His to Claim (Forever His #2)

Chapter 1

one

. . .

Fabio

I stand at this gilded Vegas altar like a man about to sign away his soul.

Cold. Calculated. Ready to chain myself to a Marchetti woman I've never met for alliance points I don't give a damn about.

Business is business. Even when the business is marriage.

My shoulders strain against Italian wool as I scan exit routes—force of habit.

Never walk into a room without knowing how to get the fuck out.

The chapel reeks of money and desperation. Crystal chandeliers hanging like frozen teardrops. Red roses climbing white lattice like they're trying to escape. Marchetti's people fill the left side, my men on the right. Everyone armed. Everyone smiling those tight smiles that mean fuck-all.

"You good, boss?" Angelo murmurs from beside me.

I don't answer. Don't need to. We both know this is just another deal. Another handshake with blood beneath the skin.

The officiant checks his watch. Third time in five minutes. The Marchetti bride is late. Probably last-minute negotiations with Daddy. Or tears. Or both. I don't care which.

I run calculations in my head while I wait.

This marriage buys peace with the Marchettis.

Neutralizes their Vegas operations. Gives me access to their Miami ports.

Opens a clean channel for my money. On paper, it's worth the chain around my neck.

In reality, I'm already mapping how to keep my new wife at arm's length once the papers are signed.

Ten more minutes pass. Whispers ripple through the crowd. The door at the back creaks open, and I brace myself for whatever high-maintenance Marchetti princess they've packaged up for me.

But that's not what walks in.

She slips through the side door instead, a small figure in a simple white sundress that hits just above her knees.

No veil. No train. Just a girl with dark hair falling in loose waves, yellow pollen dusting her delicate wrists.

She hums softly to herself, adjusting the roses in the last arrangement by the altar steps, completely unaware of the fifty pairs of eyes now locked on her.

Including mine.

I forget to breathe.

She's nothing like the women I surround myself with. No calculation in those movements. No sharp edges. Just…softness. Her fingers work quickly, arranging petals with care like it actually fucking matters whether they fall just so.

Then she turns and sees the crowd watching her. Pink floods her cheeks. She freezes, wide brown eyes darting around in confusion—until they land on me.

Our gazes lock.

And my empire—every deal, every kill, every calculated fucking breath—goes dead silent.

My chest contracts around something I haven't felt in years. Maybe ever. Raw. Primitive. A hunger that has nothing to do with power or money or respect. Just pure, animal want.

She's small. Delicate. Those eyes are pure innocence. No artifice. No agenda. I can see her pulse hammering at the base of her throat from here.

I want my mouth on that pulse.

"Oh, thank God you're here!" The wedding planner swoops in, grabbing the girl's arm. "Everyone's waiting! Come, come!"

The girl's eyes widen. "What? No, I'm just—"

"Cold feet are normal, dear. You look beautiful. Let's go."

The planner drags her toward me. Toward the altar. And I stand there, watching it happen, understanding exactly what's unfolding.

This isn't the Marchetti bride. This is the fucking florist.

I should speak up. Should stop this train before it leaves the station. Should protect my business interests. My plans. My future.

I don't say a word.

The girl stumbles forward, confusion twisting her pretty features as she's positioned at my side. She smells like vanilla and fresh-cut flowers. Clean. Natural. My nostrils flare, taking her in.

"Um," she whispers, voice trembling, "there's been a mis—"

I take her hand in mine. It's tiny, soft, trembling slightly. My thumb sweeps over her knuckles once, twice, and she falls silent, staring up at me with those huge brown eyes.

"Don't be afraid," I murmur, just for her.

The officiant clears his throat. "Dearly beloved..."

I don't look away from her face. Not even when I hear the commotion at the back of the chapel—the real bride must have arrived. Not even when I hear Marchetti's confused voice rising above the murmurs. Not even when my consigliere shifts nervously beside me.

All I see is her. All I feel is the small hand in mine. All I know is that ten years building an empire, and it took this one moment, this one woman, to make me realize what I actually want.

"Do you, Fabio DeLuca, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

"I do." No hesitation.

Her lips part in shock.

“What’s your name, doll face?” I ask her, my chest so tight I damn near don’t recognize my own face.

“S-sharon,” she stammers. “Sharon Silverman?”

I nod for the priest to continue.

"And do you, Sharon Silverman, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

She blinks rapidly. Glances behind her at the growing chaos. Looks back at me. I squeeze her hand—not threatening. Promising.

"Just say yes, angel," I prompt her. "I promise you won't regret it."

"I..." Her voice is barely audible. She swallows. "I do?"

It comes out like a question, but I'll take it. I'll fucking take it and run.

"By the power vested in me by the state of Nevada, I now pronounce you husband and wife."

The doors at the back of the chapel burst open. The real bride—all ten yards of designer lace and entitlement—stands framed there, her face contorted with fury. Marchetti senior is already halfway down the aisle, face purple with rage.

I don't give a shit. I pull my new wife—my Sharon—against me and seal my mouth over hers. She makes a small, startled sound that vibrates through my chest, then melts against me like she was made to fit there.

When I pull back, her eyes are dazed.

"What's happening?" she whispers.

"You're mine now," I tell her simply. "That's what's happening."

The alliance is dead. The business opportunities gone. The Marchettis will be out for blood. And I've never been happier to burn a bridge in my fucking life.

My blood roars one word, low and final: mine.