Our fathers had been family friends. I’d known Nico since I was five, and he six. Maybe it was the perfect romantic story—Nico had seen most of my twisted little pieces. But I could never love Nico. He hadn’t saved me. “I know what you’re going to say, but I have to ask it: Would you like to go home to Chicago?” I shook my head. “Then your single life is over.” His gaze met mine. “Pick one of my men, Gianna, or I will do it for you.” One week later, I became Mrs. Richard Marino.
