Chapter 2 Kingston
KINGSTON
I clutch the highball glass of bourbon in my hand, sloshing the amber-colored liquid around. Ice clinks against the side of the crystal, the tips of my fingers turning white at my viselike grip.
My eyes betray me by sliding down the slope of her spine, the back of her wedding gown so low, I can almost see the top of her ass crack.
Not that I’m complaining about the view. The dress clings to every inch of her curves like Saran Wrap and her luscious tits try to pop out of the thing every time she moves.
She looks like a porn star bride.
My porn star bride. For better or fucking worse.
But the snarl on her face when she turns her head the slightest bit makes me remember why I hate her so much.
And why this sham of a wedding between me and Olivia O’Callaghan is tipping in the direction of “fucking worse.”
“Get your fucking eyes off me or I’ll poke them out with my steak knife,” she says in a sing-song voice that drips with disdain, her shiny pink lips curling upward into what any observer would take for a happy and loving smile.
They don’t know the truth. They all think we’re madly in love or whatever the hell stories our families have concocted. Nobody suspects that we’re unwilling victims in a power play that only keeps our families in control as long as we play nice and create the illusion of unity.
Our families have been rivals for years, but money trumps disgust and distrust. And the only way to take advantage of a lucrative opportunity to control a new drug pipeline into Manhattan is for our families to create an alliance against a new cartel that just started encroaching on our territories.
So tonight, we’re playing our parts as newlyweds to convince the world that the Viacava-O’Callaghan family is now a united front that will command New York City and protect our interests from enemies.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say, pausing to take a long gulp of my drink.
“I was just looking at the drop of red wine that spilled onto your dress last time you slammed the glass on the table.” I force my lips into a grin and nod toward her lap.
“Stains fast. You should probably get your wedding bitch to get some club soda on it or whatever.”
Olivia’s sparkling Irish green eyes pop open wide, the grimace melts off her face, and she jumps up from the table… only to find that there’s no stain.
I swallow a laugh.
She grits her teeth and sinks back into the chair, her back stiff. “I fucking hate you,” she hisses through a tight smile as a photographer stops in front of our private table overlooking the rest of the expansive dining room.
“Can I get a few pictures of the happy couple?” he says in a heavy Italian accent. With a wide grin, he holds up his long lens camera and points it at us. “Just get a little closer. You guys are in love, yeah?”
I sling an arm around her and pull her close, tugging her a little harder than necessary. She mutters something under her breath about death that I’m sure she wants me to hear.
The scent of her perfume clouds the air. I try not to breathe it in. Everything about this girl is toxic, so who the fuck cares how good she smells? It’s just to cover up the putrid stink of the devil I’m convinced she is.
I know this girl’s bite. I’ve learned it well over the past six months while we were thrown into this bullshit arrangement. She may look like a Victoria’s Secret model, but underneath that shiny facade is a black fucking soul.
Ironic. I never thought I’d find one darker than mine.
But fate had other plans and dumped Satan into my lap.
“Smile, wifey,” I mutter.
“Don’t call me that,” she says, digging her long, sharp fingernails into my leg so deep, I swear they broke skin through the fabric.
I blink fast at the flashes of light, temporarily blinded. “Thanks, we’re good,” I say to the photographer, who gives me a wave in return.
Olivia twists around and flips her long brown hair over her shoulder to hide the demonic grimace on her face. Leaning her elbow on the table, she leans toward me, and I drop my eyes to her cleavage because I’m a guy and shit, they’re fucking fantastic tits.
She reaches toward me, slipping a hand around the back of my neck, the tips of her nails dragging through my hair.
For a second, my brain short-circuits, my cock jerking from the tingles that shoot across my skin.
Fuck, that feels good.
I’m a sucker for a good head scratch.
But the moment doesn’t last long. She pinches the skin with the sharp edges of her nails, and I suck in a breath, my cock immediately limp again.
“You don’t get to touch me. Understand? Sweetheart?”
I grab her hand, squeezing her fingers tight together until she yelps.
I knew that ridiculous engagement ring would come in handy someday.
“Same goes for you, princess. Now take your goddamn hand off me and play the fuck along. I don’t want to be here any more than you do, but this is bigger than us. Get it? We fuck it up and people may die.” I narrow my eyes. “I don’t think you wanna be the cause of a fucking war, do you?”
I loosen my fingers, and she yanks her hand back. Her eyes glitter with anger, spots of pink coloring her cheeks.
“You may be happy to be next in line for your father, but I didn’t ask for this,” she says in a tight voice.
“I never wanted to be part of this life, his businesses. I have my own goals and plans and none of them involve you or… or… this fucking underworld our families have created. I live my life on my terms, not yours, Kingston.”
I lift an eyebrow. “I don’t think you understand how this works, Livvie.”
“You’re not allowed to call me that. Only people I like get to call me that.” Her nostrils flare. Damn, that spark inside of her is so white-hot. I want to see it ignite.
Fuck that, I wanna feel it even more.
She leans close and sticks the tip of her fingernail into my starched white shirt.
“And let me tell you exactly how it’s going to work.
This marriage will be for show only. I’m still going to live in my penthouse.
You will give me two days’ advance notice for any events I need to attend.
If you’re going to drive me somewhere, you will wait for me in the private garage at the lower level of my building.
I expect my freedom, and it’s nonnegotiable. ”
I reach for her wrist and clasp my hand around it.
A slow smile stretches across my face. “Now, let me tell you how things are gonna work since you clearly got the looks, but not the brains in your family.” I pull her toward me so that my lips graze her ear.
“This isn’t a business deal. You’re my wife now, and that means you are mine.
No penthouse. No living separate lives. And I’m sure as hell not gonna be your personal fucking Uber. ”
Her breaths become short and sharp.
“Let go,” she rasps, a deep red flush climbing up the sides of her neck.
I release my grip.
Olivia springs up from the chair, the legs scraping against the shiny polished tile. She smooths the front of her dress, her eyes spitting fire.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see some curious gazes turned our way.
Not fucking good.
If anyone says they saw trouble in paradise, this farce would be exposed.
“Olivia,” I growl. “Watch yourself or you’re gonna blow this whole thing open.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” she snaps. “I’ve been just fine for the past twenty-one years. I don’t need another father up my ass. This is my life, Kingston. You’ll learn to stay out of it, if you know what’s good for you.”
She flashes a nasty smirk. “Although the jury’s still out on the amount of brain power you got from your gene pool.”
She spins on her heel. Then she stops, turns back to face me, and blows a kiss as she grabs her evening bag.
“Go fuck yourself,” she mouths, puffing out her chest to give me one last look.
Then, with an exaggerated swing of her hips, she walks right out the fucking double doors.