Chapter 10
PRIEST
Luna Revello is a beautiful bride.
She’s also a pissed bride, but she’s putting on a pretty damn good show as we walk through the line of wedding guests inside the packed church where we’ve just promised to love and honor each other till death do us part.
There’s makeup covering the little knot on her forehead, the lingering proof of the damage she did to Saint’s nose, and the bruise on her cheek is also hidden.
Her dark, wavy hair is down. Her ass in that gold sparkling gown is a spankable dream.
Sadly, I wasn’t able to enjoy it earlier.
I was too fucking furious with her for running and putting everything I’ve worked so hard to make happen today in jeopardy.
Especially with a slippery bastard like Amedeo Revello waiting in the wings.
And the slit in the skirt that goes up to her right thigh? Pure torture. I want to tear off her dress and devour her. I want to fuck her, to sink my dick inside her, fill her up with me. I want the whole world to know she’s mine.
I didn’t expect to feel like this, not for her, not so quickly. But it’s like a switch has been flipped in my mind. It doesn’t help that she’s hot, brainy, and defiant, a combination I can’t resist. There’s something about knowing she’s mine that makes my dick harder than granite.
We head out of the church into crisp fall air, hand in hand. My grip is tight. She’s not escaping this time. She’s holding her bouquet of red roses like it’s a weapon she’s planning to use to bludgeon me with later.
We reach Amedeo and his wife.
Her hair is teased, she’s dripping in gold and diamonds, and her tits are popping out of her dress. “Giulia,” I greet with a nod, then turn to her snake of a husband. “Revello. Thank you for coming to our wedding.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Amedeo tells me, grinning.
I can’t help but wonder which one of our men is on this prick’s payroll. When I find out, I’m going to tear the bastard in two.
“Cousin Luna,” he adds, directing his hard onyx stare to the woman at my side. “Looking like a vision. Last I heard, you were in some school in the Midwest.”
I give her fingers a subtle warning squeeze.
She smiles politely, giving away nothing. “Things change.”
Good girl.
Thank fuck.
We’re about to move on when she says something else.
“Cherry cordials.”
I slant a narrow-eyed look at her. Is this some sort of fucking code between them, a message she’s trying to send?
Amedeo cocks his head, his brows slamming together in confusion. “Pardon?”
“Cherry cordials,” she repeats. “I was just thinking about how you gave them to Leo and me at the big Revello Christmas gathering every year.”
He runs a hand down his chest like he’s brushing off a speck of lint. “You remember that?”
“Of course. I remember a lot of things.” She turns to me, flashing another smile I know she doesn’t mean any more than she did the first. “Shall we, darling?”
I suspect the term of endearment is intended to rankle me, but it does the opposite. I kind of like it. More importantly, she’s not wrong.
I’m itching to get out of here. I don’t like our position, out in the open. I don’t like being this close to Amedeo without my gun, which I’ve had to leave behind, thanks to the public nature of our wedding and the DAs facing public pressure to take a bigger stance on crime.
I nod. “Let’s go, my love.” Bringing our linked hands to my lips, I kiss her knuckles, and even here, she’s smooth and soft and tempting.
Fuck. When have a woman’s knuckles turned me on this much?
Luna Revello is dangerous.
We start moving past Amedeo and his wife. Past a line of a few more fawning Revellos and Andrianis. Her father is next, standing with Squeaky. He looks like shit, and the urge to knock him flat on his ass is strong. I don’t, though.
He’s Luna’s father. This is her wedding day. Even a shitty father should have a moment with his daughter. I hang back, letting her go to him.
“ Bella .” Tomasso moves in for a hug. “You are a beautiful bride.”
She says nothing, standing stiffly as he embraces her.
“Congratulations, Mrs. Andriani,” he says.
In the next instant, a bullet goes into Tomasso Revello’s head. Blood sprays all over Luna’s wedding dress as he collapses against her. She screams.
I’m on autopilot, adrenaline out of control as I haul her away, letting her father fall to the ground.
I know a dead man when I see one, and I have no idea where that bullet came from.
For all I know, there’s another one for Luna and one for me too.
The bastard who hit Tomasso is bold, taking him down in broad daylight in front of the most famous church in the fucking city.
“My father,” she protests, eyes wide, her pretty face splattered with red. She puts up a struggle, but she’s in shock.
I see the signs.
“We have to go,” I tell her, moving her faster, trying to shield her with my body.
The wedding guests are in a panic, fleeing, screaming, dispersing. My brothers surround us, getting us to where Rocco is waiting in the G-Wagon. I shove Luna inside first. The G is like a tank, fully armored with bulletproof glass. She’ll be safest there.
