THE WIDOWS ENEMY

Chapter 1

The first time Dante Vescari asked me to marry him, I was standing over my husband's open grave with a gun hidden beneath my dress.

Rain slid down my face, cold and steady. I didn't wipe it away. I wanted Dante to think I was crying.

Let him believe he had found a broken woman.

It would make killing him easier.

"You came alone," I said.

Dante stopped on the other side of the grave. His expensive shoes sank into the wet grass, but he didn't seem to notice. He wore a dark suit, a white shirt, and the same cruel expression I'd seen in my nightmares for three years.

"Disappointed?" he asked.

"I was hoping you'd bring flowers. I could use something to throw at your grave."

His mouth moved slightly.

Not a smile. Dante rarely gave anyone the pleasure of knowing when he found something funny.

"Still charming, Seraphina."

"Still breathing, unfortunately."

His eyes dropped to my hand.

I had curled my fingers around the small pistol beneath my dress.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

"Are you going to shoot me at your husband's grave?" he asked. "That would be rude. He's already having a terrible day."

I pulled the gun free.

Dante didn't move.

The rain ran down his forehead and along the sharp line of his jaw. He looked at the weapon, then at me.

"Go ahead."

"Don't tempt me."

"I'm not tempting you, sweetheart. I'm giving you an opportunity."

I hated the way he said that word. Sweetheart. As if he had any right to sound familiar with me.

Three years ago, my husband, Alexander, had been murdered in his own home. He had been shot once in the chest. The police found no sign of forced entry, no witnesses, and no useful fingerprints.

But there had been a message.

A single sentence written on the mirror above his bed.

THE VESCARIS ALWAYS COLLECT.

Dante's family had been at war with mine for generations. His father had died under suspicious circumstances. My father had lost two brothers to Vescari bullets. And now my husband was dead.

I had spent three years learning everything I could about Dante.

I knew where he ate, which roads he took, which men he trusted, and which ones he kept close because he wanted to watch them suffer.

I knew he visited his father's grave every Sunday.

I knew he never carried an umbrella.

And I knew that, in exactly twelve seconds, he would reach for the inside pocket of his jacket.

He did.

I raised the gun.

"Careful," he said. "You might hit something important."

"That is the plan."

He removed a small velvet box and held it between two fingers.

I stared at it.

"What is that?"

"Something that belongs to you."

"I don't want anything from you."

"Then you won't mind if I throw it into the grave."

He turned toward the coffin.

"Don't."

The word escaped before I could stop it.

Dante looked back at me.

There it was. That little spark of satisfaction in his eyes.

He knew he had caught my attention.

He opened the box.

Inside lay a gold wedding ring.

My breath stopped.

I knew every scratch on that ring. I had held it in my palm the morning Alexander died. I had watched the undertaker place it on his finger before they closed the coffin.

I had stood beside that coffin and listened to the nails being hammered into the wood.

I had watched them lower my husband into the ground.

"Where did you get that?" I whispered.

Dante's expression changed.

For the first time since he arrived, he looked almost serious.

"Three nights ago, someone left it outside my bedroom door."

I lowered the gun a fraction.

"You're lying."

"That would be a very strange thing to lie about."

"You expect me to believe someone walked into your house, placed my husband's wedding ring outside your bedroom, and walked out again?"

"No." He stepped closer. "I expect you to understand that someone has been inside both our homes, watching us."

The wind moved through the trees.

For one foolish second, I forgot about the gun.

Then Dante said Alexander's name.

"He was afraid, Seraphina."

I raised the weapon again.

"Don't speak about my husband."

"Your husband was a liar."

"And you are a murderer."

"Perhaps."

His easy answer made my stomach twist.

He didn't deny it. He didn't defend himself. He simply stood there in the rain as if the world had already judged him and he had found the punishment boring.

"Tell me what you want," I said.

"You."

I laughed.

It came out sharp and ugly.

