41. Michael
Michael
This plane feels like a coffin. A luxury, private coffin wrapped in leather seats and marble-topped liquor carts, but still a box with no escape.
I’ve got two hours until we land in Vegas. Two hours until this shit show becomes real.
Krystal’s still in New York City, sipping champagne and probably planning our wedding night. Meanwhile, I’m here begging Brett to get me drugs just to survive it. Krystal had her bachelorette party in Ibiza. I didn’t ask who she brought or what it cost. I didn’t care.
But the second I found out she was planning on screwing around to “get back at me,” I made a call.
Assigned one of the Bratva’s best—Nikolai, a six-foot-six wall of scarred muscle with no sense of humor and a permanent scowl—to shadow her ass from the moment she left the tarmac.
He’s also gay. Nothing she does will work on him.
She called me screaming.
“You have a fucking gay Russian mobster babysitting me?!” she shrieked through the phone. “I swear to God, Michael, if you don’t touch me soon, I’ll find someone who will!”
I bit down on the rim of my glass before answering, calm and cold. “I won’t marry a walking STD, Krystal.”
Dead silence.
Then the line went dead.
Guess I won that round.
Now I’ve got one furious, sexually frustrated bride flying into Vegas on a separate charter because she needed “one last bridal fitting in New York” before her big day.
More like one last chance to scream into a mirror and pretend I don’t hate her guts. I hired the Russian to escort her home as well. There won’t be any last one nightstands for her in New York…
She doesn’t get it. I won’t be forced into her bed, no matter what her uncle says. I might have to marry her—but I don’t have to touch her.
That, at least, is still mine to give.
And it doesn’t belong to her.
Never did.
“I can’t do it. I’m serious. I can’t fuck her, Brett.” I mutter, rubbing my temples as the bourbon burns down my throat. “I need something. Anything. Knock me out or make me numb.”
Brett’s face goes pale. “You want me to drug you so you can sleep with her?”
I give him a look. “I want to get through the night without vomiting. You pick the method.”
He exhales hard, shaking his head. “Fuck that. I’ll rig her plane. Boom. Problem solved. No more bride.”
I blink at him.
“Or her limo,” he adds, eyes lighting up like he’s already mapping it out. “Explodes on the strip. Blame it on the cartels. Easy.”
“No,” I say softly, staring out the window. “They’ll know it was me.”
“Fine,” he growls. “Then we take out the whole damn family. At the wedding. Redmond. Her brother. Her. One hit. Gone. You’re free.”
A long silence stretches between us.
Brett leaned back in his seat across from me, swirling the last of his bourbon in the glass. “So? Don’t sleep with her.”
I blinked slowly. “What?”
He shrugged like it was the simplest thing in the world. “They don’t need your body, Michael. Just your DNA. That’s what fertility clinics are for. You put your stuff in a jar, the doc plays babymaker, and voilà—Krystal’s knocked up without you ever having to touch her.”
I stared at him.
He raised an eyebrow. “Hell, I’ll even drive you to the appointment. I’ll wait outside with a cigar and a bottle of hand sanitizer.”
Despite everything—everything—I snorted.
But the idea took root. A terrible, ridiculous, perfect idea. I wouldn’t have to feel her. Wouldn’t have to kiss her, touch her, pretend she was someone else. I could fulfill the deal, give the council their damn heir… without losing the last piece of myself in her bed.
Brett leaned forward, voice low and brutal. “Keep your body clean. Your soul’s already tied to someone else.”
He was right.
I should shut him down. I should say he’s crazy. But...
Trading three souls to get Kate’s back?
Would I? Kill Krystal and her family. Would I want murder to be the way, I win my woman back?
Fuck, I might.
I press the heels of my palms into my eyes.
“This is insane,” I whisper. “This can’t be my life.”
But it is. Somehow I went from falling in love to planning potential hits like a damn mob movie while getting my wife pregnant without ever touching her skank ass.
“You’re a fucking genius, Brett.”
He clapped me on the back as he stood to check on the pilot. “That’s why I’m your number two and best man.”
“Oh and I have one more card up my sleeve…”
“Yeah?”
“Your marriage won’t be legal. I hired a ‘justice of the peace’ who is only licensed in Florida, the Bahamas, and Texas.
You’ll do the ceremony but it won’t be legally binding…
. if anyone finds out just play dumb and I’ll take the fall.
I paid him triple to go with it and not say a word.
We’ll use his license number and he’ll check out on a quick search but Redmond is sloppy and old.
He won’t go past a basic surface check. The Marriage License will look legit, but your ‘marriage” won’t hold up in court since the guy marrying you won’t be legal in Nevada.
