My own brother traded me to a fifty-seven-year-old crime lord to erase the $11 million debt he had buried our family company under, and I was given three weeks to become Malcolm Pryce’s wife. Then I accidentally walked into Boston’s most feared Mafia boss’s shower, and by the following morning Dominic Vale was sitting in my dead father’s chair telling everyone the wedding was canceled because I was marrying him instead.
Six months after Dad died, Nolan finally admitted Hart Atlantic Shipping was collapsing.
“How much?”
“Eleven million.”
“Bank debt?”
He reached for his bourbon.
That told me everything.
“Malcolm Pryce,” he whispered.
My stomach tightened.
“What does he want?”
Nolan couldn’t meet my eyes.
“You.”
I actually laughed because the alternative was screaming.
“You sold me?”
“If Pryce forgives the debt, we save four hundred jobs.”
“So I’m collateral.”
“Grow up, Evelyn.”
Three weeks.
That was how long I had before marrying a man old enough to be my father.
That night, unable to sleep, I wandered through Hart House and entered the west wing.
I heard running water behind a partly open bathroom door.
“Hello?”
No answer.
I pushed it open.
Steam rolled over the marble.
A tall, broad-shouldered man stood behind the shower glass.
Without turning, he said, “Since you’re already here, make yourself useful.”
I froze.
“Excuse me?”
“Soap my back.”
I nearly choked.
He glanced over his shoulder, saw me, and immediately shut off the water.
“I was joking.”
“That wasn’t funny.”
“You entered my bathroom.”
“I thought it was empty.”
“The shower usually suggests otherwise.”
Then footsteps approached.
“Boss,” someone called from the hallway. “Pryce’s men are downstairs.”
Boss.
My pulse stopped.
Dominic Vale.
Even Malcolm Pryce feared that name.
Dominic studied me.
“You’re Henry Hart’s daughter.”
Before I could ask how he knew my father, another man appeared.
“Pryce says the marriage agreement is final.”
Dominic’s expression hardened.
Twelve hours later, I walked into Dad’s study and found Dominic sitting behind his desk.
Nolan stood nearby, pale with fury.
Malcolm Pryce was there too.
“The wedding proceeds,” Malcolm snapped.
“No,” Dominic said.
Malcolm’s face darkened.
“You don’t own Hart’s debt.”
Dominic placed a folder on the desk.
“I do now.”
My brother stared at him.
I stared harder.
“Why?”
Dominic finally looked at me.
“Your father saved my life eighteen years ago. Before he died, he asked me for one thing.”
“What?”
“To make sure neither of his children discovered what Nolan had really done.”
Nolan went white.
Then Dominic slid a photograph toward me.
It showed my brother meeting Malcolm months before Dad died.
My hands began shaking.
Dominic rose.
“Pryce isn’t marrying you.”
Relief barely reached me before he added quietly:
“You’re marrying me instead.”
And behind me, Nolan whispered, “Evelyn, don’t. He knows what happened to Dad.”
