The Mistress's Name On His Heart

On my wedding night, while unbuttoning my new husband's shirt, I found a fresh tattoo over his heart.

A bold, jagged letter 'C'.

It stood for Caren—my best friend, the girl I had raised from the servant's quarters like a sister.

Jameson was the Prince of Philadelphia, and our marriage was a blood pact between mafia families.

But looking at that ink, I realized he had already signed a different contract with the help.

The betrayal didn't stop at infidelity.

Weeks later, Caren crashed a family dinner with a "peace offering"—a cake laced with peanuts.

She knew I was deathly allergic.

As my throat closed up and I clawed at Jameson for the EpiPen in my purse, he didn't move.

He stood there and watched me turn blue.

For three eternal seconds, he hesitated, weighing the life of his mistress against the life of his wife.

He wanted me to die so he wouldn't have to expose her.

But I didn't die.

I woke up in the hospital with the Dons of both families standing over me, waiting for an explanation.

Jameson begged me with his eyes to keep his secret, whispering that he loved me and our unborn heir.

I didn't cry. I simply connected my phone to the speaker and played the recording of him mocking me with Caren.

Then, I looked at the man who had hesitated to save my life.

"There is no heir, Jameson," I said, my voice cold as ice.

"I removed it. I will not incubate the legacy of a traitor."

Chapter 1

Lana POV

My fingers were trembling as I worked on unbuttoning my new husband's dress shirt on our wedding night, trying to ignore the sharp reek of expensive scotch clinging to his skin, when I found the initial of my best friend tattooed exactly where his heart should be.

It was a fresh mark. The skin was still angry, inflamed, and red around the jagged black ink.

A bold, cursive C.

My hands froze against the white cotton of his shirt.

Jameson Cavallaro was the Prince of Philadelphia. I was Lana Vitiello, the Princess of Chicago. Our marriage was supposed to end a decade of bloodshed between our families. It was a contract written in ink and sealed in blood.

But looking at his chest, I realized he had already signed a different contract.

Jameson groaned, his head lolling back against the velvet headboard of the penthouse suite. He was completely wasted. He was the most dangerous man in the city, a Capo who had killed for less than a wrong look, yet here he was, sloppy and vulnerable.

My phone buzzed sharply on the bedside table.

I picked it up. The screen was blindingly bright in the dim room.

It was a text from Caren.

Caren, who had grown up in the servant's quarters of my father's estate. Caren, who I had fed, clothed, and treated like a sister. Caren, who was currently back in Chicago, supposedly nursing a