Chapter 23
Like a lamb being herded to slaughter, she walks toward me with short, tentative steps. The long train of her wedding dress drags behind her. She looks like an angel, adorned in a cloud of white lace, walking among a crowd of wicked mortals gathered in the house of God.
A better man would have put a stop to this.
Would have protected the pure flower but left her to thrive on her own.
Would have allowed her to live her simple, now much less complicated life, surrounded by love and people she cares about.
Away from the filth and scum that muddies my own. But I am not that man.
I am way too selfish.
So, instead, I’ve stolen the angel from Heaven. And I’m claiming her for myself.
Over anyone’s objections. If they have any, they’ll never find peace.
I won’t let them.
For the briefest moment, I tear my eyes away from my bride, but only to make sure my people are in place, protecting the venue.
Protecting my soon-to-be wife. I have two dozen inconspicuous but heavily armed men stationed all around the cathedral.
They can descend on the altar, or anywhere else trouble may brew, within seconds.
Fifteen more are on guard outside. It’s likely overkill, but I’m not taking any chances.
Not after another riddle-filled verse popped up on my phone this morning.
9:14 Unknown:
Happy faces, celebration bells
They sing and ring with joy while the silence quells
But smiles will fade, and no one will see
The end is nigh. A tragedy.
All my attempts to locate the motherfucker have failed. Again. As Barty supposed, it must be someone I know. But who? Who is this asshole?
My men on Iris’s security team have not encountered any issues while protecting her or even noticed anything suspicious.
Doesn’t mean this calm before the storm will last. Is the bastard here now?
Could he be someone from la Famiglia? Fuck if I know.
But, there is one thing of which I’m certain.
This piece of shit could be the Almighty himself, but if he tries to harm even a single hair on my Little Iris’s head, I’ll end the cowardly fuck. And it will not be painless.
The final notes of the wedding march die as Iris reaches me at the altar.
A veil of soft Italian tulle covers her face, but it can’t hide her pale complexion.
Skin that was flushed from that devastating kiss last night.
The kiss that never should have happened.
Except I fell under her spell yet again.
The bishop launches into his long, mumbled nonsense—in Italian, of course—unconcerned that half of the assembled likely either don’t remember or never bothered to learn their ancestral language.
I pay him no heed, utterly disinterested in his words.
Faith isn’t something I count on. God and I have stayed out of each other’s way for quite a while.
Instead, I feast on the vision before me.
The woman in white standing by my side. All while I reminisce about the feel of her in my arms, the taste of her lips, her breathless little mewls.
I tried to banish those thoughts from my mind, but it was pointless. Just as futile as trying to forget that irritating sensation in my chest. The one that has my heart pumping twice as fast from simply having my lips on hers.
I refuse to name it.
It’s dangerous, this feeling that’s squeezing my lungs. That’s pulling me under like a crushing wave. It seems to swell inside me whenever she is near. It may have started as an annoying drip, but it has morphed into an unstoppable tsunami.
Drowning me completely.
In that instant, every significant aspect of my life—the wealth, the power, my carefully crafted reputation and hard-earned respect—dissolved. None of that mattered. The things I worked for decades to achieve were suddenly rendered worthless. There was only one crucial element left. Her.
And that is completely unacceptable. No one can have that kind of power over me.
As of today, this madness will be over. There will be no need for stalkerish escapades or clandestine, duplicitous meetings.
No urgency to orchestrate calamities or benevolent acts in order to maneuver my sweet dose of pain reliever into my orbit.
Life will return to normal in Adriano Ruffo’s universe.
The bishop’s voice rises as he starts to read out the vows. I seek my bride’s gaze while preparing to give my answer, but her eyes are downcast, glued to the cathedral marble tiles.
“Sì, lo voglio.”
Only when it’s her turn does she finally look at me, her scared amber eyes locking on mine. Instantly, that treacherous warmth unfurls in my chest.
“Sì, lo voglio.” Her voice is barely audible when she agrees to be my lawful and cherished wife until we are parted by death.
I reach into my pocket, producing two wedding bands.
According to Cosa Nostra snobs, it’s borderline blasphemous not to have the best men hand them over, but I don’t fucking care.
The thought of another man in close proximity while I’m claiming Iris as mine stirred up a murderous rage within me.
I figured it would be best if I avoided bloodshed at the altar, so I decided to forgo the tradition.
Who the hell would I choose as my best man anyway?
Iris’s pixie face loses more color as I slip the thick platinum band onto her finger. The sight of it on her delicate hand ramps up that damn unwelcome feeling. It’s on the brink of bursting free, but I shove it deep, deep down. Locking it away.
With a trembling hand, she picks up the ring meant for me. It takes her a few tries before she successfully slides the matching band onto my finger.
“Vi dichiaro uniti in matrimonio.” The bishop pronounces us husband and wife. “You may kiss your bride.”
Iris’s frantic eyes flare wildly as I slip my hand to the small of her back.
She looks like a terrified, lost lamb, quaking at the mere thought of kissing me.
