Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
KENNEDY
Andre D’Angelo strolls in alone. His face is icy, cold, and unreadable. Two armed guards rush him, frisk him, and then, as if hell itself has frozen over, they offer him a seat.
My eyes widen. He moves slowly and methodically, assessing my outfit, then Enzo’s, understandably pausing at his kilt before he finally sits down in the very last pew.
“What’s he doing here?” I whisper, hating how just one look from the man makes my pulse frantic and my lizard brain take over. Fight or flight. Survival mode.
My feet are ready to move, to grab the girls and Riley and run. Run as fast and as far as I can when Enzo’s warm hand squeezes mine, grounding me.
It’s as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking the moment I think it.
It’s as if he really is a prince.
That is, until he isn’t.
Calmly, quietly, his words hit me like a wrecking ball. “I invited him.”
“You what?” The initial wave of panic subsides into a murky lull of disbelief. “Why?”
“I already told you. It’s me or him, Bella . I’m not sitting around for months with my thumb up my ass while you think it through. We do this now or not at all.” He motions to the door, his golden eyes dark. “Uncle Andre’s chariot awaits.”
He’s forcing my hand the only way he knows how—decisive and cutthroat. There’s nothing to argue. Either I’m doing this, or I’m just one more weight anchoring him down.
In his own special asshole way, the choice is mine.
“Enzo,” Dante’s low voice cut in, the voice of reason slicing through the tension. “This wasn’t part of the plan.”
“This was exactly the plan.”
“One you didn’t bother including us in,” Smoke fires back, his anger bottled up in a whisper.
Trinity stands to my left, her expression, a clear what-the-actual-fuck , while Dory looks half a second from grabbing the girls and fleeing.
Free-spirited Riley, on the other hand, looks around with a patient smile, oblivious to the dumpster fire happening right in front of her face, and stifles a yawn.
With the calm authority of a man who’s seen it all, Father Marc speaks up. “Please, everyone is welcome in the house of the Lord.”
Yes, of course. Where demons can waltz in to witness Satan himself getting hitched.
Enzo locks eyes with Father Marc, and just like that, the ceremony resumes. “Do you, Kennedy, take Enzo Ares D’Angelo, to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
I knot my arms tightly, feeling my husband-to-be pushing me to the boiling point. “I’m thinking.” Yup. I’m thinking about what an asshole you are.
“I suggest you think faster,” Enzo growls, his voice gravelly.
I tap my chin, irritation bubbling up. “ Hmm . Death or Enzo, death or Enzo...”
Make no mistake. I know better than to poke the bear. It’s a lesson I’ve learned many times over. And somewhere in my stubborn head, I know I’m putting Riley, the girls, and even Truffles at risk.
But goddamnit, I’m pissed. If the fuckface is backing me into a corner and strong-arming me into matrimony, then I’m taking my sweet time coming around.
He leans in, his breath hot against my ear. “Tick-tock, Bella .”
I look up at Father Marc. “I’m sorry, can you repeat the question?”
By this point, I can feel the vibrations of Enzo’s head about to explode. Father Marc’s face quirks like a puppy seeking permission. To which Enzo cracks his knuckles. “Ask away.”
And for the third time, Father Marc recites the words, each syllable dragging like molasses. “Do you, Kennedy, take Enzo Ares D’Angelo”—he tugs at his collar—“to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
I can’t even look at Enzo. “Sure. Fine. Why not?”
A unanimous sigh of relief sweeps across the church.
Father Marc turns to Enzo. “Do you, Enzo, take Kennedy Luciano, to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I do.”
I try to remind myself that Father Marc is only going by every legal document Jimmy Luciano ever changed. But when that name hits my ears, the rubber band holding my sanity together snaps.
“Mullvain.” My eyes lock onto Father Marc’s, my voice steady and firm. “My name is Kennedy Mullvain.”
“Wrong,” Enzo insists. He slips the wedding band onto my finger, locking it in place like a noose. “Your name is Kennedy Mullvain D’Angelo.”
Without warning, his arms pull me in, forcing me against the solid planes of his chest. His lips crush mine.
Possessing me.
Owning me.
Devouring me and demanding more of me in that moment than in all the moments before.
It almost feels like he’s proving a point, though what point that is becomes completely lost.
I’m dizzy and dazed in the slow, languid sweeps of his tongue and his soft, full lips. This is Enzo, a potent concoction of rage and white-hot desire that lifts me to my toes and brings me to my knees all at once.
His heart thunders against mine, and I can’t tell if the rush sweeping me away is floating or falling.
I barely register the door slam.
Or the explosion of cheers and applause.
Or even the bagpipes roaring out a triumphant, time-honored melody.
All I can hear is Enzo’s whisper against my lips.
“ Dh’athgair ,” he murmurs against my lips. I didn’t know much Gaelic, but this word I knew.
Claimed .