“They found a buyer.”
“You could say I made them an offer they couldn’t refuse.”
“You?”
“This place. It’s yours now. Consider it a Valentine’s Day gift.”
I tilt my eyes up so I don’t cry. Once the tears slide back down, I say, “You’re so sweet. I didn’t get you anything.”
“You’re giving me everything. The only gift I want is this.” He palms my pussy over the dress. “You're gonna come willingly to the church, or do I have to tie you up and carry you?”
I giggle. “I’ll come.”
“Good. Because if I had to throw you over my shoulder, first you’d be going over my knee.”
A tingle runs through me. But I bite my lip.
“What are you thinking, principessa?”
“Are you mad about what I did to your father?”
“My father threw me away like trash because I wasn’t the son he wanted.”
“I hate him,” I say with a vehemence that surprises me.
Royal doesn’t seem surprised. He looks pleased. “There's some darkness in you, little one. Maybe that's why we fit so well. The bitter and the sweet.” He lifts my hand and kisses it. The ring sparkles between us.
“You know,” I say. “You never asked me to marry you.”
“Do you want me to ask?” He leans forward, crushing my skirts. His lips find my ear. “Do you want me to convince you, cara? Because I can be very persuasive.”
“No, no,” I say, but he’s tossing up the hem of my dress. I rock back on the counter, propping myself on my elbows as he reaches under my satin skirts.
“Royal! We need to get to the church.”
“Un momento.” He squeezes my stocking-clad knee, finding the garter belt strap and snapping it. “First, I want to make you scream.”
I collapse back on the counter, knocking over a stack of paper cups. A cloud of white puffs over me—powdered sugar. When I lick my lips, they’re sweet.
Royal presses two fingers into my pussy, the heel of his hand grinding against my clit. “Come for me, cara. And while you do, say my name. Tell me who owns you.”
When I come, it’s Royal’s name on my lips.
And that’s the story of why my train left a trail of confectioner’s sugar as I walked between Mr. and Mrs. Rossi down the church aisle to become Mrs. Royal Regis.
EPILOGUE
Royal
A sharp pain knifes up my side. My breath wheezes out. Under my jacket, my shirt is growing wet. My boots clunk over the broken black top. I want to stop and sink to the ground.
Got to keep moving.
The thug came out of nowhere, popping into my path and pulling me into a forced embrace. I wrenched myself away, but not before his knife sank into me, a red hot slash burning like wildfire through my core.
I’m bloody and bruised, but I’m in better shape than him. I left him in a dark pile by a dumpster.
The assassination was like everything my father’s ever done. Sloppy.
E tu, padre?
The pink door of the bakery glimmers ahead of me, a mirage in the desert. My left eye is a bit blurry. Probably turning black. I force my feet to trudge on, staggering up the glass-strewn pavement. A pile of newspapers have spilled out of their glass case and turned into a sodden mass of pulp.
This was once a nice area, but crime and gangs have ruined its charm. Sent the townspeople packing. These shop owners pay for protection, but my father gives them nothing.
That’s something I’ll change.
My father thought he’d end things with a quiet knifing. What sort of man sends assassins to take out his own son?
He thinks he can best me. I'll take his mansion, his territory, and then I'll take his throne. Nothing can stop me. La Familigia will back the victor. The wheels and cogs in my head are turning. There's just one missing piece.
The bell over the bakery door rings out, announcing a customer leaving. I stop, leaning against the wall like an addict contemplating his next fix.
A young couple blows out of the bakery. Both are blond and laughing, arm in arm. They look like brother and sister, wearing matching Empire University sweatshirts. I wait for them to jump into their bright red Camaro and drive off before limping to the Panetteria door.
More of my father's assassins might be looking for me and I need a place to hide. They won't expect me to have walked this far on foot. I blink at my boots. Have I left a trail of blood? A knife in the gut will do that.
I push open the bakery door. The bell cha-chings and the sweet scent hits me. For a moment I’m back in mia zia’s kitchen, watching her roll out the dough with her floury arms jiggling.
A young woman stands behind the counter. Her eyes are red rimmed but she gives me a brave smile. “Hello, welcome to Panetteria Principessa.” She pronounces the Italian perfectly. “What can I help you with?”