It Shouldn’t Be You (The Four Points Mafia #2)
Prologue
G rowing up, it was always an unspoken expectation that I’d end up in an arranged marriage. For girls like me, daughters of mafia men, the expectations look different. Less sunshine and roses; more signed, sealed and delivered.
Romantic, right?
But it’s not all bad. Unlike some factions where the girls are shipped off without so much as a second thought, the Four Points—under Jonathan’s rule—makes sure everyone is prepared and protected. Self-defence lessons are mandatory in the Four Points.
Not to mention my parents—who have made it abundantly clear they love me and want nothing short of the world for me. They have shot down more propositions than I’ve had hot dinners. Because while this may be the way things are done and it’s how ninety percent of the Four Points wound up with their spouses, my parents included, they’ve made it no secret that my happiness is paramount to them. Unfortunately, that doesn't change the fact that marrying for love is a privilege we aren’t granted—it’s more like a distant dream.
As a child, I soaked up Mum’s stories of her brief encounter with Dad before their wedding, their love blossoming over time. As she braided my hair, she’d promise me a future filled with happiness and love, and I clung to that hope—even as I hid behind her at countless social events. That’s how I met Owen Jameson and Matt O’Malley, who took me under their wing and guarded me against any mafia brat who dared approach me. Their glares were enough to scorch anyone foolish enough to try.
At twelve, warnings about how everyone at St Theresa’s was a part of the Four Points or would be very soon and firmly not marriage material for me were delivered with pointed looks and thinly veiled consequences.
With a practised smile and batted eyelashes, I agreed. Within a week at St Theresa’s, despite the fact I had never even given boys a second thought, I was in a storage closet, making out with some soldier’s son.
Far too much tongue and definitely not anything to write home about, but at least I could say I’d broken the rules.
So yes, I always knew I’d be getting ready to marry a groom I didn’t pick out.
A groom I don’t know.
A groom I may never love.
But what I didn’t prepare for was marrying a nameless, faceless groom.
All my attempts to meet him—coffee dates, charity fundraisers, even a planned rehearsal dinner—were thwarted by last-minute cancellations. Unfortunately, even those glaringly obvious red flags weren’t going to stop this day going ahead.
“Are you sure you want to do this? It’s not too late for us to cause a distraction while you make a run for it. Owen will help,” Cora suggests, as she fusses with the train of my dress. Given the fact she is one of the lucky few in this life who’s ended up with a love match, her ability to wrap her head around this whole situation has been pushed to its limits with every brush of. It probably also has to do with the fact that she didn’t even know she was a part of this world for the first twenty-two years of her life.
Or it could be the fact her dad is Jonathan O’Neill, the head of the Four Points and one day she will take over from him. The mere idea of her being forced into anything is so beyond laughable it’s no wonder she can’t comprehend how normal this is to me.
Looking at her through the mirror, I take in my best friend. Cora, draped in a sage green bridesmaid dress, her blonde hair curled in a messy up-do, and lightest dusting of makeup highlighting her features, looks stunning. Barely showing signs that she just had a baby a few months ago. Or that she murdered two men in cold blood in the last year.
“I’m sure. But if they open those doors to reveal someone old enough to be my dad, then I retain the right to change my mind.” I hadn’t even considered that possibility until Lily had drunkenly planted that seed at my bachelorette party.
With one last coat of nude lipstick, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.
I’d always pictured myself in something white, sparkly and princess cut. The kind of dress that makes you feel like you belong in a Disney movie and could walk a red carpet at the same time. But as my ire about my husband to be avoiding me grew, the idea of getting a black wedding dress was born. After all, this isn’t a fairy tale, I’m not a princess and he sure as shit won’t be my prince.
The power of saying ‘fuck you’ to societal norms had me on a high that made everything a million times easier and as soon as I saw this one, I knew it was the one. Taking in the off-the-shoulder, princess-cut dress with lace detailing and beading around the bodice I know I made the right decision. I’ve never felt so me. Like a true mafia princess.
Sure, it might cause a bit of commotion but hell, what’s a mafia wedding without some drama?
They should be glad the biggest drama will be a black dress rather than a red wedding.
At the end of the day, this is my day.
They can pick my groom, the date, and even the location.
But they absolutely cannot pick my dress or force me to smile like this is a match of my choosing.
The time to play the perfect mafia princess has come to an end.
Now it’s time to become the mafia wife I’ve been raised to be and that’s a whole different ball game with brand new players.
Bring it on .
Straightening my shoulders and blowing myself a kiss in the mirror, I turn to face the rest of the room. I only wanted a small wedding party because while having loads of bridesmaids in photos can look lovely, the reality is out of that massive group how many would be there in a crisis? How many would take my secrets to the grave? How many would go to bat for me in the way I would for them? For me, it was a no-brainer who I would ask to stand with me, hold my hands and maybe my hair if I drink too much to drown my sorrows.
