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ella
ever warmth it had left. Outside, the Chicago blizzard howled like a wounde
hivered violently, her delicate sobs the only sound breaking the heavy silence. Th
erced the blinding sno
nd. But Julian Falcone, my husband, didn't even look at me. His frant
ce laced with a raw panic I h
er against his chest, sharing his body heat. Then, he finally turned his icy blue eyes to me. H
more safely," Julian stated, his tone strictly business. "Livia's const
ask. He
ms, deliberately emphasizing my title. "Your cousin's w
's wife.* No
f a second, a flicker of something complex-guilt? hesitation?-crossed his handsome face under my unwavering stare. But it was qu
to the relentless blizzard, the last shre
autumn afternoon three years ago. I was standing before the imposing wrought-iro
e Rossi name had lost its power overnight. Desperate and terrified, I had gone to Julian to ask if our
at me with the impeccab
e had said smoothly. "Since it was arran
he truth was as clear as ice. Julian hadn't married me out of duty or pity. The Falcones were newly rich, a family built on bootlegging and bollateral bought to decorate his resume, while his he
plunging the car into pitch blackness. The temperature was dr
ntment that had poisoned my heart for two years were gone, replaced by a chilling, absolute
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