“How well do you deal with lack of sleep?”

Vaughn and I exchange amused looks.

“Quite well. We’re not heavy sleepers. Besides, Vaughn’s mother is going to help us a lot, and I’m taking a year off after the baby is born,” I answer cheerfully, recovering from the initial shock. I can’t understand anything I’m seeing on the screen, anyway.

“Babies.” The OB-GYN turns around and grins at me.

I blink at her. “Pardon?”

“When the babies arrive. Mrs. Astalis-Spencer, you’re having twins. I’ll take your mother-in-law’s help and up you two part-time nannies.”

I open my mouth to say something—although I really don’t know what there is to say; we don’t have a history of twins in my family, and neither does Vaughn—when my husband scoops me up in the air and kisses me in front of the doctor.

I laugh breathlessly as he puts me down, showering me with little kisses. He looks elated. Fantastically happy. The happiest I’ve seen him.

“Scared yet?” I smirk at him.

“With you by my side?” He grins. “Never.”

THE END

Enjoyed Angry God? Did you know it is a spin-off of my series, Sinner of Saint? Make sure you read these interconnected standalones and find more about Vicious and Emilia’s romance in Vicious:

Vicious (Sinners of Saint #1)

Defy (Sinners of Saint #0.5 – Novella)

Ruckus (Sinners of Saint #2)

Scandalous (Sinners of Saint #3)

Bane (Sinners of Saint #4)

Or jump straight to the rest of the books in All Saints High, all of them standalones:

Pretty Reckless (All Saints High #1)

Broken Knight (All Saints High #2)

Standalones available:

Tyed

Sparrow

Blood to Dust

Midnight Blue

Dirty Headlines

The End Zone

The Kiss Thief

In the Unlikely Event

This series has been such a ride. I wasn’t sure if I should write the Sinners’ kids’ stories, but once I sat down and did it, I couldn’t imagine NOT telling Daria, Knight, Luna and Vaughn’s stories. I’m so glad I did. Some of the books in this series became the ones I’m most proud of.

And I couldn’t write them without the help of the following wizards:

My amazing editors, Paige Maroney Smith, and Jessica Royer Ocken for being so unbelievably talented and dedicated. Especially when I’m being super obsessive about each word. Thank you for putting up with me!

A huge shout out to Letitia Hasser who made this cover happen and to Stacey Blake of Champagne Formatting for making the interior absolutely perfect.

Big thanks to my agent, Kimberly Brower at Brower Literary.

A huge, HUGE thank you to my wonderful street team, my momager Tijuana Turner, who basically runs my entire life, and my beta readers, Amy Halter, Lana Kart, Vanessa Villegas and Sarah Grim Sentz.

Special thanks to the people who put up with me on a regular basis, Charleigh Rose, Helena Hunting, Parker S. Huntington and Ava Harrison.

Also, to the Sassy Sparrows, my reading group, and to my readers, who make me strive to become a better, more daring writer and artist. Thank you for pushing me in the right direction. Always.

On a personal note, I would be so grateful if you could leave a brief, honest review for the book when you are done reading.

All my love,

L.J. Shen

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Join my reading group.

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Before you leave, try a sample of my standalone, The Kiss Thief, a modern arranged marriage novel with a twist:

What sucked the most was that I, Francesca Rossi, had my entire future locked inside an unremarkable old wooden box.

Since the day I’d been made aware of it—at six years old—I knew that whatever waited for me inside was going to either kill or save me. So it was no wonder that yesterday at dawn, when the sun kissed the sky, I decided to rush fate and open it.

I wasn’t supposed to know where my mother kept the key.

I wasn’t supposed to know where my father kept the box.

But the thing about sitting at home all day and grooming yourself to death so you could meet your parents’ next-to-impossible standards? You have time—in spades.

“Hold still, Francesca, or I’ll prick you with the needle,” Veronica whined underneath me.

My eyes ran across the yellow note for the hundredth time as my mother’s stylist helped me get into my dress as if I was an invalid. I inked the words to memory, locking them in a drawer in my brain no one else had access to.

Excitement blasted through my veins like a jazzy tune, my eyes zinging with determination in the mirror in front of me. I folded the piece of paper with shaky fingers and shoved it into the cleavage under my unlaced corset.

I started pacing in the room again, too animated to stand still, making Mama’s hairdresser and stylist bark at me as they chased me around the dressing room comically.

I am Groucho Marx in Duck Soup. Catch me if you can.

Veronica tugged at the end of my corset, pulling me back to the mirror as if I were on a leash.

“Hey, ouch.” I winced.

“Stand still, I said!”

It was not uncommon for my parents’ employees to treat me like a glorified, well-bred poodle. Not that it mattered. I was going to kiss Angelo Bandini tonight. More specifically—I was going to let him kiss me.

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about kissing Angelo every night since I returned a year ago from the Swiss boarding school my parents threw me in. At nineteen, Arthur and Sofia Rossi had officially decided to introduce me to the Chicagoan society and let me have my pick of a future husband from the hundreds of eligible Italian-American men who were affiliated with The Outfit. Tonight was going to kick-start a chain of events and social calls, but I already knew whom I wanted to marry.

Papa and Mama had informed me that college wasn’t in the cards for me. I needed to attend to the task of finding the perfect husband, seeing as I was an only child and the sole heir to the Rossi businesses. Being the first woman in my family to ever earn a degree had been a dream of mine, but I was nowhere near dumb enough to defy them. Our maid, Clara, often said, “You don’t need to meet a husband, Frankie. You need to meet your parents’ expectations.”

She wasn’t wrong. I was born into a gilded cage. It was spacious, but locked, nonetheless. Trying to escape it was risking death. I didn’t like being a prisoner, but I imagined I’d like it much less than being six feet under. And so I’d never even dared to peek through the bars of my prison and see what was on the other side.

My father, Arthur Rossi, was the head of The Outfit.

The title sounded painfully merciless for a man who’d braided my hair, taught me how to play the piano, and even shed a fierce tear at my London recital when I played the piano in front of an audience of thousands.