12. Pietro
PIETRO
CHOKEHOLDS AND CHAMPAGNE
T he room is thick with the scent of expensive cologne and fresh linens.
My brothers and I are dressed to the nines.
The sharp lines of our custom-made suits reflect our power and status.
My jet-black suit has a subtle sheen that catches the dim lighting of the lounge area close to the guests.
We’ve been relegated to this room as we wait for the bride.
My white dress shirt is starched and crisp, clinging to my muscles.
I left the top button open now, knowing my tattoos aren’t fully covered.
The three rings and tats on my hands are fitting for my world.
The knot of my tie hangs loose as we wait for the ceremony to begin.
Matteo adjusts his cufflinks—the Borrelli family crest embossed in gold—while Renalto, the groom himself, paces near the old fireplace, rolling his shoulders like he’s getting ready for a boxing match.
“You ready for this?” I ask him, smirking as I pull a flask from my jacket pocket and sip whiskey.
“There's no backing out now. This fucking curse is hanging over me like a bird waiting to shit. I hate waiting, and I hate feeling like a sitting duck. I want today to be perfect. Abigail deserves that.” I take four steps and hand the flask to Renalto, who exhales, shaking his head with a half-laugh. “Women, we can’t live with them. We can’t live without them,” he smirked, tossing back a belt .
“Damn right,” Matteo grins. "We didn't put up with months of wedding planning just for you to get cold feet,” he grumbles.
Before Renalto can respond, a sharp knock at the door has us all turning. One of our guards enters, his face tight. “Boss, we have a new development.”
Matteo and I exchange glances before Matteo speaks. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Warehouses are burning. Morettis.”
Silence stretches, thick and unspoken. We all know what this means. Moretti’s losing control of his operations, or someone’s sending a message. Either way, it can potentially ruin this day if we are next.
Renalto sighs, hands the flask to Matteo, and rubs the back of his neck. “Not today. Of all damn days.”
“We'll handle it," I say firmly. "No one ruins your wedding.”
Matteo pulls out his phone, steps to the side to make the call, and likely arranges for our men to monitor the situation.
He mumbles into the phone before he turns back to us.
“Let’s keep this quiet for now. If this is a play against Moretti, we’re spectators, not players—until we decide otherwise. ”
We’re all on pins and needles when the door swings open again, and in strides Bianca, our youngest sibling.
Her dress is deep green, a flowing satin that makes her look like she’d rather be in combat boots than heels. She wears confidence like a second skin, her long, dark hair pulled back in an elegant style that likely took her minimal effort.
Bianca has spent a year secluded in Switzerland, sent to an elite private school that doubled as a training ground for martial arts and foreign languages.
She could disarm a man in four languages before he even realized she was a threat.
And yet, she dares to smirk at us like she’s here to enjoy the champagne and debauchery.
“What’s this? Are the legendary Borrelli brothers all looking like they might puke? Touching. Really.” She saunters over with a glass of champagne in her hand and drinks from the flute with too much ease.
“How the hell did you sneak that in here?” I ask.
“I have my ways,” she smiles like a Cheshire cat .
Renalto groans. “I don’t need this right now.”
“Oh, but you do,” she says, taking another sip of her drink—this time with the poise of a silent film star, all elegance and unspoken drama. “Tension before a wedding is classic. But don’t worry, big brother. I’ll be here to make sure you don’t pass out,” she teases as she slugs Renalto’s arm.
“Ouch, damn woman, are you lifting weights?” he whines.
Matteo rolls his eyes. “And you, Miss Switzerland, have been living in paradise while we handle real business.”
She gasps dramatically. “Oh yes, paradise. Where they make you fight in knee-deep snow and learn to lie in six different dialects, you should try it sometime.”
“Sounds like a dream,” I mutter, amused despite myself. I miss her. Italy was boring after she left. It was another reason to come to New York. I figured we’d all wind up here anyway.
Bianca waves a manicured hand. “Anyway, I’m off to check on the bride before she runs for it.” She blows us a kiss before exiting, heading toward the bridal suite.
“It’s too quiet,” I say as I turn to follow.
“What do you mean?” Renalto’s head whips up like a dog who heard a whistle.
