Chapter 7 #2
And he’s so quick, his gaze unwavering, that I want to believe him. For a nanosecond, until I remind myself this man is a conscienceless killer. A psychopathic enforcer who murders by day and dotes over his aunt by dinner, wearing a suit and tie.
“If it wasn’t Andrianis, then who was it?” I ask him, defying him to give me an answer.
A real answer, which I haven’t been able to pry from anyone in the wake of my brother’s shooting. Not my father, not a single fucking soul.
Priest looks away from me, a muscle tensing in his jaw. “I don’t know.”
He’s lying. I can sense it. I want to shout, to take up the nearest butter knife and plunge it into his black heart, but it’s no use.
I’ve drawn closer to the table, and I can see the blade is far too dull to inflict any harm.
Before I could even wield it against him, Priest would have me pinned to the floor, at his mercy again.
Besides, if everything he told me tonight turns out to be true, then I may actually need this fucked-up monster.
I swallow hard against a stinging rush of emotion—fury, grief, resentment, fear. “Fine. It wasn’t you.”
“It wasn’t the Andrianis,” he repeats, then jerks his head toward the table. “The lasagna is getting cold. Let’s eat.”
My stomach grumbles loudly, as if it’s just been spoken to.
“Sit down, Luna,” he tells me sternly.
And we’re in a battle of wills again.
His blue, blue eyes jerk back to mine, and he rakes a hand through his black hair, leaving it mussed. “Jesus, woman. Sit. The. Fuck. Down.”
I hate this. I’m an independent woman. For the last five years, I’ve answered to no one. And now, here I am, trapped back inside a gilded cage. Told what to do. Where to be. Who I can talk to.
“Ask me,” I say.
For a long moment, silence stretches between us. I’m pushing him, and I know it. But I have to. I can’t not. Fighting is ingrained in me.
“Say that again,” he orders with quiet, silken menace.
“Ask me,” I repeat.
“No.” He stalks toward me, and before I can even try to run, he catches me, tossing me over his shoulder like I weigh practically nothing.
“Bastard!” I pummel his lower back in outrage. “Put me down.”
He stalks to the table and kicks out a chair before lowering me into it. He’s none too gentle, and I think he’s lucky he didn’t break the chair, but then he’s leaning into me, his face so close I can feel his breath ghost over my lips when he speaks.
“I give orders and you obey them. Understand?”
I hold his stare, unflinching. “Orders? Who the hell do you think you are?”
“I’m the don of the Andriani family, soon to be the don of the Andriani and Revello families united as one,” he bites out. “And I don’t care if you’re the fucking Virgin Mary. You’re still going to listen to me. Is that clear?”
Head of the Andrianis? I had no idea his father was no longer alive. And now he’s aligning the two families. That means Priest is about to become the most powerful mobster in the city.
Dear God. No wonder he wants to marry me.
“Nothing else to say, little wife?” he asks snidely. “Didn’t think so.”
And then, as if he hasn’t just shocked me to my marrow after manhandling me into a chair, he proceeds to serve me a heaping, steaming portion of lasagna that smells like pure bliss in food form—garlic, fresh parm and mozz, and sweet baby Jesus, homemade sauce and pasta.
It’s been a hot minute since I’ve had something this good in front of me on a plate.
Okay, maybe a hot decade, if I’m honest. I think about refusing to eat it just to spite Priest, but I’m starving, and besides, he didn’t cook this. Maria did.
We eat our dinner in strained silence.
The wine is good. The lasagna even better.
But I can’t enjoy it. It’s all like ash in my mouth.
How the hell am I going to get myself out of this mess alive?
Priest
“Drinking alone, brother?”
I’m sitting at my marble-topped bar, the one with the killer view of the city I’m usually too fucking busy to ever enjoy. The night is alive outside the window, a glorious blend of darkness and glistening lights, the hulking behemoths of manmade dinosaurs shadowing the distance.
“I was drinking alone,” I tell Saint pointedly.
But in truth, I don’t mind the company. My brothers and I are all gathered here at the penthouse for the night. Watching over our prize, Luna Revello, and one another. We’ve come too far, worked too hard, to fuck this alliance up.
“Scotch?” he asks, plopping onto a barstool at my side.
Everything I need is within reach—a lowball and the Johnnie Walker Blue, along with some ice. Cubes plink into the crystal, and then I pour carefully before sliding it to him. “There you go, asshole.”
