8. Luca
LUCA
I glance around now that I’ve been introduced to Ivan Petrov, my bride’s brother.
This fucker… I don’t even want to think that he could somehow have been involved with those images of my dream girl.
He could know who took them, or even worse: how those photos landed on the internet. Strangling him would be a pleasure.
Jesus. Rein it in, boy. I can think what I want, but I can’t act. We’ll be ‘family’ soon, and fuck knows exactly what that’s going to entail. I’m ready to get this show on the road so Ivan fucking Petrov can get out of my hair. Serve me my mystery bride and let’s get the fuck out of here.
I take a deep breath as they continue with introductions.
“This is Yuri Sokolov, my best man and counsel,” Petrov says, indicating a much older Russian to his side.
“We’ve met before,” Matteo says as they shake hands in greeting. “In Central Park.”
Ha, the day Gabriella got handed over to Petrov like a piece of meat.
The introduction is clearly for my benefit, drawing away the curtain so I can see into the inner circle.
At last! But how long will this last? They like keeping me out of sight and in that bunker with Benedict.
Ninety-nine percent of the time, props get stored away.
Yuri is tall, lean, and sinewy, with an eye-patch over one eye. His uninjured blue eye takes me in, and there’s a promise in his cold, calculated, almost lifeless stare: mess with Milana and I’ll make you live to regret it every day for the rest of your life, which will be long and painful.
I nod at him, our handshake firm but also acknowledging that I know his type. I see him for who he is. Like Dominic, Yuri knows how to torture people, and the message in his gaze is not an idle threat.
“We can get started.” The quicker I see what I’m dealing with, the quicker I figure out how I’m going to get out of this marriage.
“Sure.” Ivan nods. “Follow me. The officiant is ready.”
Little girls’ voices drift from somewhere down the corridor.
Petrov’s daughters. I want to head down there and have a peek at the family Gabriella is marrying into, but Petrov heads in the other direction, toward the lounge.
The massive room has an A-frame roof with big triangular windows giving uninterrupted views onto the ocean. It’s spectacular.
A priest of sorts is standing to the side, holding a book. The Bible? Jesus Christ, I’m not here for a sermon. He looks weirdly nervous, beyond the fake layer of calm in his expression. It’s the sweat on his bald head, shining under the overhead chandelier, that gives it away.
“We’ll start with Luca and Milana,” Ivan says as he nods to Yuri.
Great. Now I feel like I’m about to face a firing squad.
Not that there’s a single weapon here. I bet the kitchen has been stripped of knives.
But we Scalera boys can improvise, if needs be.
I already spotted the fireplace with its forged-iron tools, which got overlooked, as well as the compulsory fire extinguisher. Just the thing to bash in a man’s head.
I drag in a breath and heave out a sigh as Yuri walks off to fetch my bride. Petrov waits at the door, staring down the corridor. Matteo and I share glances, but he seems calm, having dealt with Petrov before.
Time stretches, testing my patience. But I’m a man used to delayed gratification and I know how to take my time with a woman. If Milana Petrova wants to start playing games, edging me, I’m so ready for it. And she’s going to lose.
Still, I heave out a strained breath, and moments later, the sweet sound of girlish chatter finally echoes toward us. Yuri walks in, stooping with his hands on each of the girls’ backs to guide them as they enthusiastically toss rose petals on the floor.
I want to smile, but my heart is being twisted like a rag. This is one thing I’ll never have. Precious girls of my own. And family and a place to belong—exactly what Gabriella also desperately needs. At least one of us will live that life.
The girls have haloes of blond curls and the bluest eyes as they look up and the light falls just right. Peas in a pod, almost twins like me and Stephano, if it weren’t for the obvious age difference.
Hell, to think we missed out on this cuteness with Gabriella’s separation from our family.
We never got to see her at this age, and the thought squeezes my throat.
I’m so taken by the girls’ white dresses and pink bouquets, I fail to look up, until Petrov clears his throat.
My eyes catch the movement and follow his gaze.
A woman—my bride—has paused in the shadow of the corridor.
A shudder runs through me as my breathing stalls.
Black…she’s wearing black.
Dark as night. Velvet with its seductive luster. The color of death.
Her eyes seem filled with dread, but then she blinks, and a mask slips over her face.
She steps up and into the light. There’s no farewell kiss between brother and sister, no formal handing over from one family to the next. Instead, she sweeps her long dark tresses over her shoulder and looks up to meet my gaze with a look that could punch a man in the gut.
