Part 1: The Bride with a Knife
Allegra Rossi had three rules for her wedding day.
Don’t cry.
Don’t drink anything handed to her by a stranger.
And under absolutely no circumstances fall in love with the groom.
The third seemed unnecessary. She had spent six years planning to destroy him.
Still, it never hurt to be thorough.
In the bridal suite of the Falcone estate, Allegra examined the ivory silk dress, the diamonds at her throat and the six-inch blade strapped to her thigh.
“Something old, something new, something borrowed, something capable of severing an artery,” she murmured.
Her best friend, Alessia Russo, looked up from the sofa. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“About the diamonds? They’re real. I checked.”
“The knife.”
“Oh. Also real.”
“You’re marrying Edoardo Falcone, and you brought a kitchen knife?”
“It’s Italian.”
“So is he.”
“Yes, but the knife has better manners.”
Alessia stood. “There’s still time to leave.”
“No.”
“Your father wouldn’t want this.”
Allegra’s smile vanished.
Antonio Rossi had been shot outside his restaurant six years ago. Allegra had watched the ambulance doors close on him and later stood before a sealed coffin. The police called it a robbery. An anonymous message, delivered three months ago, said the order had come from the Falcone organisation.
She’d spent years tracing the money. She’d followed it through companies, false invoices and bank accounts until it led to Edoardo himself.
Then she had done the most sensible thing available to a woman seeking revenge.
She’d proposed a marriage of convenience to a mafia boss.
Not in those words, naturally.
She had approached him as a forensic accountant who could identify a leak in his shipping businesses. In exchange for exclusive access to the records, she would become his wife, giving the arrangement an appearance of permanence that his suspicious associates might believe.
Edoardo had listened to the entire proposal without interrupting.
Then he’d asked whether she always made business presentations with a loaded pistol in her handbag.
She’d told him it wasn’t loaded.
He’d said, “That’s worse.”
And, somehow, they’d ended up engaged.
“Allegra,” Alessia said gently, “you don’t actually know that he killed your father.”
“I know his companies were involved.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“I’ll find out.”
“And if he discovers why you married him?”
Allegra lowered her skirt over the knife. “Then I hope this dress allows running.”
A knock sounded.
“Miss Rossi? Mr Falcone is waiting.”
“Of course he is,” Allegra said. “The devil is famously punctual.”
Edoardo Falcone stood beneath an arch of white roses in a chapel overlooking the Hudson.
He was thirty-eight, dark-haired, broad-shouldered and offensively handsome. He wore a black suit with the calm confidence of a man who had never once worried whether his trousers made him look fat.
When Allegra reached him, he took her hand.
“You’re late.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Most brides apologise.”
“Most brides aren’t marrying you.”
His mouth almost curved. “You look beautiful.”
“Don’t distract me. I’m trying to remember my objections.”
“I believe you submitted twenty-seven.”
“Twenty-eight. You rejected the clause about separate refrigerators.”
The priest cleared his throat.
Allegra scarcely heard the vows. She was thinking about the locked study upstairs and the accounts she intended to copy that evening.
“Do you take Edoardo Falcone to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
“Unfortunately.”
Somebody coughed.
“She means yes,” Edoardo said.
“I can speak for myself.”
“Then perhaps you should.”
“Yes,” she said through her teeth.
Edoardo answered his vows without hesitation.
When the priest invited him to kiss the bride, Allegra raised one finger.
“Nothing enthusiastic.”
“Define enthusiastic.”
“Anything involving tongues, teeth or property damage.”
“You’re taking the joy out of marriage.”
“Someone has to.”
His hand touched her cheek. The kiss was supposed to be brief and ceremonial.
Instead, for three deeply inconvenient seconds, Allegra forgot about the locked study, her revenge and the fact that the man kissing her was her prime suspect.
Then he drew back.
“Welcome to the family, Mrs Falcone.”
“Try not to regret it.”
He bent towards her ear.
“Oh, Allegra. I’ve known why you came to me since the first day.”
Her breath stopped.
He offered his arm as the guests applauded.
“And if you’re planning to stab me, darling, you’ll need a better knife.”
Allegra stared at him.
Then she saw his watch.
Silver. Scratched near the clasp. A small dent beside the crown.
Her father’s watch.
The one that had vanished on the night he was shot.
She took Edoardo’s arm because her knees had suddenly forgotten how to work.
And smiled for the cameras.
