Reckoning: Naomi & Gabriel (The Middleton #4)

Chapter 1

The Tension

Naomi

I glare at my reflection in the gilded mirror, trying to ignore the stifling weight of my dress.

The tight corset and intricate lace are reminders of everything wrong with today: no breathing room, no freedom, no choice.

This mirror reflects everything I've tried to escape for the past five years—the expectations, the control, the suffocating traditions of a world I never asked to be born into.

The dress is a masterpiece of hometown craftsmanship, with hand-sewn pearls and French lace that probably cost more than most people make in a year.

Each crystal bead catches the afternoon light streaming through the stained glass windows, creating tiny rainbows across the white silk.

It's beautiful, undeniably so, but it might as well be a straightjacket designed by some sadistic fashion designer who believes women should suffer for beauty. I should also add that I had no input in its design or purchase. It is simply a garment that my family believes reflects who I am when they couldn’t be so far off the mark.

"I look ridiculous," I mutter, twisting to see the back where an endless row of tiny covered buttons march up my spine like soldiers in formation.

Nicole, my stepbrother Claude's girlfriend—or should I say my family-appointed handler—lounges on the settee by the window like she's watching an entertaining show rather than supervising a prisoner.

She looks up from her cell phone, one perfectly manicured brow raised in that way that manages to be both amused and condescending.

"An expensive kind of ridiculous, though," she says with a smirk that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"Would I have a say about this fiasco if the wedding dress was cheaper?" I ask her rhetorically, dripping in sarcasm thick enough to cut with a knife.

She shrugs with the casual indifference of someone who's never had her life orchestrated by others. "Am I supposed to feel sorry for you, Josephine? You're marrying a much hotter guy than I've got at home."

"Uh, that's my stepbrother you're talking about." I scowl at her reflection in the mirror. "And thanks for the pep talk. Very inspiring."

The room we're in feels like a museum exhibit—all antique furniture and religious artifacts that speak to generations of Catholic guilt and family tradition.

The walls are painted a soft cream color that probably has some pretentious name like "Angel's Breath" or "Divine Inspiration," and they're covered with paintings of saints who look like they've seen too much suffering to offer much comfort.

"And why do you have those tacky high-top sneakers on?" she quips back, gesturing toward my feet with obvious distaste. "It's your freakin' wedding day. You should have gotten some stilettos."

I look down at my feet, wiggling my toes inside the custom Converse high-tops that are probably the only thing about this entire day that actually represents who I am. They're white to match the dress, but covered in hand-applied crystals and pearls that catch the light with every movement.

"Humph," I scoff. "It took two weeks for the woman I hired from Etsy to put bling on these sneakers. I'm not changing anything about what's on my feet, especially for some bullshit wedding."

The shoes are my small rebellion, my tiny act of defiance in a day that's been planned down to the last flower petal without any input from me.

If I'm going to be forced into this marriage, at least I'll be wearing something that reminds me of the woman I was in Los Angeles—independent, quirky, free to make my own choices about something as simple as footwear.

Nicole rolls her eyes, but before she can reply with another sarcastic comment, the door swings open without so much as a courtesy knock. In walks the man of the hour, Gabriel LaRoche, moving with that predatory confidence that's always made me simultaneously nervous and intrigued.

He doesn't bother knocking—why would he? He’s a part of the same world that my father is in.

Men like him don't ask permission for anything.

They take what they want and deal with the consequences later.

He strides into the room like he owns not just this space but everything and everyone in it, his black tuxedo fitting him like it was designed specifically for his broad shoulders and narrow waist.

His dark eyes find me immediately in the mirror, and that infuriating smirk curves his lips—the same expression he's been giving me since we were teenagers, like he knows secrets about me that I haven't figured out yet.

"Bride prep is private," Nicole says, crossing her arms in a gesture that's more protective than authoritative. She might be here to keep me in line, but she's not completely heartless. "You're not supposed to be here."

Gabriel doesn't even glance her way, his gaze staying locked on my reflection like he's studying a particularly interesting piece of art. His presence fills the room, making the air feel thicker, more charged with possibility and danger.

"This is the part where you're supposed to gasp and tell me how fucking good I look," I say, my tone sharp enough to cut glass.

"Go ahead, LaRoche," Nicole adds, settling back to watch what promises to be an entertaining show. "Tell her."

His smirk deepens as he leans against the doorframe, hands sliding into his pockets with casual arrogance. The afternoon light streaming through the windows highlights the sharp angles of his face, the strong line of his jaw, the way his dark hair has been styled to look effortlessly perfect.

"What's the point of stating the obvious, Nikki? She already knows she looks good."

The casual arrogance in his response makes me want to throw the antique hand mirror at his head, but I force myself to remain composed. Years of living in my father's world have taught me that losing control in front of an audience is never a good idea.

“Nice,” I say, stepping forward so my dress rustles around me. "Did you come to practice your vows, or are you here to ruin my day early?"

