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I'm supposed to meet Enzo for coffee this morning.

I told him I would.

But the thought of sitting across from him and listening to another explanation from a man who's lied to me about being married and working for the mafia makes me physically sick.

I can't do it.

Not today.

Maybe not ever.

When my alarm goes off, I haven't slept a minute. I take a long shower, trying to wash away the smell of blood and hospital-strength disinfectant, then pull on comfortable clothes and make myself look presentable enough to pass for a functioning adult.

I have a Sunday shift at the library, and Denise will probably take one look at me and know something terrible has happened.

I should call in sick.

I probably have a perfectly good excuse.

But if I stay home, I'll spend the entire day staring at my kitchen floor, thinking about Valentina and the man I thought I loved.

So I feed the cats, kiss Darcy on his furry head, and grab my work bag.

There's only one place I want to be right now. Somewhere quiet, familiar, and full of people whose biggest problem is usually finding a book they forgot the title of.

The library.

As I step outside into the morning sunshine, I make myself a promise.

I'm going to forget Lorenzo Moretti.

Forget his beautiful smile, his expensive suits, and the way he made me feel like the most important woman in the world.

Because Prince Charming doesn't exist.

And apparently, when you finally think you've found him, there's a pretty good chance the bastard is already married.

And works for the fucking mafia.

CHAPTER NINE

BRIDGET

There's something particularly cruel about working in a library when your heart has been ripped out, stomped on, and handed back to you in a bloody paper bag.

Everywhere I look, there are happy endings. Romance novels with shirtless men on the covers, smiling couples embracing beneath sunsets, and enough fictional happily-ever-afters to make me seriously consider setting fire to the entire romance section. Unfortunately, arson is frowned upon in public libraries, and I've already stabbed somebody this week. Probably shouldn't add another felony to my résumé.

"Bridget, honey, are you feeling okay?" Denise asks from behind the circulation desk.

"Never better." I smile, which apparently doesn't convince her because she points at the paperback in my hand. I've been trying to shelve the same book for five minutes, and it's upside down. "Okay, maybe slightly better than somebody who's been run over by a bus."

"You look exhausted. Didn't you sleep?"

"Not a minute." I turn the book right side up and shove it onto the shelf. At least I think it's the right shelf. I don't particularly care if somebody finds a historical romance between two books about serial killers.

Denise comes around the desk, lowering her voice. "Is everything all right with that handsome man you were so excited about?"

My throat tightens. Yesterday morning, I would've happily spent an hour telling her about Enzo's beautiful smile, his ridiculous romantic gestures, and the way he kisses me like I'm the only woman on the planet. Now I can't even hear his name without wanting to cry.