Chapter 8
LUNA
It’s dawn and I’m awake, standing at the window in a pair of slippers that are oddly my size and borrowed pajamas.
They were folded neatly and waiting for me on the bed when I was returned to my prison.
Likely courtesy of Maria before she left.
I don’t think Priest is capable of being thoughtful.
Even last night’s dinner wasn’t an invitation but a sit-the-fuck-down glare-fest just to prove he has the upper hand.
But I don’t want to think about him now. I want to soak up these few, fleeting minutes to myself. To prepare for the shitshow that lies ahead.
Below me, the city is coming slowly to life, the strains of night filtering away as another unrelenting day begins. I watch a crosswalk light up, a handful of people hustling to their next destination as they venture over the street. Cars move in a seamless blend of motion.
Thanks to Priest’s confiscation of my phone, I also have no way to check in with the world.
No texts, no emails, no calls, no internet.
God. No e-reader app. This might as well be 1995.
I don’t even have a way to record the poem that’s stirring in my overstimulated mind as I watch the city waking up.
At least back in the nineties, people had pens and tablets.
Today is also maybe my wedding day, which is exactly as insane and terrifying as it sounds. Needless to say, I barely slept at all last night.
The king-size was comfortable, the sheets smooth and soft, the comforter luxurious black velvet, the pillow and mattress so wonderful that I’m convinced they’re made of puppies and clouds.
Luxury is everywhere—no surprise—but the room doesn’t look like a mobster’s lair.
It’s tastefully decorated with framed nature photographs and neutral tones.
Things I noticed after I calmed down, drunk on homemade lasagna.
I stayed up, half afraid the bedroom was his and that he’d be sleeping with me. Or worse, not sleeping . Kissing me with those sinner’s lips. Touching me. Demanding whatever it is a mobster demands of his captive bride on the night before their forced wedding. A blow job? I wasn’t sure.
Relief only came around three a.m. when I heard his familiar low voice as he passed the guard at my door. I remained alone in the inky stillness of the night, the glow of the eternally awake city seeping around the edges of the curtains as my sole companion.
A knock sounds at my door, jolting me from my thoughts and making me jump and spin away from the city.
Already?
I hold my breath, hoping that whoever it is on the other side, they’ll think I’m still asleep.
“Yo, Agatha Christie, you up?”
The voice isn’t Priest’s. I’m not sure whether to be relieved or worried.
Either way, I’m not answering.
Another knock. “Joan Wilder? I know you’re awake.”
Whoever it is, he’s a pain in the ass. I can tell already.
“I’m sleeping,” I call out. “Go away.”
“No time for sleeping, Jane Austen,” he persists. “You got a wedding to attend.”
I cross my arms over my chest and glare at the door. “First of all, I don’t write mysteries. Second of all, Joan Wilder isn’t even a real author. She’s a character in a movie. And third of all?—”
The door opens before I can finish, and it’s none other than Saint Andriani strolling through, a garment bag in one hand and a pair of shoes in the other. He’s tall like Priest and has the same black hair, but his eyes are a slightly lighter shade of the same icy blue. He gives me a cocky grin.
“You can take that third of all and shove it right up your ass, sweetheart. Time’s wasting.” He shakes the garment bag for emphasis. “You need to get dressed.”
I’m peeved that he didn’t let me finish, so I don’t move. “What’s in the bag?”
“Your wedding gown.” He extends it toward me.
I cock my head at him, thinking that he’s not nearly as intense as Priest. “Wedding gown?”
“I thought you were a fancy author. Don’t you know what the fuck that is?” He tosses the garment bag at me.
Instincts kick in and I catch it. “I’m not a fancy author. And at the moment, what I’m most known for is my poetry.”
“Poetry?” He makes a face.
It’s the same expression I imagine he might wear if he looked down at his shoe and found that he’d stepped in dog poo.
“Yes, poetry.”
I’m not sure why I’m telling this to a mobster. Why I’m making the distinction. He kills people and breaks the law for a living.
“So, like Shakespeare shit?” He wants to know.
Maybe he paid a bit of attention in high-school English.
“Kind of,” I tell him, “except vastly different forms than Shakespearean sonnets.”
“Fuck.” He shakes his head, grinning.
I don’t know how to take his sudden ease of the Mafia-killing-machine persona. This entire exchange has been…weird. Saint Andriani is being nice to me, which makes me feel the same way it would if I were in a cage with a docile lion.
“Um, where is Priest?” I ask hesitantly.
“It’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding,” Saint explains seriously.
“Oh.”
He takes a few steps toward me and offers the shoes. They’re silver and strappy with a high heel, open back, and chain, and I must admit—inwardly only—that I kind of love them. “Don’t forget the shoes. Shit. You got a bra and…stuff?”
I bite my lip to contain my amusement as I grasp the shoes. Andrianis are notoriously unpredictable and hotheaded. This one strikes me as just the sort of psycho who is even-tempered one minute and raging the next. I don’t want to trigger him. Literally or figuratively.
“I have everything I need, thanks.” Besides the cozy pjs, there was also a sheer lacy bra and a pair of panties.
Also the right sizes. But I’m not going to think about that now or what it means. Maybe Maria is good at guessing. Because the alternative is a place my brain doesn’t want to go.
“Well, do your thing then, Charlotte Eyre,” Saint says with a dismissive wave in my direction.
“Bronte,” I correct.
His eyebrows hike up his high forehead.
“Charlotte Bronte ,” I elaborate. “You were confusing the author with the title of one of her books, Jane Eyre .”