The exact opposite of her appearance and behavior last night.
But of course, she had no idea it was me.
And she’ll never find out, either. Yesterday’s kiss will be like the kiss we shared at the nightclub.
Rendered inconsequential. Forgotten. I need to make sure nothing like that can ever happen again.
She means nothing to me.
I pull her toward me and, lifting her veil, lower my head to graze her lips. Just as an explosion rattles the rafters.
Screams erupt from every side, as well as roaring shouts to take cover.
I suck in a breath and end up breaking out in a coughing fit.
What the heck just happened? One second, I was about to be kissed by my new husband, the next, an epic boom shook the cathedral.
And now, I’m wrapped in someone’s arms and being rushed away at breakneck speed.
“What…?” I cough, attempting to look around, but I can barely move. The hold on me tightens—massive arms crush me against a broad wall of masculine chest, and a large hand plunges through my hair to press my face into the column of his warm neck.
“I’ll ground that asshole into a pulp.” With the way my head is pressed to Ruffo, his bark rumbles against me.
“The shitstain likes festive sounds? I’m going to cut off his fucking balls and tie them around his neck; he can wear them like goddamn jingle bells come Christmas.
” He readjusts me in his arms. “You okay, Little Iris?”
“Yes,” I mumble. Wiggling my arms, I try to push away from his chest, but Ruffo’s steel-like grip keeps me plastered to him. “What’s going on?”
“Explosion.”
“My friends are in there!” I scream while attempting to get free.
“They’ll be escorted outside, along with everyone else. Don’t worry.”
The pressure on the back of my head eases slightly, and I manage to turn enough to glance over his shoulder.
A thick plume of smoke rises into the soaring cathedral ceiling, but I can’t see the source or the fire.
A few steps behind us, a guy in a black suit is urging Evelyn forward with his arm wrapped around her waist. Rina is running just behind them.
Another group of people is heading toward an adjacent side exit, and Don Spada has Ms. Zara thrown over his shoulder as if she’s a sack of potatoes.
She doesn’t look even a bit happy about it.
We burst into the early evening sunshine and head directly for the shiny limo idling just a few feet away. The back door is already held open by an armed man, while another guy in black, with a gun strapped into a holster under his unbuttoned jacket, runs up as we get near.
“Sir! Max just reported in. The centralized HVAC system in the basement must have malfunctioned. There are no apparent signs of tampering, but we’re not ruling it out.”
“Malfunction my ass!” Ruffo roars. “I want this shit show checked out in the next two hours, Brahms. Get me the fucking answers that will nail this fuck!”
Ruffo’s man seems momentarily shocked by the outburst. His mouth gapes and eyes bulge as he stares at his boss, but he recovers quickly and snaps out a yes, sir, while gesturing to the guy holding the car door open to get going.
“Could you please put me down?” I whisper to the enraged man still holding me.
His grip tightens.
“No.” He slides inside the car with me still in his arms before depositing me on his lap as he settles in the middle of the seat. “And, Brahms,” he calls out, speaking through gritted teeth. “I want the entire team overseeing the event security at my place for the debrief. You got me?”
The man visibly blanches. He swallows and nods, closing the car door. The limo takes off a split second later.
A minute passes, but my husband doesn’t seem like he’ll be releasing me from his clutches any time soon.
He stares straight ahead, his face all hard lines and clenched jaw, as if frozen in time.
A mask of cold stoicism over barely contained fury and suppressed rage.
He keeps still, not putting me down, not letting me go. Just holds me to him.
I’m not sure how I should act or what to make of his weird behavior.
“I have to call my mom,” I say. “Someone probably already told her what happened. She must be worried sick. And I have to check on my friends.”
A nod.
“My phone, along with my bag, is still in the bridal suite at the cathedral.”
He finally gives up his death grip on my legs and reaches inside his right jacket pocket to fish out his phone. Once he places it on my awaiting palm, he returns to holding on to my legs as if they’ll run away somewhere.
“I really need to make this phone call, Mr. Ruffo.”
“Adriano,” he growls.
“Adriano.” I nod. I have no idea what’s going on with him. He’s acting so bizarre. “Could you please let go of me?”
He looks down, his eyes meeting mine for the first time since we were at the altar.
The icy blues seem to glisten in the gloomy interior of the car, scorching me with their intensity.
I’m trapped in those glacial depths while a kaleidoscope of emotions turns inside me—admiration, fear, confusion, wonder, guilt, disgust, excitement, dread, lust—everything I’ve felt toward him in the past few months.
His gaze drops lower, settling on my mouth. With that, he takes away my ability to breathe. My pulse jumps. My lips part. Beneath his touch, my skin is on fire.
He is going to kiss me.
Instead, his hold loosens, and his arms fall away from me.
“Make your call.” A quietly spoken order.
The moment shatters like an ice sheet under pressure. The metaphorical frozen ground beneath my feet forms fissures and gives way. I find myself in brand new territory now.
As quickly as the long train of my dress will allow, I scramble off his lap, moving to the seat across from him, my fingers already flying over the phone to dial.