Chapter 8
brONX
I walk over to the partially open guest bedroom door the next morning and lean against the frame with my coffee. Tierney is awake and stalking around the room only in a towel, opening and slamming drawers, her dark hair hanging in wet strands around her face.
Christ, her jaw is so tense, her teeth are gonna crack.
She refuses to look in my direction, but I know she sees me.
A slow smile lifts my lips.
“Big day today, princess,” I call out. “Hope you slept well.”
She still doesn't look at me, just keeps stomping around, tossing clothes. “I didn't sleep at all.”
“Wedding nerves? Don't worry, I'll be gentle.” I pause, letting my gaze travel over the exposed skin of her shoulders. “At first.”
That gets a reaction. She spins around to glare at me, clutching the towel tighter. “Get the fuck out.”
“It's my apartment.” I don't move from the doorway. “Besides, we’re getting married. Might as well get used to me seeing you like this. Actually, I’d prefer a view without the towel blocking it.”
“You fucking pervert.” Her eyes pop open wide, fury igniting like a bomb. "We'll never be that kind of married."
I push off from the doorframe and step into the room, enjoying how she backs up instinctively. I nod toward the dress hanging on the back of the bathroom door. “Nice dress. Very bridal.”
Tierney glances at the simple white dress laid out on the bed and for a split second, the anger drains. She seems almost…resigned. “It should be black.”
“That wouldn't be very pure and traditional.” I flash a smirk. “Even though we both know it’s not entirely accurate, yeah?”
Her face flames red, and the ire is back in full force. "You're disgusting."
“Nope, just honest. There's a difference.” I move closer, and she steps farther and farther away until her back hits the closet door and the dress hanger clatters against the wood. “You clean up nice for a woman attending her own funeral.”
“Yeah, because that's exactly what this is,” she snarls.
“Death and marriage do have a lot in common,” I say. "Both are permanent, and both change everything.”
She tries to sidestep me, but I shift around to block her escape. The movement makes her towel slip a little. She grabs it with lightning fast speed and pulls it tight.
“Fuck off and let me get dressed,” she says through gritted teeth.
“Don't let me stop you.”
“I'm not getting dressed while you watch and drool.”
“Shy? That's adorable. But drool? Don’t flatter yourself.”
A hiss of breath through her teeth follows that comment, and I’m pretty sure if there was anything remotely close to a weapon nearby, she’d drive it into my jugular and happily watch me bleed out.
I lean one hand against the closet door beside her head, partially caging her in. “Anyway, we're going to be legally bound in a few hours. Modest wife isn't really the role I had in mind for you.” My lips turn up. “I do have lots of other ideas, though.”
“In your twisted dreams, maybe.” Her blue eyes flash. “Now why don’t you just fuck off and give me some privacy?”
“Fine.” I step back, hands raised in mock surrender. “I'll be in the kitchen. Don't take too long. Wouldn't want to be late for our big day.”
About half an hour later, I'm dressed in a suit and drinking coffee in the kitchen. High heels click over the marble tiles. Actually, it’s more like they’re impaling the floor with each step she takes.
When she appears in the kitchen doorway, the tension she brings thickens the air to the point where I can’t breathe. But damn, she looks fucking incredible. The white dress fits her every curve…and I remember them all.
It’s simple, elegant, and somehow makes her look both innocent and dangerous.
“Coffee?” I say, nodding to the pot.
“I don't want anything from you.”
“Suit yourself.” I take a sip, watching her over the rim of my mug. “Though you might want some caffeine. You look exhausted.”
“I wonder why.”
With a withering look, she twists away and walks to one of the windows. A buzzing sound grabs my attention, and my jaw tenses when she pulls it from her purse.
Her whole demeanor changes the second she looks down at the screen. Her shoulders relax, a small smile commands her lips, and she types something.
That smile isn't for me.
Fury hits me like a sledgehammer to the chest. I slam my coffee mug against the marble counter and she looks up, startled.
I stalk toward her. “Who the fuck are you texting?”
She recoils, nearly dropping the phone. “What?”
“You heard me. Who are you texting on our wedding day?”
Her nostrils flare. “That's none of your goddamn business—"
Before she can finish her sentence, I snatch the phone from her hand. She lunges for it, but I hold it out of reach, my free hand catching her wrist when she tries to grab it back.
“Damien,” I read from the screen over her head, my voice deadly. “Your Irish ex.”