“Jesus,” he mutters and then turns on his heel. “Just get dressed, sweets. You got fifteen minutes. Hurry it the fuck up.”
“Got it,” I tell his back just before the door slams closed.
At least he didn’t shoot me? At this point, it feels like a win.
I stare at the garment bag and the shoes, reality settling in like a fist to the face.
This is my wedding dress. These are my wedding shoes. Wedding, as in getting married. As in marrying a crazy mobster whose family was responsible for my brother’s death. The same crazy mobster who kidnapped me yesterday.
But maybe I’m crazy too by now. Because what do I do next?
I inspect the strappy heels.
Gucci. Made in Italy.
No wonder I like them. Not going to try them on, though, even if they look like they’re the perfect fit.
My resolve lasts less than a minute, and then I’m slipping my bare feet into them, wishing I bothered with pedicures when I see how boring my toes look. The shoes fit. Of course they do. More of Maria’s magic at work? I’m afraid to ask.
Now I’m wearing fluffy pajamas and Gucci, walking to the bed where I lay out the garment bag. My trembling fingers find the zipper and open it, and just…this dress. It’s everything.
Shimmery silk pools over the comforter. It’s strapless, the bodice embellished with silver and crystal orchids. The gown is floor-length, with a long slit. The tag proclaims it’s Oscar de la Renta.
Designer. Also my size.
Either Maria is the most astute Italian mobster auntie in the world, or my captor has been doing his research.
How the hell does Priest know my shoe size, my bra size, and my dress size?
And how does he know what I’d like? This is no wedding dress, to be sure, but I’m in love with it just the same. How could I not be? It’s gorgeous.
And expensive.
And…dare I think it…thoughtful.
Which is also weird, because this is coming from a man who kills people for a living. Heartlessly. Coldly. A man who had no compunction about holding a Glock to my head.
A man who made me eat lasagna last night.
This is beyond fucked up.
And now I’m fucked up. More fucked up than I already was.
A knock sounds at the door, interrupting my argument with myself.
“You getting dressed, sweets? I don’t hear a lot of movement in there.”
It’s Saint again.
“Don’t call me sweets,” I call, annoyed with him.
Annoyed with myself most of all. I’m not supposed to be thinking good thoughts about the enemy. About the mobster who basically kidnapped me and is now forcing me into a sham arranged marriage I don’t want.
I’m not the kind of girl who gets impressed by expensive things. Shit, I am in so much trouble right now.
“And stop listening at the door like a creeper,” I add as an afterthought.
“Watch it, sweets. You don’t call the shots around here.”
“Thanks, tips,” I mutter.
“Need help?”
The door handle jiggles like he’s about to rush in. Is he planning to force me to strip and get into the dress for him? Somehow, I don’t think Priest would go for that. But I don’t really know what any of these assholes are capable of.
I need to keep reminding myself of who these monsters really are. They’re gorgeous psychos, beautiful mobsters. Dangerous criminals. Untrustworthy enemies. They’re from the family who killed my brother. I don’t care what Priest claimed last night. Guilty until proven innocent.
Saint has a certain, odd charm that had me off-kilter, but I’m a big girl. I can handle today. All I need to do is take a deep breath, get dressed, and formulate a way to escape.
Another jiggle. “We’re going to be late.”
I decide to drag my heels. To prolong this nightmare. Maybe if I waste enough time, I can miss the wedding altogether.
“I need a shower,” I call.
“The fuck you do.”
He sounds annoyed.
“Every bride should look her best on her wedding day, don’t you think?” My voice is one hundred percent sweet tea right now.
A grunt sounds on the other side of the door. “You look fine.”
“Fine?”
“Good,” he allows grudgingly. “Don’t tell Priest I said that.”
Is that some brotherly rivalry I detect? This could work in my favor. I can use it to my advantage.
“Why should he care?” I ask.
“Because you’re his.”
I bite my lip to keep from denying it. The urge is strong. So strong.
“Are you seriously telling me that the ceremony is taking place today?” I add, stalling. “Don’t the bride and groom have to apply for a marriage license in this state?”
“Maybe.”
His voice suggests he doesn’t care.
“I’m pretty sure they do,” I venture, hope gaining steam. “And since I never applied for a license, there can’t be one, and since there isn’t a license, we can’t get married today.”
I realize I’m stroking my hand over the dress, and I straighten. That shit’s made of poison. I can’t wear the dress. I can’t get married. Panic mode has yet to leave the building. It’s like I’m in shock and mindlessly doing stupid things.
“Wrong.” The door gets kicked open.
Saint is standing there, gun in his hand, barrel trained on me.
“Look, I didn’t want to have to do this, but you pushed me too far.
Get into the fucking dress, or I’m going to have to put it on you.
And neither of us is going to want to explain to Priest how I stripped you out of your pajamas and helped you into your panties and bra.
I don’t know about you, sweetheart, but I don’t want to die today. ”
I lick my lips, panic settling in. The good-natured-mobster act is gone. The feral maniac staring at me right now will shoot me if I don’t do as he says. I can read it in his stance, in the way his trigger finger is resting, in his cold and dead eyes.
But I can’t get married.
“Do you?” he demands, nodding toward the dress on the bed.
I swallow. “What?”
“Want to die today?”
I shake my head nervously. “No.”
“Do you want your father to die today?”
“No.” Unconsciously, I lift a hand to the tender part of my jaw and cheek where he hit me the day before.
“Then get dressed. No more stalling. No more questions. Got it?”
I hold his stare, feeling ice settle into my veins. “Got it.”
How the hell am I going to get out of this mess?