“Relax, I’m going to do a sweep. Stay put. We can’t have you involved in any untoward events today.”
He’s not happy, but Matteo nods, and it’s done.
I carefully follow in my sister’s footsteps.
“I know you’re there, brother. You need to get up two days before me to get a jump on me.”
“All in time, lil sis.”
She chuckles as she sets her flute on a table in the hall, carefully opens the door, but pauses unnaturally.
“What is it?”
“Sheesh,” she moves her hand for me to back up.
“What the fuck?” I reply, but I step back, giving her space.
Something is off .
“A woman has a knife to Abigail’s throat. Please use your devastatingly handsome face to distract her. I’ll slip in through the door behind her,” she says, and then she disappears like the wind before I can respond.
I wanted to say I’ll handle it, but my sister is determined to save the day. She’s relentless when inspired, so I push the heavy oak door open and do her bidding.
But I’m not prepared for what I see, Abigail, held captive. The fear in her eyes says everything she can’t because a woman stands behind her, a dagger pressed to her throat. The blade doesn’t pierce, but her skin dimples beneath the pressure stretched into a fragile line between threat and blood.
“Step back,” the woman warns.
“Look, I’m sure we can resolve this peacefully. Let her go.”
“You don’t get it. Renalto loves me,” her angry eyes flash, filled with desperation.
“You need to surrender now or spend your life in prison.” Prison is too good for her. She threatened a Borrelli. There’s only one fitting outcome for her—death.
“It will be okay, Abigail,” I say as my peripheral vision picks up on the door behind her opening. I’ll blow the rescue mission if I don’t play my part.
The woman is dressed in black, and her grip tightens on Abigail’s neck. “She took everything from me. I won’t let her have this, too.”
“Just stay calm; I’m sure Renalto can fix this,” I say, placating the villainous woman.
The door behind me swings wide. I can’t look, but a voice behind me says, “Vivian, you don’t have to do this."
Melanie, Abigail’s best friend, takes her place beside me.
Bianca doesn’t hesitate for a second after she steps inside.
Her chiffon dress flows as she shifts subtly to block the door.
Bianca moves like a shadow, silent and lethal, circling toward the woman’s back.
In one swift motion, she rushes forward, grabs Vivian around the neck, and wrenches her to the ground, locking her into a chokehold.
The knife clatters away. Melanie gasps, then rushes forward to gather her friend in her arms.
I step in to assist my sister, but it’s not needed. Bianca tightens her grip on the assailant, Vivian, her voice steady as she calmly states, “You picked the wrong bride, bitch.”
The door bursts open as Matteo, Renalto, and Niccoló sweep in, weapons drawn. When they see Bianca casually keeping Vivian restrained, they pause.
Matteo lets out a low whistle. “Remind me never to piss you off, Bianca.”
Amusement dances in Renalto’s eyes despite the tension. He shakes his head. "Jesus, Bianca. Can you give me one ‘I saved the day’ moment?
Bianca smirks, wiping a stray hair from her face as she hauls Vivian to her feet. “Oh, come on, where’s the fun in that?”
Matteo gestures to the guards outside and barks, “Clean this up.”
Vivian is hauled away by the guard, who takes command of her as she continues to curse in Italian.
I turn to Abigail, who is shaken but not dissuaded as Renalto pulls her into his enormous chest.
“It’s all behind us now,” he murmurs, kissing her temple.
She nervously laughs, but I can tell she’s still catching her breath, and then she turns to my sister. “It was all so fast! Thank you, Bianca.” Then, she turns her heart-shaped face to Renalto. “It’s bad luck to see me in my dress before the wedding,” she says without missing a beat.
He smiles, and with his hands framing her face, he says, “I think we’re good. Besides, that’s just superstition. You’re mine. It’s time the entire world knows it.”
And with that, the wedding commences as war looms beyond the sacred walls.
This family rarely has a dull moment, but I love them and learned long ago to embrace the insanity.
Besides, I have my little war to attend to, and it involves a blue-eyed goddess who has no clue our spats at work will only end in one way .
And that’s with her beneath me, taking my nine-inch cock and screaming my name as she comes.
Whoever said work is boring?