Cora, because she’s my sister in every way except blood. We’ve been through thick and thin since we met ten years ago, and I couldn’t imagine doing this without her by my side every step of the way.
While Lily might be a new addition, adding her to our twosome and making it a threesome was as natural as breathing. There’s no one more in need of guidance and support than the curvy brunette, and I’m nothing if not a fixer. Over the past year as she graduated from St Theresa’s and started coming around more and more to the different parties and events her stepfather, Ciaran O’Malley, was invited to, something about the lost look in her hazel eyes and her reckless behaviour called to me.
I took her under my wing, and the more I got to know her, the more I realised she fitted in with me and Cora perfectly. Sassy, strong, and with a dirtier mind than I could ever have dreamt of having at nineteen. She’s the missing piece we didn’t even know we needed. And she couldn’t have come into our lives at a better time.
Despite my best efforts to prepare her, Cora was trying to pretend I wasn’t about to be shipped off to God knows where. Knowing they will have each other helps ease some of my guilt at having to leave them both with no idea when or how often I’ll be able to visit.
Rounding out my bridal party is, of course, Mum. My best friend, rock and protector rolled into one. In no world would I do this without her here. She’s been a tearful mess most of the morning.
After months of failed attempts to meet my husband-to-be, I’d begged Dad to tell me who I was marrying. Hell, I’d even have settled for knowing what mafia fraction he belonged to. But he had refused despite our silent treatment.
I wonder who I got my stubborn streak from.
Any time either of us brought it up he would shut the conversation down in an instant, citing that if my soon-to-be husband harmed so much as a hair on my head I’d find myself back home, fuck the consequences. And sure, the knowledge that someone would get me out if things went south was somewhat reassuring, his refusal to tell me who I was marrying or where I was moving had my guard up. Big time. So, we came to a compromise—I would go into this blind under a few conditions.
One, I get to attend Cora’s wedding and be here for all my bridesmaid duties.
Two, a guard of my choice would come with me and act as my personal guard for the first year of this marriage.
Three, I would be given the freedom to pursue some form of job or volunteer work to keep myself busy.
Both Jonathan and my dad had thought it best to lay out these terms after the wedding and the thought of having the upper hand, no matter how briefly, had me agreeing without question.
“You look stunning, Abbie girl. Your father and I are so proud of the woman you’ve become.” Mum wipes at her tears as she helps fix my black veil in place with a kiss on my cheek, bathing me in her floral perfume.
“He’s going to freak out when he sees this dress,” I say with a watery laugh before a knock on the door breaks our moment. Dad’s eyes meet mine in the mirror. His dark hair is neatly styled, his tie and handkerchief match Mum’s dress perfectly, and as he takes me in, his face says it all.
“Abigail…you look beautiful,” he rasps as he approaches me, pulling me in for a hug. Holding me tight as if he can squeeze me back into my childhood. “But what in sweet hell were you thinking choosing a black dress?”
“What can I say, this is as much a funeral as it is a wedding.”
A chuckle escapes him at my bluntness, and with a fond shake of his head, he pulls back to look at me before continuing, “He won’t know what hit him when he sees you, and if he doesn't treat you like the princess you are, all you have to do is call and I will come to put him in place, understood?”
“I guess it’s time to get married,” I say on a shaky exhale, blinking back my tears.
Linking my arm through Dad’s and grabbing my bouquet, we descend the winding staircase. Each step feels eternal and fleeting. It feels like a funeral procession. Even the beauty of the venue can’t distract me from the foreboding feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I’d always dreamed of having an outdoor wedding. Having beautiful flower arrangements and archways. Like a fairy-tale. Having this thing planned for September almost threatened to throw a wrench in that, but the weather behaved itself to allow at least one part of this day to go how I’d always dreamed of.
We have created a spring-like ambiance with a mix of real and synthetic flowers, adjusting for what is in season. The rose bush wall at the altar will be a photographic highlight. Lily, Cora, and I planned each element, and I couldn’t be prouder of what we accomplished.
With a comforting squeeze to my arm, Dad leads us out the double doors and under the floral archway, along the carpeted path that’s littered with flower petals. But the man at the end of the aisle captures all my attention. He’s massively tall, his dirty blonde hair neatly braided, muscles bulging underneath his suit, tattoos peeking from under his cuffs and collar.
He’s everything I shouldn’t want, and coupled with his red flag behaviour, I should be plotting my way out of here. Yet, as he cocks an eyebrow at me in a silent challenge, a thrill of anticipation courses through me.
Game fucking on.