1. Riley
Riley
ONE MONTH AGO
H ere’s the deal.
I love my sister.
And today is her fairy tale. Her happily-ever-after.
Which is why I swear to God, I will not be the one who shits all over her wedding.
Even through the fog of jet lag, layered over zero to eat, I stand there, absorbing an exchange of the strangest vows I’ve ever heard. They land somewhere between a business merger and a cult initiation.
And as Kennedy gets swept off her feet by a valiant, dominant, kiss-her-breathless-like-none-of-us-exist Prince Charming…
I simply plaster on my biggest, fakest smile.
The one usually reserved for overly chatty Uber drivers who look suspiciously like #8 on America’s Most Wanted.
Because despite the fact I’m barely treading water in the deep end of my feelings, I will forgive her.
Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But someday, I won’t hold it over her head that she’s breaking our pact.
The pact we swore every Christmas, lying awake, waiting for our evil step-monster Jimmy to finally drink himself into oblivion…
Us . Just us.
That no matter what happens, we have each other.
Which, now that the ceremony is over, is as clear as a zit on Meghan Markle’s perfect button nose: we don’t.
In a rush of newlywed bliss, Kennedy is marrying him . No warning. No heads-up. Not one damn clue she was even in a relationship.
Seriously, until the priest said, Do you, Enzo Ares D’Angelo, take Kennedy, I didn’t even know the guy’s name.
I mean, I knew he was a D’Angelo. And the next-level wealth that clings to him like a stripper’s legs around a pole should impress me.
It doesn’t.
Not the private jets that flew in the entire guest list—including me.
Not the exclusive Catholic church that somehow was miraculously available at an hour usually reserved for Christmas Eve Mass and exorcisms.
Not the slew of brothers standing at the altar in kilts, looking like an army of demigods. Which, as eye candy goes, I appreciate as much as the next girl.
But considering they’re in kilts, and we’re in a church, I avert my eyes to avoid a first-class smiting.
And don’t even get me started on the full-scale bagpipe brigade that I overheard was flown in last minute.
From Edinburgh.
None of it impresses me. Because I don’t care how much money he has.
I care about how Dark Daddy Warbucks treats my sister.
And… ugh , the sexual tension is too thick to see through.
Is that Fuck you, I hate you ? Or Fuck me like you hate me?
Considering Kennedy has no qualms about lying straight to my face if she thinks she’s protecting me, and has never so much as gone on a date without checking with me first, I have no freaking clue.
And now she’s letting a stranger slip a ring on her finger.
All while I’m still processing it. Cheerily, of course. And before the priest so much as thinks of allowing anyone to object, her whirlwind romance whisks her away through the church doors, swallowed into the night.
Followed by a horde of Scottish bagpipers.
Two children Kennedy is now insta-mom to.
A nanny.
Truffles the dog.
And a stampede of hot Italian stallion brothers…
And suddenly, it’s just me.
Well, me and the priest.
With that level of hotness and build like a D’Angelo, I’m starting to wonder if he’s related. Or maybe, that’s just me, seeing D’Angelo’s where none exist.
Clearly, I have a type.
“Everything alright, my child?” he asks because I’m just standing there. Still reeling from being visually assaulted by an army of men in kilts.
Or at least, him.
The smoldering one.
The one with eyes like a brewing storm, a jaw carved by the gods, and enough raw dominance to bend the universe to his will.
And the one, I’m pretty sure, was going full-on commando.
Dante .
Okay, so maybe I know who he is.
Or more like, I know what he is.
A D’Angelo.
In my very desperate, very one-time phone call with him, I learned three things fast:
One, he’s a rich-prick nightclub owner.
Two, he all but tricked me into luring my sister straight into his brother’s path.
And three, he comes with more warnings than a Category 5 hurricane.
Case in point: My lady parts light up like a Vegas marquee at the mere sight of him. And if my love life were a fridge, it’d be covered in Worst Idea Ever magnets.
So yeah, straight to the shit list he goes.
Especially for the mammoth-sized uzi strapped under his kilt.
Before I spin around that orbit any more, or head for the confessional, I blink out of it. “No. Sorry, I just…”
I don’t even finish the sentence.
I stumble over a pew, catch myself, and hurry off, pushing through the doors and straight into the cold, desolate Chicago night…where not a soul is waiting for me.
Not Kennedy. Not one single guest from the over-the-top wedding.
Okay, so maybe I didn’t know exactly what I expected.
But was a five-minute reprieve to screw my head on straight and ogle a priest too much to ask?
Apparently.
Across the street, a sleek black Mercedes sits idle.
Waiting? Parked?
Hard to tell.
But considering there’s no one else on this street, it has to be for me. Right?
The road is empty. Midnight stretches long and quiet.
Still, I don’t move.
My feet hesitate just long enough to hear the heavy click of the church doors locking behind me.
Right. He sleeps there.
Where else would he sleep, Riley? A Marriott?
A sharp gust of wind whips past, rattling the trees and sending a shiver down my spine.
My heart slams against my ribs, a relentless battering ram driving me forward.
A sane person would turn around. Knock politely. Beg the hot priest to let me in and hunker down for the night.
Or, I don’t know, ask to use the phone.
But because I’m not sane, and clearly missing critical DNA strands, I lunge for the car, grip the handle, and yank. Full-blown Grand Theft Auto mode.
“Hello?”
Locked.
My knuckles rap against the dark tinted glass.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Nothing.
I press my palm to the cold metal, my breath fogging against the window. No movement. No light. No driver.
“Come on,” I mutter, frustration prickling under my skin.
Is it too much to ask for two people to be fucking in the back seat?
Somewhere in the distance, a cat screeches, sharp and sudden. My heart jumps out of my chest.
Nope.
Nope, nope, nope.
That’s my cue. I’m officially ready to crawl back inside and spend the night on a hard pew. Hot Priest can’t kick me out, right? Sanctuary and all?
A big, rough hand grazes my arm.
“Need a ride?”