PART ONE
CHAPTER 1
ROSALIE
ONE YEAR AGO . . .
It had been a year since I killed my first fiancé.
Not that I actually killed him, of course, but when they found him face down in his study with a red puddle pooling on the white rug beneath him, they immediately assumed I was to blame.
But then, just a few months later, Simon happened. My second fiancé, whose lifeless body was discovered slumped over the breakfast bar, a half-eaten croissant abandoned on the plate beside him.
There was no blood on my hands, yet an invisible stain clung to me. They didn’t need evidence. They had me, a woman whose kiss could kill. That had to be a bad omen ...
Or perhaps just terrible luck. Momma always preached about the jagged scar that sliced across my ring finger. A mark of misfortune, she’d say. A curse. I was starting to believe her.
I figured somewhere, likely tucked away in the shadowy corners of the Bayou, a vengeful woman was twisting the head of a voodoo doll and calling it by my name. I wondered why the woman hated my love life so much. How many red pins were pierced in that doll’s miniature heart, mirroring the anger festering inside my own?
The story only grew legs from there. The rumors continued to spread, earning me the title of “Black Widow.” I’d become a walking cautionary tale, the kind of woman whispered about over coffee and bourbon.
I could hear them now, over the faint strains of jazz and the earsplitting clanks of silverware. They didn’t bother hiding their stares anymore.
Trying to ignore their burning eyes, I made my way to the table that smelled of roasted garlic and herbs. The sweetness of the vanilla frosting on the three-tier cake reminded me why I was here tonight.
It was my father’s fiftieth birthday party. He’d invited everyone he liked—which, it seemed, was the entire underworld. The house was normally blocked off to anyone who didn’t work directly under my family, but tonight it was a jungle of wise guys and their families.
It was Friday, which also meant it was poker night. Mobsmen in crisp suits puffed on cigars in the study, all gambling away the money they’d won in the previous round.
In the distance, a flash of blue darted through the crowd of guests. It was my sister, Daisy, whizzing past the buffet table in a baby-blue dress—the same one she’d worn to Uncle Cillian’s wedding with her overuse of jewelry. Even at thirty yards I could hear the jingle of her charm bracelets.
Her hair—fiery red curls that defied gravity even on the most humid of days—bounced with each step. Her emerald eyes sparkled when she smiled at a comment our Aunt Rita made. No one liked Rita, with her cutting remarks and disapproving stare, but of course, Daisy did. She could get along with anyone.
Well, maybe not Ricky, who was standing by the punch bowl wearing a look of anger as a cherry-red stain spread across his shirt. Daisy’s clumsy elbow and her large glass of wine were the clear culprits.
Silk. Bummer. He was never going to get that out.
Daisy was oblivious to the danger and stood beside him, chattering away like a magpie. She never knew when to shut up. She should learn fast; Ricky was notorious for his temper. Oh, and the four missing fingers on his right hand—a gross souvenir some man had taken after a card game gone wrong.
My steps quickened, but before I could reach them, a deep voice filled the room. It came from the doorway leading to the private poker room, and the figure who’d emerged could only be described as a mountain of a man.
My father.
“Ricky, Ricky, Ricky,” he boomed. “Seems you need to learn how to take a joke from my daughter. Lighten up, or we’ll need to do something to cool that temper of yours.”
My father was super-protective of us and would sooner be caught dead than allow someone to speak to one of us wrongfully. I stood rooted in place, feeling the tension bleed out of the room as quickly as it had arrived.
Ricky mumbled an apology, replacing his scowl with a greasy grin. Daisy, unfazed, winked at him and traipsed over to the edge of the room. She skipped to a halt beside me. She knew Dad would step up for her.
“You’re causing chaos,” I managed.
“At least I’m not leaving behind a trail of bodies,” she countered.
My mouth fell. Reeling from the audacity of her remark, I stammered, “That’s not funny. You know what they say about me.” I could understand Ricky’s frustration.
Daisy laughed. Of course she did. “The Black Widow?” she asked with her brows raised slightly, trying her hardest not to mock me. Her efforts weren’t very discreet.“You don’t really believe in that, do you?”
She didn’t believe the curse even though there was evidence to back up my claim. Daisy was the practical one, the levelheaded sibling who never gave in to superstitions or old wives’ tales. Did that make me the unreasonable one? Possibly, but I didn’t care. I knew there was a connection. It was just impossible to find out what wasreallygoing on without putting someone’s life at risk.
