Voices from the dining room trickle down the hall, but I ignore them and make my way to the sitting room where Cleo is supposed to be waiting.
I pause in front of the French doors and drag my palm down my tie.
My skin buzzes with something that feels vaguely like excitement.
Strange. I don’t get excited very often.
I definitely wasn’t excited about getting married to Gemma, but I would have gone through with it. It was in the contract, my name and hers signed on the bottom line. She was perfectly acceptable, a woman raised to be a wife of a high-ranking capo or a don, someone I wouldn’t have had to worry or think too much about. She knew what was expected of her. But as the date of our wedding neared, I couldn’t stop thinking about her sister, with her insolent mouth and reprehensible manners. A girl completely unsuitable for the role.
Cleo’s narrowed green eyes taunted my dreams. I woke up hard, desperate to know what it would feel like to have that mouth wrapped around my cock.
I give my head a shake and grasp the door handle. Tomorrow, she’ll become mine, and then I’ll be able to move past this bizarre fascination. Cleo will no longer be a beautiful temptation, but a woman who’s tied to me for life.
Familiarity breeds boredom, right?
I pull the door open and step inside.
Cleo is perched on a black velvet sofa, her back angled to me. Beside her is Sabina, but I barely notice the house manager.
My fiancée turns and when our gazes clash, a current sparks through me.
Her expression is carefully guarded, her spine is welded straight, and her hands are folded primly in her lap. This is the most demure I’ve ever seen her.
I slide my hands into the pockets of my trousers. “Good evening.”
That’s when the demure illusion breaks. Anger flashes inside her gaze, and then she’s on her feet, stomping across the room until she’s standing right in front of me.
Amusement crackles through me at the fierce expression on her face.
Yes, this is the Cleo I recognize.
“What happened to my sister?” she demands.
Her scent fills my nose. No perfume, just clean skin, and a hint of floral shampoo.
My pulse picks up speed. Her hair is all pulled back in a bun and my hands itch to loosen it. I want to bury my nose in that magnificent copper hair and wrap it tight around my fist.
Why the fuck did Sabina hide it all away?
The old woman rushes to Cleo’s side. “Don Messero, I apologize—”
“Leave us.”
Cleo holds my gaze as the house manager scurries out of the room.
“I asked you where my sister is,” she says in a low, hostile tone. “I need to know if she’s okay.”
I should have known that would be the first question out of her mouth. After all, she’s doing all of this for her sister’s sake.
“I don’t know. She is none of my concern anymore.”
Her nostrils flare like she’s unhappy with my response, but it’s the truth. I made sure Gemma was allowed to leave without any interference from her father, but that’s where my goodwill ended.
“Can’t you find out? I’m going crazy with worry. It’s been days since she left, and I’ve gotten no news.”
“You’ll get news tomorrow at the wedding.”
Hope flashes in her green eyes. “Will Gem be there tomorrow?”
“She’s not invited.” I am not so charitable as to let the woman responsible for our broken engagement attend my wedding.
“My other sister?”
“If Valentina and De Rossi decide to show up, they will be welcomed. Your mother and brother will be there. Your father will walk you down the aisle.”
Red spreads over her cheeks, and she takes a small step back. “No. I’ll walk on my own.”
“It’s customary to be given away by a male relative.” If I ignore another of my family’s traditions, someone is going to suffer an aneurysm.
“Then I’ll walk with Vince. I don’t want anything to do with my father.”
I study her. She said Garzolo never lifted a hand to her, but she could have been lying. If her father hit her like he hit her sister…
A sudden wave of anger makes me clench my fists.
“Are you afraid of him?” I ask.
She scoffs. “He would like that, but no. I just don’t want to walk with him.”
It’s a simple enough request, and I don’t care about Garzolo’s stance on the matter, so I nod. “I’ll talk to your brother.”
The dress she’s wearing is modest enough, but it stretches tightly over her tits, drawing my attention to them. There’s a dusting of freckles over her skin. The fact that I’ll get to unwrap her like a present in twenty-four hours and see how far those freckles go sends a jolt to my groin.
“How long will this dinner take?” she asks.
