A low chuckle escapes under his breath. “You’ve checked your watch at least five times in as many minutes.”
“I just want to get this over with.” I feel like a circus oddity standing here on display amongst all these people gaping up at me. No doubt the story of our meeting has spread far and wide—how I bet on my future wife in a game of late-night poker—and now they all want to witness me claiming her in person. So fucking barbaric.
Part of me hopes Bianca did do a runner. That she managed to get as far away from here as possible, that she somehow found freedom. But it’s an impossible dream. There is no escaping this life. Her uncle would hunt her to the ends of the earth rather than lose his prize filly.
The cello music drones on, grating on my nerves, and the smell of too much gangster cologne hangs heavy in the air. Even the priest keeps stealing quick glances at his watch, impatient to get the nuptials over with and flee this stifling room.
I raise my eyebrows at one of the wedding planner’s minions standing off to the side of the podium. She huffs out a flustered breath and then slinks out the side door in search of the holdup.
It’s a small wedding by mafia standards, only two hundred people, and other than my family, most of the guests are business associates. I feel a pang of something—sympathy, maybe—that Bianca had no friends to invite, and sadder still, that her immediate family perished in a car accident five years ago. There’s no one she loves standing by her side today. Even if she wouldn’t call this a happy day, it’s a momentous one.
I think about reaching into my tux pocket and taking a nip of the vodka I have tucked away in a flask right above my holster. Some would say it’s not classy to get married packing heat, but those are people that have never been to a mafia wedding uniting two very different factions. Better safe than sorry.
I look up to see Días slip into the back of the room, a buxom blonde on his arm. They take a seat in the last row. “What in the hell is he doing here?” I ask Andrei, motioning with my chin.
A little huff of air escapes his lips. “Invited by Morales. Ignore him. He’s already moved on, judging by the blonde practically squirming in his lap.”
Doesn’t fucking matter. My collar feels too tight, and a bead of sweat drips down my back. I’m about to ask security to throw him out on his ass when the familiar notes of the “Wedding March” begin to play.
And just like that, Bianca is storming down the aisle, her uncle grasping her arm with no hint of subtlety. Emilio flashes a smile so fake on his overly tanned face it looks like he drew it on. A long veil obscures Bianca’s expression, but she holds her back straight, head high, wearing an elegant gown that hugs every dangerous curve perfectly.
She steps up to the altar, and a beat of silence passes between us. Tension ripples through the room like a thick fog, as if you can reach out and touch it. I lift her veil over her head so I can see her face.That face. Eyes the color of molasses shine brightly. Her makeup is subtle and tasteful, highlighting her fine features, delicate nose, and lush lips. My eyes fall lower, taking in her lovely long neck, and the graceful swoop of her shoulders. She’s fucking magnificent, like she always is, and it’s so easy to get sucked into her orbit.
“Thinking of doing a runner?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
We lock stares, and her narrowed eyes pull me in. Seconds tick by that feel like hours. Finally she whispers back, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
And then it occurs to me—with all the delicacy of being hit by a Mack truck—that everything in my perfectly ordered and calibrated life is slipping from my fingers and has been since she walked into my life.
* * *
“That was a beautiful fucking wedding.”Kira’s arms are wrapped around me, and she doesn’t seem intent on letting me go anytime soon. Her small head rests on my chest. I wonder how many drinks it’s taken her to get to this level of happy drunk.
Rowan smiles down at Kira before leaning in to kiss me on the cheek. “It really was a beautifulfuckingwedding,” she says quoting Kira. “Even if it is a wee bit unexpected.”
I bark out a laugh. That’s the understatement of the year.
“How does it feel to be a married man?” Yulian says, coming up behind Rowan to wrap one hand around her waist in a possessive gesture.
“Who fucking knows?” I shrug, annoyed by all the fuss. We’ve been married for only a few hours, and in that time, I’ve barely exchanged ten words with Bianca. We sat beside each other at dinner, an electric silence pounding between us. Let her hate me. In fact, it serves my purpose if she does.
“Maybe you’ll have a different opinion after your wedding night,” Rowan teases, the length of her body practically molded to Yulian’s.
“God, would you two get a room?” Kira makes a gagging sound.
“Gladly, but first I want to dance with my wife.” Yulian pulls Rowan onto the dance floor as Kira mumbles something about needing to puke, even as she cuts a clear path towards the dessert table.
For the millionth time tonight, my eyes seek out Bianca. From across the room, I watch her greet an elderly couple. The woman leans in and kisses her right cheek, offering her congratulations before moving on.
Alone for the first time all night, I don’t miss the way Bianca’s shoulders slump, exhaustion seeping into her expression. I’m the reason for her misery, I’m the one that put all of this in motion, but I don’t regret a thing. I may not trust her, and I certainly don’t give a fuck about playing house, but when I look at her, a single thought echoes through my brain—mine.
Across the room, she lifts her head, and our gazes snag on each other’s. She swallows, causing the little tendons in her throat to work overtime. It’s not long before she blinks and looks away, spinning on her heel to leave the ballroom.
Before she can slip out the doors, a hand snakes out of the shadow and grabs her by the wrist. Días has her trapped in his hold. He leans close, whispering something in her ear. She doesn’t respond right away, just listens, her body stiff like a board, her gaze glued to the floor. His hand is still shackled around her wrist when she turns towards him.
What fucking game is she playing? Huddled with Días, I watch as she glares at the man she claims to love but looks at with burning hate. Violence erupts in my veins, and in the span of a breath, I’ve crossed the room and have a gun pressed into The Madman’s ribs. “Get your hands off her.”
His shark eyes cut to my own, a sneer on his lips.