I got you, boss. Fake marriage, test tube baby…
we’ll get you outta the rest in due time. ”
“Have you seen her?”
“Kate?”
“Yeah, I have.”
I nodded my throat working.
“She’s good. That land will be the new sound of music when she’s done.”
“I know. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll be able to hear the music from across the water.”
“I think you already do.”
I exhaled slowly, my fist clenched as I stared at the glass of scotch in hand. “I wish Kate was having my baby. I wish I had made one with her. The thought of Krystal being the mother of my child grates on me more than anything.”
“No, sweat. We’ll take the baby too, boss.
Set her up. Pay off a judge or two if we need.
Paternal rights are hot right now in family court.
Krystal loves her liquor and recreational coke.
I’ll plant a a trail—get her on video.. bam she loses parental rights.
Permanently. Uncle Brett has baby Waters covered too. ”
“Fuck, Brett. You really are my best man.”
“It’s what I do, boss.” He clapped my shoulder and went to the rear of the plane to make a call. I sat back, watching the clouds zip by. The plane was moving forward— while my mind—well, it went way back…
My glass clinks as I pour another. The amber liquid glows like fire in my palm. The plane engine hums low and steady beneath me, but my mind’s screaming.
Because all I can think about is her…
Kate.
Damn Kate.
The flashbacks hit like lightning.
It started like all good disasters—fast, messy, and unforgettable.
I remember the first night I saw her—Fourth of July—screaming crowds, fireworks overhead, but she stole the sky. Golden hair, wide eyes, that fire in her. She looked lost and pissed and too pretty to be wandering the docks alone.
Some French prick was following her too closely, whispering things he thought she couldn’t understand.
I stepped in. Didn’t even think.
Just grabbed her hand and said, “You’re with me now, sweetheart.”
She blinked at me like I’d spoken prophecy.
That was it.
I kicked everyone off the yacht. My crew looked at me like I’d lost my mind. Maybe I had. But I wanted her alone. Just her and me and the ocean and the stars.
She danced barefoot on the teak deck, sipping champagne, humming to herself. She leaned into me, that soft little sigh she always made when she was comfortable, and I thought—fuck me, I’m ruined.
We kissed like we had centuries to make up for.
I almost took her that night.
I wanted to.
She was soft under me, her body pliant, lips swollen from hours of kissing, her dress straps off her shoulders, her mouth at my neck whispering she wanted more.
Then gunfire cracked in the distance.
I left her in my bed—fully clothed—and ran topside.
By the time I came back, she was gone.
Vanished like a ghost.
No name. No number. Just a haunting.
The seat creaks as I shift, still staring out the window at the clouds rushing past.
“I can’t do this,” I whisper.
But I have to.
And that’s the worst part of all.
Vegas was a beast I usually knew how to tame.
Not tonight.
Tonight, it was Roman’s beast—draped in blood money, ego, and women who smelled like betrayal. My uncle had taken over an entire floor of the Bellagio for the "Waters Last Night of Freedom" extravaganza. His words, not mine.
The truth? My freedom had been gone a long time.
Signed away the second Krystal's name landed on that marriage contract.
I adjusted my cuffs. Black suit, black shirt, no tie—clean, lethal. I had to look untouchable even when my chest felt like it was caving in.
“You’re scowling again,” Brett muttered beside me, sipping from his whiskey like he hadn’t just threatened two enforcers for putting their hands on the wrong cocktail waitress.
“Because I’m surrounded by people who’d slit my throat for leverage.”
“Welcome to your engagement party.”
Roman raised his glass from across the room, flanked by West Coast capos and Vegas royalty—slimy men in sharkskin suits who all wanted a piece of empire. The worst part? I had to smile. Had to pretend I wasn’t planning how to burn this entire operation down.
Women in designer dresses slid past, glittering like weapons. A topless dealer blew me a kiss. A bottle girl handed me Cristal. Someone was already rolling dice on a private table with my face screen-printed on the chips.
And through all of it, I kept my head high. Controlled. Cold. The wolf in a custom Armani cage.
“You look like you’d rather be anywhere else,” Brett said, eyeing me. “Even prison.”
I swirled the glass in my hand and watched the amber liquid catch the light. “At least in prison, I wouldn’t have to marry a woman who calls me boo thang.”
He coughed a laugh into his drink. “Careful. That might count as cheating.”
Roman came up behind us, clapping a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Smile, nephew. Tonight, you’re the prince of the f**king city.”
“I thought I was already king,” I said.
Roman grinned with all teeth. “You will be. Once that pretty little tribal heiress wears your wedding ring.”
The knot in my gut coiled tighter.
That’s when I saw her.
No.
Her.