Reluctantly, I drag my gaze back up to her face. “As long as necessary.”
I can tell she’s trying to keep herself from mouthing off to me, which is a first. Given what I know of her, she’s being surprisingly cordial. What will happen once she’s sure Gemma is safe?
“I hope I don’t need to remind you that you’ve signed up for this willingly.”
Her eyes narrow. “Don’t worry. Tomorrow, I’ll walk down the aisle, say I do, and let you put a ring on my finger. I know if I don’t, you and Papà will do everything in your power to hurt Gemma to get back at me.”
I have no intention of harming her pregnant sister, but I don’t correct her. After all, I want this wedding to go smoothly.
“I’m confident you’ll quickly adjust to your life here.”
She gives me a blank stare. “Right. Because I’m generally so well-adjusted.”
My mouth twitches. I’ve noticed she can be very funny at times.
“I hope you realize I’m not your papà.”
“You might be worse.”
“How so?”
“You’ll want everything he wanted from me, plus so much more.”
She’s right about that. I want to bury myself in her and fuck her so hard she’ll forget her own name.
I take a step closer. “Like what?”
Her body jerks, but she holds her ground. She tilts her chin up, meeting my gaze, a blaze inside her eyes. “Don’t try to intimidate me. It won’t work.”
I lift my hand to her cheek. “I’m very good at intimidation. I’m also quite good at other things.”
She swipes my hand away, the pulse in her neck speeding up. “I’m good at a few things too.”
I move even closer. “Do tell.”
This time, she shuffles back. “Coming up with creative insults, cooking inedible food, spending absurd amounts of money—”
I take another step toward her.
Her eyes narrow. “Making grown men suffer—”
“Don’t stop, you’re turning me on.”
Her mouth parts in shock. “Jesus, there’s something wrong with you.”
“Did you really think that pathetic list would scare me off?”
Her back hits the wall. “Can you stop moving into me like a freight train?”
I bracket her with my arms, placing my palms on either side of her head. Her chest rises and falls with quick breaths, and she’s giving me a startled look, like she’s not sure what to make of me.
Did she think I’d be as cold to her as I was to her sister? Her sister didn’t make constant appearances in my R-rated dreams the way she does.
Cleo swallows. “I’m also excellent at ruining parties. In fact, I strongly suggest you leave me behind tonight and go on your own.”
“It’s not a party. It’s a rehearsal dinner.” I press my nose against the crook of her neck and inhale.
“What the fuck are you doing?” she asks, sounding panicked.
“Don’t you ever smell your food before you taste it?”
She starts beating her small fists against my chest. “If you don’t take five steps back right now, I’ll scream and knee you in the balls so hard you can forget about procreation. I can’t believe no one told me you escaped from a lunatic asylum.”
I bite my lip.
“I mean it,” she says angrily.
I take another second to compose myself and then back away. “Save the screaming for our wedding night.”
When I see her grow pale, I feel a tingle of regret. Maybe that wasn’t the wisest thing to say for someone with my reputation. Is she scared about tomorrow? She doesn’t need to be. I might be a killer and a feared fighter, but I’m not like my father. I don’t get off on inflicting pain on those who are weaker than me. I’m about to clarify I meant she’d be screaming in pleasure, but I don’t get the words out fast enough.
“I hate you,” she spits out. “God, how I hate you.”
My gut tightens. Nero was right, she definitely doesn’t like me. But hate? That’s a strong word and one I don’t feel like I’ve earned.
I clear my throat, disturbed by how much what she just said bothers me. “You’ll get over it. After all, you’ve got a lifetime to warm up to me.”
She looks at me like she wants to burn me at the stake.
The antique clock on the wall makes a sound, drawing both of our attention to it. It’s seven.
I remove all traces of emotion from my expression and peer down at her. “My family is waiting for us.”
Cleo nods and purses her lips, refusing to meet my gaze. I offer her my arm, and after a moment of hesitation, she slips her hand into the crook of my elbow.
We walk out of the room with her anchored to me. Tension crackles around us.
I can’t resist studying her. She’s got one of the most striking faces I’ve ever seen, and yet I didn’t really notice her the first few times we met. It was after an encounter at her oldest sister’s wedding in Ibiza that my mind seemed to latch onto her.
