A Falcone's Tainted Collection

The day before my arranged marriage, I was abducted.

In a meticulously planned ambush, men from a rival family shattered both of my hands.

I was stripped naked and dumped on their territory.

The news of my humiliation spread like a virus throughout the five families of New York City.

Branded a disgrace by my own family, I was placed under house arrest in our countryside estate.

My shattered hands were beyond repair, and with them, my ability to paint.

I was supposed to be a rising star in the art world. Now, I was destined to spend the rest of my life in a wheelchair.

The doctors confirmed I could never have children of my own.

With my "value" gone in the eyes of the world, the Falcone family promptly called off my engagement to their heir, Marco Falcone.

They called me a tainted woman. Then, they had Marco marry my cousin, Isabella Moretti.

I thought my family would take pity on me, but my own father called me a stain on the family name.

He wanted to disown me. That was when Marco’s brother, Dante Falcone, proposed to me.

"You used to only have eyes for Marco. Now that he's married someone else, will you give me a chance to protect you?"

His tone was firm, but it was the raw pain in his eyes that stirred something in me.

I agreed to marry him. After our wedding, Dante gave me the shelter and "care" I so desperately needed.

He forbade anyone from ever speaking of my humiliation.

A year later, my body had healed more than anyone expected. I returned home, wanting to prepare a wedding anniversary surprise for him.

That was when I overheard his conversation with my brother, Luca, in the wine cellar.

"Dante, I'm the one who helped you lure Seraphina out. I helped set up that ambush. This is on us. You can't abandon her now."

"Everything I did was for Isabella. As for Seraphina… she'll live out her days as my property, perfectly behaved."

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1

"Dante, we got Seraphina's latest medical report."

"Even the best doctors in Europe can't fix her. She'll never hold a paintbrush again. Her hands are ruined, her body's a wreck. Jesus, Dante, don't you think we went too far?"

"Without this, how would Isabella ever have gotten the marriage contract? Seraphina only lost her hands. Isabella would have lost *everything*—the man she loves, her future! She's pregnant now, Dante. Happier than ever. I don't regret a damn thing."

"I would do anything for Isabella."

The voices of Dante Falcone and Luca Moretti echoed from the wine cellar's depths. My mind went blank. One was the husband I had learned to trust; the other was my own flesh and blood.

I had thought they were my saviors. Instead, they were the ones who had thrown me into this endless abyss.

It all clicked into place. After I was found and brought back, the family doctors attended to me while those two stood guard outside, claiming they didn't want me to experience "secondary trauma."

They even "advised" me to drop the investigation for the sake of my "reputation," insisting it was for the best. I thought they were protecting me. I never realized they were just covering their tracks.

Unable to face the truth, I wheeled myself out into the pouring rain. My wheelchair skidded in the mud, careening straight into the estate's iron gates.

I hit my head, bled profusely, and battled a fever for three days before being sent to the family's private hospital. My body had been frail ever since.

Dante rushed to my side the moment he heard I was hospitalized.

"Seraphina, this is all my fault. I should have taken better care of you. I brought your favorite seafood chowder. Let me feed you, okay?" he murmured, his voice laced with concern.

If I hadn't heard the truth, I, like everyone else, would have been fooled by his loving, devoted husband act. For the first time, however, I looked away, recoiling from his touch.

"Dante, do you regret marrying a defiled, useless cripple like me?" I asked, my voice flat.

Shock flashed across his face. "Don't you ever say that about yourself. In my eyes, you're as pure and beautiful as the day I met you. How could I ever regret making you my wife?"

I dropped my gaze, letting my hair fall like a curtain to hide the cold emptiness in my eyes. A bitter smile twisted my lips.

So this was his love. To destroy me, to leave me so broken and humiliated that I would have no one else to turn to, forever a piece in his twisted collection. No. This wasn't love. He was a monster. A madman.

The one Dante Falcone loved was Isabella Moretti—my cousin, the girl who grew up in my home while plotting against me at every turn.

"If you truly love me, would you dare to touch me?" I asked, lifting my chin to meet his gaze.

Dante looked back at me with that same rehearsed tenderness.

"Of course, I would," he said quickly. "I just don't want to risk hurting you. Your hands… they're still healing. It would kill me to cause you more pain."

He reached for my hand. I jerked it away, refusing his touch. We had been married for a year, and he had never once laid a hand on me.

Every single time, he used the same excuse. And I, like an idiot, had believed him.