Saint takes the glass. “Now I’m the asshole? I’m not the one playing Prince Charming with the Revello girl.”
His words hit a nerve. Because part of me wanted to treat Luna like a date tonight. Like a woman I’m trying to impress and seduce. And the other part of me—the don I’ve reluctantly become—knew that I needed a show of strength instead.
“Prince Charming?” I bare my teeth at him like a feral dog. “Do me a favor and fuck yourself.”
“What would you call the way you stormed after her? And then tonight? Roc told me you had a candlelight dinner. Jesus, it must have been like—what’s that fucking movie, the one with the dogs sharing the spaghetti—up in here. 101 Dalmatians .”
One of Saint’s most annoying traits is that he always fucks everything up. Movies, books, actors, bands—you name it, he mixes it up. None of us know if it’s intentional or not, but we all always feel compelled to correct him.
“ Lady and the Tramp ,” I grumble, embarrassed that I know the name of an animated kids film. “Why the hell are we talking about this anyway?”
“Because it’s your last night as a bachelor, and we should be at a club celebrating, but we’re sitting in your shitty bar in the dark, drinking Johnnie Walker.” Saint holds up his glass in salute. “To my brother, the patron saint of self-sacrifice.”
“It’s not that big of a sacrifice.” I regret it the moment I say it, so to make up for my drunken stupidity, I clink my glass into his.
Scotch sloshes onto my hand.
“Stop fucking wasting the good stuff,” he growls before taking a sip. “And don’t think I didn’t hear that.”
“I need to marry,” I add. “Whether it’s now or later, we have to carry on the Andriani line. Dad would want that. Doesn’t matter how or why.”
“I know you do. And you’re don. It has to be you.”
I shrug. “At least she has all her teeth.”
“And a truly impressive set of tits,” Saint adds, whistling. “I don’t think she was wearing a bra.”
“She’s mine now,” I warn him, a possessive rush going through me that’s unfamiliar and uncontrollable. “No more looking at or speaking about her tits. Or I’ll maim you.”
“Easy. Down, boy.” Saint holds up his hands in the low light, palms outward, like he’s in a robbery. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just pointing out the truth behind the not that big of a sacrifice comment. She’s hot AF.”
“Damn it, Saint.” I slam down my scotch. “She’s going to be your sister-in-law. Show some respect. And besides, who says AF out loud? Fucking nerd.”
“Who says nerd anymore?” my brother counters, unfazed by my criticism.
“A dig at my age? Kind of shitty, but I get it.”
“Low-hanging fruit and shit.” Saint toasts me again.
I’m thirty-two. The oldest. God knows I feel a fuck of a lot older than that most days. Saint and the others will never let me forget my advanced age. Speaking of which…
“Where’s everyone else?” I ask, curious. “Passed out?”
“Nah. They’re playing poker in the control room with Roc.”
I splutter on the sip I’ve just taken of my scotch. “Jesus. Rocco is supposed to be watching the monitors. And her door.”
She’s smart and she’s resourceful. I don’t trust her. On top of that, she’s basically the Mafia crown jewels, and without her, we’re fucked. Which means she needs to be watched. I can’t afford a runaway bride on my hands. None of us can.
“Don’t worry.” Saint claps me on the back with more force than necessary. “The boys have it covered. We won’t let you down.”
“You damn well better have it covered. If anything happens to her…”
I can’t finish the sentence. I’ve only known her for the span of a day, but there’s something about Luna Revello that has fused with me.
She’s become a part of me. Maybe it’s that she’s going to be my wife and I’m responsible for her protection now.
Maybe it’s the way she holds her ground with me, surrendering almost nothing.
Maybe it’s the way her lips felt against mine, the coppery tang of her blood on my tongue.
Or the fact that I want her—and far more than I was prepared for. Maybe all of the above.
My brain is currently fogged by the scotch, and I can’t dissect my own motives or feelings.
“Nothing will happen to her,” Saint reassures me, voice low. “We’ll all be there tomorrow in the church. No one’s going to get by us.”
He’s giving voice to the other fear that’s been haunting me ever since we devised this plan to outsmart Amedeo Revello at his own game. Tomorrow is either going to be a bloodbath or it’ll go off without a hitch.
Either way, it’s still going to be the most important day of my life.
“To tomorrow,” I say, holding my glass up for a toast. “And to the Andriani family. Long live us all.”
Saint clinks his glass to mine. “Amen, brother.”