And this one does, basically winding me.
It’s her!
The woman in the photos. Just a dream. A secret obsession.
My downfall.
Petrov’s Russian mistress.
She isn’t his mistress at all but his sister. His much younger, breathtakingly beautiful sister…and my bride—
And she’s making her way toward me, unflinching, haughtily cold, each step closer a calculated dare for me to drop my gaze and bow to her.
My heart thumps in my chest, heat spreading down my back at this twist, but I meet her gaze head on, reading disdain in her eyes.
So that’s how it’s going to be, but then again, what’s new?
I’m so used to being judged before I even say a word.
I stand taller, taking in the whole of her now that the initial shock has passed.
Jesus, it’s her, but it’s also not. She’s changed. It shows in the bitter pull of her mouth, in the exhaustion in her eyes which she can’t hide with makeup. And then in that defiant tilt of her chin.
Her black dress screams to the world that she doesn’t want this marriage, that she’s mourning someone else, someone she’s loved and probably still loves—the man who took that video of her…
the photos, the man who knows her intimately.
For now, he is an unsolved mystery. It isn’t Petrov, and I suppress a frustrated growl.
I’ll still find out who the fucker is, because I want to kill him, but first, I want to fist his throat in rage, screaming into his face that he let her go.
He knows and has touched every last dip and valley of her body, every last intimate curve and fold, every last secret.
She loves him. Why the fuck didn’t he marry her when he had the chance?
If they were already married, she wouldn’t be here, leveling the fucking Mafia-Bratva playing field.
Though right now, all I want is to fix her attitude for her, ignore her demeaning dress, just go fuck this shit and kiss her— But then she blinks and I catch the shine in her eyes. She’s on the verge of tears, holding it together by a thread.
And suddenly, I see myself in her shoes.
Dragged here to marry a stranger, ripped from and barred from the person she really loves.
Forced to live with and sleep with someone who will never be him.
The look in her eyes when she woke up and stared into the camera—stared at him… she’ll never look at me like that.
It hurts like a motherfucker. This is now my reality and what a fucking raw deal—for both of us.
Inwardly, I pull myself together, poker face plastered on as I force a smile, trying to keep my cool.
I cock my brow in mock salute but brace myself as Milana sidles up to me, teeth bared in a grimace.
There’s no touch; I don’t reach for her hand to comfort her.
She looks ready to slap me, and if she does, what the fuck do I actually do?
In front of her brother? Yuri? In front of Matteo?
I choose peace so turn to the officiant, ignoring her. Let the fangs come out where I can deal with them in private. At the apartment. Maybe even earlier. On the yacht. It’s just the never-ending shit storm that is my life, but it’s penetrating the sanctuary of my home, my inner fucking peace.
Fuck the Mafia. This is why I needed to get out. At some point, all this shit comes home to roost. Supposedly in my bed. Lucky Luca.
The officiant gets going, and his words wash over me. All I hear is my name, the vows drilling into my core as I repeat them: to have and to hold, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish, until death do us part.
I do.
Milana does the same, her voice soft but clear, going through the motions on autopilot. Rings come into view, nestling in Matteo’s palm. I reach for Milana’s hand, her fingers as graceful and slender as I remember from the video, but now I also know they are talented beyond any skill I have.
For seconds, our gazes lock. The fight still sits in her eyes, but she’s tired. I get it. We both want this over with. Her hand is cold, and she tugs away as soon as the warm gold bands are slipped on our fingers.
And then it hits me: this might be the one and only time I get to kiss my wife.
To taste her. To feel those soft, plump lips give under mine.
To breathe in her scent as I brush my nose along her smooth cheek, grazing her soft skin with the inevitable return of stubble.
To take her, gently, by the chin and guide her to me.
To feel her react to me, the warm heat of her body engulfing mine for one sweet goddamn kiss.
One kiss. That’s all I’m ever getting to satisfy months of fantasies.
Fuck.
Now I have to kiss her, just once.
I lean in. She turns away, but I already anticipated this move, so I trap her chin and lower my mouth to hers in a warm, gentle kiss.
Her body goes rigid, but her lips stay soft under mine in surprise.
Yes, my dark little devil, my gorgeous little witch, mia bellissima streghetta, you know nothing about me. All I know is that you’ve put a spell on me, bewitched me from afar, and if this is the eye of the never-ending shit storm, I welcome it with open arms.