Chapter 1
TWO YEARS EARLIER
Tess
My eyes will always be swollen.
My nose, forever red.
My face, disgustingly puffy.
I will never.
Stop.
Crying.
My heart… forever broken.
My beloved husband is dead.
The man who loved me unconditionally. Protected me as a father. Treated me as his darling.
Gone.
The celebration of life is tomorrow. The Bachman family will come together and mourn with me.
They all loved him, as much as I did.
We will bury his remains in the meadow of the Village.
I will forgive him for leaving me alone on this earth.
But I will never forget him.
The day of his burial, I wake, the sun pouring in my bedroom windows and blinding me. It’s been two weeks since he died. Fourteen days. And it still feels like someone is using a dull spoon to dig a cave in the center of my heart.
Every single minute of the day.
It’s been two weeks and still, fresh flowers flow in daily, littering my home.
In loving memory of Brett Bachman.
I’m grateful for whatever mysterious process the body goes through in our labs to be prepared for the burial. I needed the time. I don’t think my legs would have held my weight had the ceremony come only days after he passed.
What they do to the body, I still have no idea. That information is one of the most deeply guarded secrets of the Bachman Brotherhood. The men in the family have many, many dark mysteries unknown to me and the other wives.
It begins with the initiation process they go through before joining the Brotherhood and officially changing their last name to Bachman.
While we know quite a bit about the workings of our family’s organized crime ring, we women are shielded from the darker areas of our employ.
Sure, I’m the head accountant and in charge of the numbers, but half the time I don’t know what I’m looking at.
For we are a secret society. Hidden within the walls of New York City.
A community of couples—no children—living and working together.
We own legit businesses throughout the city.
Within our walls, our Village as we call it, the men run the underground world.
Political power, trade agreements, theft, internet crime—we Bachmans dabble in it all.
But we do good.
Call us old-fashioned but we believe the wealthy should care for the poor. That the bad guy is actually the good guy if he’s extracting wealth and power from the real scumbags. The ones that leave the ick on our society, thinking only of themselves.
And our Village? How do we maintain the delicate balance that has kept peace amongst our ranks since the founding of our family?
We have a unique view of marriage.
The women are submissive, the men dominant.
Many people misunderstand the word submission. Just the very sound of it conjures up images of abused women. Doormats. With no say or power in their own lives.
It’s quite the opposite. Us Bachman Beauties are doted on, cared for, spoiled.
Our men would lay down their very lives for ours without so much as a second thought.
And they mark us with the symbol of that devotion—their sword pendant on our wedding day.
A unique charm created by them, for us. They vow to protect us with their lives as they clasp it around our necks.
And no one was more protective of their woman than Brett was of me. The only thing he couldn’t shield me from was his own death.
He was second in command before he went on that worthless mission with two younger guys and ended up having a heart attack.
He was in the back of an ambulance within minutes of his first chest pains, but it was no use—he arrived at the hospital and was pronounced deceased by the time I made it to the emergency room.
Now he’s gone, all his Brotherhood secrets buried with him. They’ve taken his body, done their work on it, frozen it until his remains are nothing but dust.
Not that I care what they do with his corpse. If Brett’s soul isn’t in there, his big hands patting my bottom, his deep voice saying My beautiful lily, what does it matter?
Shaking the memories from my mind, I focus on the task before me. Preparing myself for my husband’s burial. With trembling hands, I dress in my white gown; white to celebrate the life of our loved ones. I brush my red hair into place; as fiery as your temperament, Brett would say.
When will I stop hearing his voice? And when I do, will I be devastated to no longer have him speaking in my mind, or will I find it to be a relief?
As I ponder the question, I glance at my reflection in the mirror. Brown eyes stare back at me, dark circles ringed beneath them; a drastic contrast against my pale face.
My little lily.
My breath catches in my chest, threatening to become a sob. I forgo the makeup—I’m just going to ruin it with my tears.
I strap on my heels and step out of the house to meet him.
Brett’s biological younger brother, and my escort for the evening.
Rockland Bachman.
Charming little name. It almost rhymes. Only I don’t find him to be charming, at all.