Nero and I picked her up off the side of the road. She was walking—no, stumbling—with a half-empty mickey of vodka at eleven in the morning. Nero was the one who recognized her. I told the driver to stop the car, knowing she must have snuck out without her father’s permission. Even that idiot Garzolo wouldn’t let one of his daughters do something so reckless.
I can still remember the shock in her eyes when she saw us. She tried to run. Didn’t get very far, but she caused quite a scene. Vehicles slowed down to see what was going on, so we grabbed her and tossed her inside the car. When she nearly clawed my eyes out, I slid a zip tie around her wrists. When she wouldn’t stop arguing, I slapped a piece of tape over that brazen mouth. She glared at me the entire ride back, and when we returned her to her parents, she threatened me and called me a jerk-off. I couldn’t remember a woman ever speaking that way to me. I became very, very aware of her in that moment.
And that awareness has stayed with me ever since.
Her body stiffens as we walk through the arch leading into the ballroom. She must be nervous, but when I look down at her, her expression is a guarded mask.
Thirty or so Messeros sit at one long table, awaiting our arrival in a room where we’ve celebrated countless birthdays, anniversaries, and engagements, and where we’ve grieved more than a few deaths. This was my parents’ house before it was my own, and before that, it was my grandparents’. Our history is in these walls.
The conversations fall silent as people notice our entrance. I wonder if Cleo is attentive enough to notice their poorly concealed sneers. The position of the wife of the don is a coveted one, and Cleo is not the woman they wanted for me. No one would risk openly insulting her in my presence after I made it clear I wouldn’t entertain it, but still, their true feelings about my future wife are obvious on their faces.
I’ll have to fix that. The moment Cleo takes on my last name, she becomes mine, and disrespect against her is disrespect against me.
Nero lifts himself out of his chair and everyone follows his example.
When everyone is on their feet, I glance at Cleo. “I’d like to introduce my betrothed. Cleo Garzolo.”
There’s a murmur of unenthusiastic greetings.
Pink spreads over Cleo’s cheeks, and her expression turns downright hostile.
I should walk her around the table and introduce everyone to her one by one. Instead, I take her straight to our seats. I’m not going to risk someone who’s had a glass too many saying something they shouldn’t. I didn’t clean the blood off my hands only to get them dirty again before the appetizers are served. My relatives will have plenty of time to get to know Cleo once she becomes my wife. They know better than to test my patience by being anything but civil after that.
I lead Cleo to the two chairs at the head of the table and pull one out for her. Her lips are pursed into a tight line as she slides into her seat.
I take the chair beside her and nod at Nero and my mother. Elena and Fabi are sitting to Cleo’s left. My sisters’ expressions are strained as they study her. Both of them seem unsure if they should say something or not.
Maybe it would have been better to just bring her out tomorrow and scrap the whole rehearsal dinner idea, but it’s too late now.
I signal for the staff to start bringing out the food and lean toward Nero. “Anything I should be aware of?”
“Mario and Arturo were running their mouths before you came,” he says, tipping his head in the direction of my uncles. “I put a stop to it. The women are gossiping, but there’s nothing I can do about that.”
Their opinion of Cleo aside, even my harshest critics in the family know this union will make us stronger. If you’re not getting stronger, you’re getting weaker. By joining our family with the Garzolos, we stand to take control over their existing cocaine operation, which would be a new business line for us.
Racketeering and construction are our bread and butter, but adding cocaine, along with the counterfeits deal Garzolo helped arrange with the Casalesi, will put us on par with the Ferraro family. No matter how much their patriarch hated my old man, he’ll quickly see it’s better to have us as friends instead of enemies. There’s no point in letting the fact that my dead father killed one of his uncles over a decade ago destroy the potential of establishing a mutually beneficial relationship.
Still, looking at the disapproving faces of my aunts and uncles, I wonder if I’ve underestimated the blowback I’ll receive for taking Cleo as my wife. But is that blowback going to be enough to stop me?
I take a deep pull from my wine.
Not a chance in hell.
