The Secret Hidden in the Bride’s Tattoo

Seamus O'Sullivan, Don of the Irish Mafia, forged a custom gold crest ring to find the woman he’d met at that ball.

He decreed that whoever could wear it would become his bride.

We had all died trying to claim it.

I had already watched my stepsister Moira starve herself to the bone to wear it, only to take a bullet to the head on her wedding night.

I'd seen my stepmother Bridget hack off her own finger to force it on, earning herself cement shoes at the bottom of the Atlantic.

By my third life, they pushed me out, and I slipped the ring on easily. I really thought I was his bride. But on our wedding night, when the Don kissed my inner thigh, he snapped—and smothered me with a pillow.

He forced it over my face. I thrashed and clawed, but he pinned me down.

"Why isn't it her?!" he roared through the feathers. "Where is she?!"

Now, I was awake again. The fourth lifetime.

And nobody was reaching for the ring.

Carmine, O’Sullivan’s ruthless underboss, stood in the center of our living room, flanked by heavily armed thugs holding guns.

"The Boss was clear," he said, putting that ring onto the table. "The woman he wants is a Cavanaugh."

Having lived through three lifetimes of gruesome deaths, all of us were as pale as ghosts.

Moira trembled and aggressively hid her hands behind her back.

"I—I have a severe gold allergy! If I wear it, I'll go into anaphylactic shock and die!"

Bridget forced a ghastly, trembling smile.

"My husband just passed. I could never disrespect the Don with half-hearted devotion."

Our maid Siobhan shook her head rapidly. "I am just a worker. My hands would ruin something so expensive."

Carmine ignored them. He turned his head and locked his eyes on me.

My breath caught in my throat.

His cold eyes were just like his boss’s, and the suffocating press of the pillow came rushing back.

I could feel the lack of air. A cold sweat broke out across my forehead. My hands shook so violently I had to grip my own knees to keep them still.

I never understood it. Who the hell was he looking for?!

Carmine slapped his hand against the table, snapping me out of it.

"The wedding is tomorrow," Carmine announced, pointing at the ring. "If you do not hand over a bride by then, the Boss will assume you are hiding her. Everyone in this house dies."

He turned and walked out. The door slammed shut.

We were left alone. After years of tearing each other apart, pure terror finally united us in dead silence.

Bridget’s shaking hands snatched the ring from the table. She shoved it toward me.

"Try it," she hissed.

I slipped it on. It slid past my knuckle effortlessly. A perfect fit.

“No question — it’s you. You’re sure he actually smothered you?” Bridget rubbed her face. “Maybe he was losing it over something completely different.”

I gave her a flat look. "His men dumped my corpse on your porch. Did I look like I died of natural causes to you?"

Moira shuddered. "I hated you, Fiona, but I threw up when I saw your body. He broke your neck trying to hold you down."

We stared at the table. A complete dead end.

If no one wore the ring, we’d be shot tomorrow. If I wore it, I’d die on the wedding‑night pillow. Either way, we were dead.

"What should we do?" Bridget said, her voice shaking.

Panic started to fill the room. I dug my fingernails into my palms to force myself to focus.

I was not dying a fourth time.

If he refused to accept Moira, Bridget, or me, something was missing. The fit was perfect on my hand, but he rejected me the second he touched my thigh.

I stopped. The underground casino. A week ago.

"The masquerade ball," I said.

They all stopped talking and looked at me.

"Remember the ball he threw last week?" I pieced it together, my voice hardening. "We all went, and every single face was covered. He couldn't see us."

Bridget stared. "So what does that mean?"

"It means we do not sit here and wait for a bullet," I said and stood up from the sofa. "We need to go back to the casino. We need to find out exactly who it was he was staring at!"