"You should have asked before I developed a deep hatred for you."

"I wasn't ready to marry you three years ago."

"How romantic."

"I didn't say it was romantic."

He put the ring box into my hand.

His fingers brushed mine. The contact was brief, but my body reacted before my mind could stop it. A small, unwelcome shiver moved up my arm.

I hated him for that, too.

"I want you to marry me," he said. "One year. You will live in my home, stand beside me in public, and help me find the person who murdered your husband."

"And what do you get?"

"The truth about my sister."

I frowned.

"Your sister is dead."

"That's what everyone says."

"Evelyn disappeared seven years ago."

"Exactly."

He watched my face carefully.

I had never met Evelyn. At least, that was what I remembered. She had vanished when she was young, and Dante had spent years searching for her. Some said she had run away. Others whispered that their father had killed her.

Dante had never spoken about her in public.

Until now.

"My husband had something to do with her disappearance," he said. "I know it. You may be the only person who can tell me what."

"Then you should have asked me questions instead of sending me a marriage proposal."

"I have asked you questions."

"Not me."

His gaze sharpened.

"No?"

"No. You have threatened my father. You have followed my family. You have sent men to my home. You have made my life a living hell, but you have never once asked me what I know."

He was quiet.

I hated that silence more than I hated his insults.

Because, for the first time, I wondered whether I was right about him.

Then he held out his hand.

"Marry me, Seraphina."

I stared at his fingers.

"Give me one reason not to put a bullet through your heart."

His eyes met mine.

"Because your husband was wearing my sister's wedding ring when he died."

My gun slipped in my hand.

"What?"

Dante reached into his jacket and removed a photograph.

It showed Alexander standing beside a woman whose face was partly hidden by her hair. She wore a pale dress. Alexander held her hand.

On her finger was a gold ring.

The same ring Dante had just given me.

I looked closer.

There was something written on the back.

Five words, in Alexander's handwriting.

Ask your wife what she remembers.

My mouth went dry.

"What wife?"

Dante's expression turned cold.

"That's what I'd like to know."

He took the photograph from me and turned it over.

The date written beneath the message was three days after Alexander's death.

That was impossible.

I had watched my husband die.

I had buried him.

I had mourned him for three years.

Dante leaned closer, his voice dropping until only I could hear him.

"Someone wants us to hate each other, sweetheart."

I stared at the ring.

Then I looked at the man I had sworn to kill.

"Why should I marry you?"

His gaze fell to my mouth for one brief, dangerous second.

"Because if you don't, the person who killed your husband will come for you next."

A gunshot cracked through the cemetery.

Dante grabbed me around the waist and pulled me down behind the grave as a second bullet struck the stone above us.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

His arm tightened around me.

"Stay down."

"Get your hands off me."

"Gladly. When the shooting stops."

Another shot rang out.

Then silence.

Dante drew his own weapon and looked over the edge of the grave. His men appeared between the trees, shouting into the rain.

He turned back to me.

There was blood on his sleeve.

"You're hurt," I said before I could stop myself.

He glanced at it.

"Not mine."

Something cold settled inside my chest.

He opened his hand.

The gold ring lay in his palm, shining beneath the grey sky.

I reached for it.

He closed his fingers around mine instead.

"One year," he whispered. "Marry me, Seraphina."

I looked at his mouth, then into his eyes.

I could kill him.

I wanted to kill him.

But I wanted the truth more.

"One year," I said.

His thumb moved over my knuckles.

"Good girl."

I pulled my hand away.

"Call me that again, and I'll make sure your wedding night ends with a funeral."

For the first time, Dante smiled.

"Then I suppose I'd better make it a wedding worth remembering."

He rose and offered me his hand.

I took it.

Not because I trusted him.

Because I wanted to be close enough to destroy him.

And because, as I slipped the ring into my pocket, I noticed something engraved on the inside.

My name.

SERAPHINA.

But the date beneath it was tomorrow.