Hearts (Suit’s #3)

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 was really going on without putting someone’s life at risk.

“I do,” I responded. “Everyone believes it.”

“Well, Lucas obviously doesn’t. What did you think of him?”

Oh god. I could smell him from here—the cigarettes, I mean.

The man reeked. Lucas was an officer. An agent?

I wasn’t entirely sure. He was very good-looking .

. . a shame he was also boring. He’d spent our entire date agreeing with everything I said, nodding his head as if he had no opinions of his own.

I didn’t laugh with him. I didn’t even think.

He was way too nice to match my attitude and far too predictable for my liking.

“He smelled bad,” I admitted, hoping that would be enough to dissuade Daisy from pursuing him as an option.

I messed with the hem of my dress, pulling it down to cover more of my legs.

It was a simple yellow dress made of thin, pure cotton.

I’d picked it out when I was with my momma.

It was gorgeous, and it had been on sale.

“And what about Jackson?” she asked, moving on to the next.

Jackson? Jackson . . . Jackson . . . I’d met so many men at this point that I wasn’t sure which one he was. Daisy was determined to find me a match no matter how useless I found her efforts.

“The guy with the little boy,” she reminded me. “The successful businessman . . .”

Ah, right. Him. Tall, impeccably dressed, and intimidating.

On paper he was the epitome of a good catch.

Every other woman seemed to bat their lashes at him, but the thought of becoming a stepmom at the green age of twenty filled me with suffocating dread.

I wasn’t even sure if I wanted kids. Yet a tiny, traitorous voice whispered in the back of my mind.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe having a ready-made family would help me bypass the whole awkward dating phase entirely.

“What happened to his wife, again?” I asked.

“Well, no one knows for certain,” she began, her voice strained. “Some say it was an accident. Others . . .” She trailed off, her eyes darting past me.

My blood ran cold. “Others say what?” I pressed.

She got quiet. “Well, some people say . . . some people say he did it himself.”

“And you’re trying to set me up with him?” I blurted. What was she thinking?

Her eyes widened with a look of defensiveness. “Well,” she stammered, “some people say you killed your last two fiancés too. I thought maybe it was something you had in common, a rumor no one took seriously.”

I stared at her, speechless for a moment. The absurdity of her words made my eye twitch. “Daisy, this is different. Those rumors are about a curse, not me murdering people.”

She shrugged. “Give him the benefit of the doubt. He’s a dad—how scary can the guy really be?”

“You marry him then,” I shot back.

“Oh, no,” she said with a dramatic huff, fluttering her perfectly manicured nails dismissively.

“So you are scared of him.”

“It’s kind of hard not to be,” she mumbled, her gaze darting away from mine.

“So let me get this straight. You believe the rumors about Jackson, but you don’t believe the rumors about me.”

She shook her head. “No. Mobsters die all the time. Their wives? Not so much.”

Much as I didn’t want to admit it, Daisy was right.

Made men died all the time in this world, another notch on a bloody tally, and hardly anyone blinked.

But the death of a wife? That was a different story altogether.

Wives rarely met violent ends. They were always collateral, not the target.

The unspoken code, the twisted honor system, usually protected them.

Usually.

This whole situation felt hopeless.

“I’m doomed,” I said with defeat.

“No. There’s still Lucas,” Daisy chirped. “He and Jackson are the last ones left who aren’t over thirty-five.”

“So my options are boredom-induced death or meeting my potentially violent end with a supposed family man. How is that any choice at all?”

“It’s a terrible choice, I’ll give you that,” Daisy acknowledged, furrowing her brow. “But trust me, if you don’t pick one, you’ll end up like Aunt Valentina.”

Oh. Yikes.

The grapevine couldn’t keep up with the drama surrounding Aunt Valentina. The twenty-something-year-old, who may or may not be a raging alcoholic, could get anything she wanted using tears that worked like Viagra for men with the primal urge to take care of a damsel in distress.

Like my Uncle Cillian, for example.

They’d been together for nearly a year. We all knew Valentina was with him for the money. Guess I related to her in more ways than one. My taste wasn’t exactly cheap.

I cringed. “Are you suggesting I be a gold-digger or an alcoholic?” I asked.

Daisy shrugged. “Both.” A laugh slipped through her lips. “Did you see her last weekend at the charity gala?”

“She’d had a few too many.” I laughed, making no attempt to give Valentina the benefit of the doubt.