Gabriel pushes off the doorframe, closing the distance between us with that fluid grace that's always reminded me of a lethal tiger stalking its prey. He's calm, confident—too confident for someone about to enter into a marriage neither of us originally wanted.

"I came to see if you're actually going through with this. Or if I should prepare for something dramatic like you fainting at the altar."

"Tempting," I say, tilting my head to study his face for any sign of what he's really thinking. "But I wouldn't want to upstage you. Your 'brooding mafia prince' act might lose its shine if people saw how much effort you put into your hair."

He uncomfortably runs a hand through his dark waves—got him—and I smile at the small victory. Even Gabriel LaRoche has his vanities, his tells that reveal the human underneath all that cultivated menace.

"I don't understand you, Gabriel," I say, stepping even closer until my dress brushes against his polished shoes. "I thought you and I were in agreement. Neither one of us wants this, right? So how did we end up here?"

"You tell me, Josephine?" He cocks his head to the side, and hearing my real name from his lips sends an unwanted shiver down my spine. "How did you allow yourself to be found in a big-ass city like Los Angeles?"

The question hits like a physical blow, and I feel the carefully constructed walls around my composure begin to crack. "So this is my fault?"

"It's not mine. I warned you he was coming. All you had to do was duck."

"You didn't give me much warning. He was already at my door by the time you got around to calling me."

The memory of that day still haunts my dreams—the sound of my father's voice through the apartment door, the way my hands shook as I realized my carefully built life was about to crumble around me. Gabriel’s warning had come too late, his voice tight with something that might have been regret or resignation.

(Granted, I was avoiding his calls for a while)

He shrugs smugly again, the gesture casual but his eyes are anything but. "I did my part."

"Well, you didn't do a good job."

His smirk fades, replaced by something sharper, more dangerous—the look he gets when someone challenges his competence or his authority.

"And what about you?" he says, his voice low and cutting.

"When he showed up at your apartment, what part of you just couldn't say no to him?

When does it stop? Will he tell you when to get pregnant, too? "

Unfortunately, I've known Gabriel and his bottom-feeder family for longer than I wish.

He's always thought I was weak, and he might just be right.

His words hit my gut with surgical precision, but I don't let the pain show on my face.

Years of practice have made me an expert at hiding emotional wounds.

"I'd burn this whole city to the ground before I have your baby."

“There she is.” His lips twitch into something softer, almost like genuine admiration. "That spirit is what I like about you. Too bad you think running away from the fire will keep you warm."

My breath catches at the unexpected gentleness in his tone, but I recover quickly. I can't afford to let Gabriel LaRoche see how much his opinion of me matters, how much I've always craved his approval even when I was supposed to hate him.

"And what's your plan, Gabriel? Marry me, collect your prize, and live happily ever after in Mafia Disneyland?"

"No," he says, his voice serious now, stripped of its usual mockery. "My plan is to survive."

"Survive?"

The weight of that single word settles over me, heavy and undeniable.

My family—specifically, my father—is a motherfucker who has his boot on all the organized crime families in New Orleans, but especially on Gabriel's family's collective neck.

But the pressure is justified, at least according to the story I've been told my entire life.

Gabriel's family is responsible for the death of my only biological brother, Leo.

My big brother. The apple of my father's eye. And that’s a crime my father will never forgive, so the LaRoche family has accrued a bottomless debt.

And this arranged marriage is just a small part of their payment whether I want it or not.

"Uh, I hate to interrupt this... whatever this is," Nicole says, cutting through the tension with the carefulness of someone who's experienced in reading dangerous situations.

"But Claude just texted me, and the wedding coordinator is downstairs, losing her mind.

Something about asymmetrical flowers. She wants your input. "

Wedding flowers. This is my life now—debating the proper arrangement of roses and lilies while my future hangs in the balance like a sword over my head.

"Of course. I'll handle it," I say, grateful for any excuse to escape the suffocating intensity of Gabriel's presence.

As I reach the door, I glance over my shoulder at Gabriel with what I hope looks like casual indifference. "I'll see you at the altar, LaRoche. Try not to kill anyone up until then."

His face darkens, but there's heat in his eyes that makes my pulse quicken despite my best efforts to remain unaffected. "And you try not to ruin that dress, Josephine. I'm going to have so much fun taking it off of you later."

He's playing with my head—that's what he does. Gabriel doesn't want this wedding just as much as I don't. So why does my stomach flip whenever he stares at me like that, as if his words are grounded in some deeper truth I'm not ready to acknowledge?

"My name is Naomi, dickhead," I bite back because I don't have another quippy comeback ready.

"We can do all the role-playing you want on our honeymoon, Naomi, but in front of witnesses in just a few hours, the name will be Mrs. Josephine LaRoche. Nice and legal-like."

I roll my eyes and walk out, but I can't quite shake the feeling of his gaze burning into my back, or the way his words linger in the air like smoke that refuses to dissipate.

Mrs. Josephine LaRoche. The name tastes foreign on my tongue, like a language I once knew but have spent years trying to forget.

I can't even imagine what that version of myself will look like.