Chapter 21 Matteo
MATTEO
“I can’t believe we’re actually planning our wedding.” Sierra fidgets with the ring on her finger. “It doesn’t feel real.”
It’s starting to feel real to me. That’s the problem.
When Lorenzo ordered me to marry her, it was strategy. A weapon. A means to an end.
Now it’s almost here. It’s real. And somewhere along the way, it started to matter.
I shove the feeling down where I keep everything else I don’t look at.
The wedding planner’s office is full of fabric samples and place settings. Flower arrangements everywhere. Brochures covering every surface. Photographers. Bands. Venues. Magicians. Hot air balloons.
A petting zoo.
Who the hell wants farm animals at their wedding?
I lower myself into a chair that looks more decorative than functional. It creaks under my weight but holds.
The wedding planner is in her fifties. Drawn-on eyebrows. Practiced smile. Her hairspray is strong enough to make my nose itch from across the desk. But she didn’t blink at the short timeline. Amazing what a fat deposit and the Andretti name can do.
“Welcome. My name is Marjorie, and I can’t wait to make your dream wedding a reality.”
She focuses her attention on Sierra. Smart.
I’ve got nothing to offer this conversation. My mind keeps drifting somewhere it has no business going.
Last night, Sierra above me, gasping my name. Usually, sex clears my head. Lets me move on. Not this time. I woke up wanting her more than before.
She’s different.
She’s become something to me without my permission.
She’s a weakness.
The truth settles heavy in my gut as Marjorie talks about color schemes. I catch maybe every fourth word. Sierra and I agreed to keep things simple before we walked in. This wedding isn’t about us. It’s about putting on a show.
That’s starting to feel like bullshit.
“Is that okay with you?”
Sierra’s turned toward me. Waiting.
I blink. “What?”
The edge in my tone makes her frown. Fuck. I wasn’t snapping at her, just pissed at myself for drifting.
“I asked if you’d mind if I took care of the flowers.” Her fingers twist together. “It’s kind of my thing. I’ve made bouquets for friends for years, and I’d love to handle my own flowers.”
I don’t know why that gets to me. But it does.
She wants this. Not the show. Not the fake marriage to trap Viktor. She wants this—the flowers, the cake, the bullshit wedding details that don’t mean a damn thing to me but clearly mean something to her.
Did she ever think about this day? Marrying someone she loved? Having a family?
I’ve never wondered about another person’s hopes before.
My discomfort grows teeth. I shift in the chair, suddenly aware of how wrong I look in this room full of lace and pastels.
I jerk my head in a nod. “Of course.”
Her smile is small, but it’s real. And it does things to me I don’t have time to process.
Marjorie keeps talking. We just need to decide on music and cake today.
Lorenzo already chose the venue. A small church in Lone Mountain, nearly a century old, with Red Rock Canyon rising behind it.
Beautiful spot. Also sits on five acres of flat land with clear sightlines, which isn’t a coincidence.
Sierra’s family is handling food. Her mother used to cater. After eating one meal at their house, I know it’ll be good.
Marjorie hands us a QR code for bands. Six available on short notice. I’ll do two dances. One with Sierra. One with my mother. Then I’m off that floor.
Marjorie shakes our hands and tells us she’s thrilled to be part of our special day. I manage not to grunt at that. In the truck, Sierra gives me the bakery address so we can sample wedding cakes.
“White cake,” Sierra quips as we pull into traffic. “I’ve always loved wedding cake. It’s so fluffy and perfect.”
I glance at her. She’s excited. Genuinely excited.
And I’m wondering if a better man would share that excitement. If she wishes she had someone who gave a shit about cake flavors and floral arrangements instead of a grumpy enforcer who’d rather be anywhere else.
Not that I want to be anywhere else.
The thought of another man sitting next to her, planning to marry her, makes my hands tighten on the wheel.
I’m not worthy of this. But I’ll be damned if I let anyone take her away from me.
At the bakery, the samples come out. White cake with lemon curd. Chocolate with raspberry. Red velvet with cream cheese. I try them, but don’t say much. I don’t have a sweet tooth, but I don’t want to kill the light in her eyes.
She’s practically glowing.
I’m stiff. Distant. And I don’t know how to fix the war in my chest.
Duty. Desire. Feeling inadequate while wanting to be more.
All because of this woman holding out a fork with cake on it, looking at me like this moment matters.
She looks happy.
I try to remember feeling that way. Maybe as a kid. Before.
The walls of this place are too close. The lights are too bright. The sweetness in the air is cloying, and I can’t quite catch my breath.
I need space.
“I need some air.” I stand. “Pick whatever you want.”
I curse myself as I walk out. So much for being better.
Outside, I light a cigarette and lean against the wall. The smoke takes the edge off.
I like her. That’s the problem.
I’m not a good person. Thinking about the difference between her and me makes me want to put my fist through brick.
Two women walk past. One eyes my cigarette with disgust. I smirk back. Once they’re inside, I crush the rest under my boot.
Before I can head back in, the door opens and Sierra steps out, but she’s not pissed. She’s concerned.
My sunshine.
“So.” She leans against the wall beside me. “Was it the red velvet that broke you, or the thought of picking napkin colors?”
I grunt.
Her teasing fades. “Seriously, though. You okay?”
I give a quick shrug. “I’m fine. Just needed a smoke.”
She doesn’t say anything about the habit, but I see the flicker of disapproval in her eyes. I tell myself I don’t care.
But I’m already thinking about the nicotine gum stashed in my truck.
“I chose raspberry filling.” We walk toward the vehicle. “You seemed to like that one.”
She’s right.
“You didn’t have to pick something for me.”
“It’s your wedding, too. I’m getting the flowers, and I’m guessing you’ll let me pick the music.”
“Don’t care about that. No country though.”
Her laugh loosens some of the tension in my shoulders.
At the truck, I open her door. She smiles, and I lean in to brush my lips against hers.
Fuck being a weakness. My fingers curl against my thigh. I want to touch her. Pull her into my lap. Mark her so every man who looks at her knows. She’s becoming an obsession.
She climbs in, and I let my gaze drag over the curve of her ass before I round the truck and slide behind the wheel.
When I glance over, she’s watching me with a thoughtful expression.
“I was going to ask if we could go to a flower shop,” she says. “But I can go later. Better selection at the market anyway.”
I sigh. Now she thinks I don’t want to spend time with her.
“I’ll take you if you want.”
“Actually, I have a better idea.” Her smile turns secretive. “Let’s take a break from wedding planning.”
“What do you have in mind?”
That smile again. “Follow my directions.”
She pulls out her phone. I follow her instructions until we pull up to a shooting range.
I turn to her with a question in my eyes.
“I’ve been thinking about this all day.” She meets my eyes. “I want you to teach me how to shoot a gun.”
“After yesterday?”
“Especially after yesterday.” Her jaw sets. “I want to take my power back.”
I can’t argue with that logic. It’s why I turned to violence in the first place. Control the chaos before it controls you.
“Good idea.”
The words come out rough. My first real response all day.
I want to keep her safe myself. But I’m a realist. If something happens and I can’t protect her, she needs to be able to protect herself.
I open my door and pause.
“Brace yourself, Sunshine. You’re going to be sore later.”