“Meet me back at the penthouse,” I tell Lucky, Saint, and Scorpion. “Keep your fucking heads down and don’t act on anything without me. Got it?”
They all nod. There’s another armored car parked behind us, waiting for them to pile in. Sirens are already blaring, heading this way. I’ve got to get Luna out of here. The cops can question us later. When it’s safe.
“We good?” I ask them.
“All clear.” Saint jerks his chin toward the G-Wagon. “Tend to your wife.”
Wife.
Yeah, she is that now.
But nothing that happened today went according to plan, and now Tomasso Revello is dead. Had he moved his head an inch in either direction, it could have been Luna instead.
Everything’s a blur as I slide into the back seat of the G.
Luna is trembling, weeping. Her father’s blood mingles with the tears. And something inside me breaks open.
“Drive,” I order Rocco just before I take her in my arms, pulling her into my lap.
He hits the gas, and none of us look back.
Luna
I’m sobbing uncontrollably. Deep, body-shuddering weeping that makes it almost impossible for me to catch my breath. Panic is threatening to choke me.
I don’t know where I am. It’s not Priest’s penthouse. The ride through the city was a blur. He held me in his lap and let me scream and cry into his chest the whole way to this place.
But there are a few things I do know.
My father is dead. He was shot and killed today. On my wedding day. In my fucking arms.
And I’m the wife of a Mafia boss.
“Luna?”
It’s his voice. Priest’s. Coming through the door.
I’m on the floor of a windowless room, hugging my knees to my chest. I don’t want to see him now. I don’t want to see him ever again.
I wipe my dripping nose with the back of my hand. “Go away.”
“I’m coming in.”
I really don’t want him anywhere near me. This is all his fault. If it weren’t for him, my father wouldn’t be dead. I wouldn’t be married to my enemy.
“Stay out.”
The door clicks open. I bury my face against my thighs, curling into a ball. I feel his presence rather than hear or see him entering the room. It’s dark and powerful and magnetic.
A hand presses between my shoulder blades, hot and callused and big. I think the gesture is meant as a comfort, but I can’t help my instinctive reaction to flinch and jerk away.
“Baby.”
I wish I could tell him not to call me that, but another garbled sob leaves me.
I can’t describe the tangled mess I’m feeling.
I wasn’t close to my father. I hated the man he was.
And because I’m a daughter instead of a son, I never measured up.
I never mattered. But that doesn’t mean I wanted him to be murdered in my arms.
Priest strokes up and down my spine. His hand is hot on the bare skin my strapless dress reveals, under my hair. I like the connection even though I shouldn’t. I can’t escape him without scooting on my ass all over the floor. So I stay here, hiding my face, curling into myself, hoping to disappear.
“You need to get cleaned up.” His voice is low and deep, rumbling into my ear.
With a jolt, I turn my face toward him. He’s watching me with that intense, deep-blue stare that sees to my soul.
Looking at him was a mistake.
He’s too much.
“Go away,” I tell him, and then I humiliate myself by punctuating my demand with a huge, hiccupping sob.
His hard expression softens, his jaw moving as if there’s something he wants to say but can’t.
Or won’t. And then, he scoops me into his arms and lifts me like I’m a child.
I don’t even bother to protest as he carries me across the room to the bathroom.
Gently, as if he fears I might break, he deposits me on the counter.
His heat radiates into me, but I’m still cold. My teeth chatter.
I close my eyes.
“Luna.”
“Go away.” I’m shivering now.
“Look at me, baby.”
“No.”
He cups my face. “Look. At. Me.”
The stern command and his touch have me obeying.
“You’re in shock,” he tells me.
I want to say no shit . But nothing emerges. All I can think about is those horrible seconds that feel like a lifetime, my father embracing me, the violent twitch of his body as the bullet made impact. The blood.
It’s still on me.
Priest washed my hands and face when we got here, and I was too numb to protest. But I’m still in my wedding dress, and I’m a bloody mess.
“Can you stand?”
“Y-yes.”
At least, I think I can stand.
He grasps my waist and helps me to my feet on the cold tiles. Another shudder goes through me, and he makes a growling noise, then flips two switches on. A heated fan starts blasting from above, and it’s a relief because I’m cold, so cold.
“You need a shower.”
“I c-can do it myself.”
His gaze is relentless, his jaw sharper than a knife, his lips set in a stern, forbidding line. “You shouldn’t be alone after what you’ve just been through.”