We’ll see if he’s changed at all since his last visit. When was that? Three years ago? He must be thirty by now, a few years older than me. Maybe he finally grew up.
My husband was over a decade older than me and I liked it that way.
Accuse me of having daddy issues—I’ll tell you you’re right.
I like my men like I like my whiskey; aged to perfection.
And so, when Brett proposed to me, I didn’t even bat an eye at the age difference between us. That day was the best of my life.
Our wedding was a real Cinderella story.
The poor trailer park girl weds a billionaire.
And we had the event to match our tale. I rode into the affair in a crystal-encrusted pale blue carriage, glass slippers on my feet.
It was the Bachman event of the year. Everyone was enamored by us, our love, our ceremony. Save for one cloudy face in the crowd.
Rockland’s.
A few hours after Brett and I wed, Rockland took off. Disappearing to a remote island off the coast of Greece. Charged with beginning a new offshore branch of the Bachman family to extend our reach and give us somewhere more desolate to conduct a few of our businesses.
Rockland was gone less than twelve hours after Brett and I said I do. He couldn’t handle that Brett had taken me—in Rockland’s eyes a bratty little redheaded scrap of trailer trash—for his wife.
Fuck him.
Now I stand in my foyer. Shaking. Preparing myself to see him again. This day is hard enough without having Rockland sneer down his perfectly formed nose at me. I take a deep breath, wrap my fingers around the doorknob with certainty that I can handle this reunion, and swing the door open.
And there he is. Hasn’t changed a bit. Save for his flawless skin, which is now a deep, golden tan.
He stands sizing me up—glaring at me, I assume—behind his dark sunglasses.
Leaning against his sleek ride. Arms crossed over his chest. Biceps bulging beneath his white suit jacket.
He’s still rocking the bad boy look—even today, the day we bury his brother.
His dark beard is short, meeting his buzzed black hair.
A few buttons of his crisp white shirt are undone beneath his suit jacket, showing a piece of the swirling black tattoo that I know marks him from his chest, up his right shoulder, and down his arm.
His skin is golden brown, a product of days worshiping the sun on whatever godforsaken island he’s taken over. His muscular build has grown since I last saw him. Perhaps due to having to hunt and catch his own food with the natives?
The man is huge. Fierce.
He lifts his shades from his face; his gaze, now free of the lenses, locks on mine.
His hazel eyes catch the light as he looks me over.
I can see his chiseled jawline tensing beneath his short beard—angered just by the sight of me.
He gives me a nod, then moves from his place in front of the passenger door, opening it and gesturing for me to get in.
Without a word.
No manners, this one. I guess living so far from civilization, he’s forgotten how to greet someone.
I tilt my chin in the air and brush past him.
He shuts my door and moments later he slides into the driver’s seat beside me, dark shades back in place so I can’t see his eyes. I can feel his cool indifference penetrating the air around me.
We head to the meadow, the silence hanging between us like a thick blanket. A scratchy wool one. The kind your great aunt keeps and you avoid using unless you’re freezing to death.
He’s waiting for me to speak first, and I refuse.
I haven’t seen him in years. Since being stationed outside the Village, his visits have been rare.
And always brief. He can’t seem to wait to get out of here and back to whatever cave he’s living in.
I sneak a glance at him out of the corner of my eye.
He hasn’t aged a day. If anything, he looks more handsome, healthy.
I guess it’s all that fresh sea air and sunshine.
But being good looking is only a plus if your exterior is the wrappings of a decent human being on the inside. Which Rockland is not. At least, not to me. Even though Rockland’s only a few years older than me, he’s always treated me as one would an errant child.
One they disdain. He looks at me like someone would a spoiled, sticky-faced brat ruining their anniversary dinner in the poshest restaurant in the city. Brett always said it was my imagination—that Rockland loved me as a sister.
But I know what Rockland says about me. I’ve heard the rumors.
Brett needs to get a hold of her. She needs more discipline than he gives her.
Tess rules the roost. Brett lets her. That’s not the Bachman way.
She’s just an itty-bitty little thing. Easy to tame. You just have to know how.