next to my mother. Second, transfer Julian to Flora's side. I don't want him anymore."

"No."

I stared straight at him, refusing to back down. "I want to see the plaque removed with my own eyes before the wedding. Otherwise, you can wait for the Accardis to come for Flora themselves."

The crystal ashtray shattered at my feet. My father roared in a hoarse, broken voice, "Fine."