Chapter 1: The Funeral in WhiteThe Syndicate’s Wife

The wedding invitation was embossed on heavy, cream-colored cardstock that felt like cold skin. It read: The Valenti Family requests the honor of your presence at the marriage of Dante Valenti and Joy Miller.

But as I sat in the dressing room of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, staring at my reflection in the gilded mirror, I knew what it really was. It was a receipt. A transfer of property.

"Stop fidgeting, Joy," my mother whispered, her hands trembling as she adjusted the lace veil that cost more than her medical treatments for the next five years combined. "You have to look happy. If you look sad, they'll think we're ungrateful. And we cannot afford to be ungrateful to the Valentis."

"Ungrateful?" I let out a dry, hollow laugh. The sound died instantly in the heavy velvet drapes of the room. "Mom, Dad sold me. Let's call it what it is. I am the interest payment on his gambling debts."

My mother froze. She looked at me with eyes rimmed red from sleepless nights. "Your father... he didn't mean for this to happen. The federal indictment, the frozen assets... Joy, if you don't do this, they will kill him in prison. And then they will come for me."

I looked at her—frail, terrified, her beauty eaten away by illness and fear. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat.

"I know," I said, smoothing the silk of the custom Vera Wang gown. It fit perfectly, tailored to within an inch of my life, a beautiful, white straightjacket. "I'm doing it. Just... don't ask me to smile."

I had a secret, one I hadn't told anyone. I believed I was cursed. When I was sixteen, my first boyfriend died in a car crash the night after I told him I loved him. My best friend in college was diagnosed with leukemia a week after we swore to be sisters forever. My father, the once-respected Judge Arthur Miller, was caught in a corruption scandal the year I moved back home.

I was a cooler. A jinx. A black cat in human form. Maybe, I thought as the heavy oak doors creaked open, maybe I’ll be the curse that finally destroys the Valenti family.

The organ music swelled—Wagner’s Bridal Chorus, played with a funereal slowness. I walked down the aisle. The cathedral was cavernous and cold, filled not with friends, but with soldiers. Men in sharp Italian suits with bulges under their jackets that certainly weren't wallets. They watched me with predatory eyes.

And at the altar stood Dante Valenti.

He was the Crown Prince of New York’s underworld. The heir apparent. He was terrifyingly beautiful, like a statue carved from ice and obsidian. His hair was jet black, swept back from a face that was all sharp angles and pale skin. He didn't smile. He watched me approach with a gaze that was void of any emotion—no lust, no pity, just cold calculation.

I reached the altar. My hand was placed in his. His skin was freezing.

"Dearly beloved," the priest began, his voice shaking slightly.

I looked at Dante. Up close, he looked... sick. There was a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, despite the chill in the church. His pupils were dilated.

"Do you, Dante, take this woman..."

"I do," Dante said. His voice was a low rasp, like gravel grinding on steel.

"Do you, Joy..."

I hesitated. I looked at the stained glass window, at the figure of a martyr. "I do."

Dante leaned in to kiss me. It was part of the show. I expected him to be rough, possessive. Instead, his lips barely brushed mine.

"You're shaking," he whispered, so low only I could hear.

"I'm cold," I lied.

"Get used to it," Dante murmured, pulling back to look into my eyes. "It's always cold in my house."