I never loved him. I barely knew him. But they made me wear the white dress, walk down the aisle, say 'I do' to a man whose hands were stained long before mine touched his.

His name was Domenic Vantari. The Don of the North. And hours after our vows, he bled out in my arms, a bullet through his temple, his last breath a whisper: Don’t let them take you.

Now he’s here. Not gone. Not resting. Standing at the foot of my bed every night, pale and furious, his voice echoing inside my skull like thunder in a tomb.

"Find who did this," he says. "Or I’ll never leave you."

But today, his brother Luca handed me a new ring. "Time to move forward," he said, thumb brushing my lip. And for the first time… I didn’t pull away.

The ghost flickers beside me, enraged. "He’s lying," he growls. "He was there. I saw him."

But what if the truth is worse than I think?

Do I help my dead husband claim vengeance? Do I break these chains and banish his spirit? Or do I surrender to the living man who might have killed him… but makes my pulse race like no ghost ever could?