“Give that back—"
“’Missing you,’” I continue reading his message out loud before firing off a glare at her. “Make no mistake, this ends now, princess.”
Her face goes pale, but her chin lifts defiantly. “Fine, then let me go and it’s done.”
“Not what I meant, and you know it.” I scroll down to see what she was typing. “’I know. Just have to get through today and then—‘”
“Bronx, stop—"
“Planning your escape already?” She stills at the rage in my voice. “Your ex thinks this marriage is temporary?”
“He doesn’t know about the marriage,” she says through clenched teeth. “And, for the record, it is temporary.”
I delete the entire message thread with quick taps, then navigate to his contact information and block the number. “Consider that relationship officially over.”
“You can't just delete—"
“I just did.” I toss the phone back to her, and she fumbles to catch it. “I can do whatever I want. You're about to become my wife, which means you belong to me. No more texting other men. No more secret conversations. No more fucking ex.”
She stares down at the phone, her breaths short and sharp.
“I hate you,” she whispers.
“Good. Hate is just passion in disguise.” I straighten my tie, perfectly calm now that I've eliminated the problem. “And passion is exactly what this marriage is going to need.”
She looks back up at me, and there's murder in those blue eyes. Also something else…something that makes her pupils dilate slightly and her lips part. She's furious and aroused and hating herself for both, I’d bet my left nut on that.
“Let’s go,” I say shortly. “The car’s downstairs waiting.”
The air is toxic in the backseat of the car, polluted by hatred and distrust and resentment. Riding next to her, breathing her in, equal parts perfume and hostility.
Tierney sits pressed against the passenger door like she's planning to throw herself out at the next red light. The white dress looks perfect on her, and the fury in her face only makes her more beautiful.
“You know,” I say, adjusting my cufflinks, “most brides look happy on their wedding day.”
“Most brides aren't being forced into marriage by psychotic criminals.”
The venom in her voice makes my blood heat. “Psychotic? That's harsh, princess. I prefer ‘selectively violent.’”
She doesn't respond, just keeps staring out the window like the Manhattan street view might offer her an escape route.
It won’t.
“The silent treatment won't make this go away,” I tell her. “In twenty minutes, you'll be Mrs. Viacava whether you sulk about it or not.”
That gets a reaction. She whips her head around to glare at me, and the full force of that Irish temper hits like a slap. “Never call me that.”
“What? Mrs. Viacava?” I grin. “Better get used to it, princess. It's going to be your name for a very long time.”
“Six months,” she snaps. “Six months and then this whole bullshit, charade is over.”
“Keep telling yourself that, princess.”
“Oh trust me, by the end of six months, you’re going to be begging for your bachelor freedom,” she sneers.
I grin. “Challenge accepted.”
She lets out a frustrated huff. I let out a low chuckle. I fucking love her fire, her sass. And I’m gonna love it even more once I break her and she’s begging for my cock in every orifice of her body.
Because that’s gonna happen. She just needs to accept it.
And then she can enjoy it.
Through the back window, I can see my family waiting on the courthouse steps. Kingston stands at the top of the stairs in a dark gray suit, looking every inch the Don incumbent. His arm is looped around his wife Livvie’s waist.
Reign is positioned next to them, his eyes scouring the length of the street even though there are guards at every corner and flanking the doorway to City Hall.
My parents are here too, Dad intimidating as hell and Ma, picture perfect in Chanel and a new pair of those red soled shoes she loves so much.
“Showtime,” I tell Tierney as the car comes to a stop next to the curb. “Ready to meet your new family?”
“I have my own family,” she mutters under her breath.
The driver opens my door, and I step out first. After I adjust my jacket, I turn to Tierney and hold out my hand. She pretends she doesn’t see it and climbs out on her own with as much dignity as she can find in that tight little body. My cock twitches. Good. That fight is alive and well.
I place my hand on her lower back, feeling her stiffen under my palm.
“Family,” I say as we approach the group, “meet my bride. Tierney, meet the people who run this city.”
Kingston's dark inky eyes meet her with a hint of suspicion. “Welcome to New York.”
Tierney nods without a word. She acknowledges the rest of my family the same way, barely a smile, barely a word. Her eyes land on Livvie’s for a long second and Livvie flashes a warm smile. Kindred spirits, I guess. Maybe Tierney senses an ally.
Not that Livvie would ever betray her husband. They started out all fire and ice but they combusted pretty damn fast.
“Let's get this over with,” Dad says, checking his watch. “I have a meeting at two.”