Forged (The Marchetti Dynasty #2)

Prologue

Las Vegas, Present Day

Fuck. My. Fucking. Head.

I haven’t moved yet. The thought of opening my eyes makes my skull throb in warning, my body sending up white flags like it’s negotiating a ceasefire. My mouth is dry and my limbs are heavy.

Goddamn Vegas.

I’m halfway through replaying fractured images of last night—bright lights, too many drinks, Neomi’s laugh cutting through the noise—when I feel her shift against my side.

“Lars, you’re breathing too loudly,” she complains, rolling onto her back while my arm stays trapped beneath her neck. She groans softly. “Jesus. Why do I feel like I’m going to die?”

I crack one eye open and immediately regret it. Sunlight cuts unapologetically through the gap in the curtains, bouncing off glass, marble, and the scattered evidence of whatever sins we committed last night. I squeeze my eyes shut again.

“What time is it?” I ask, my voice rough.

“Too early,” she says, then swears under her breath. “The last thing I remember is shots at the craps table. Please tell me you can call room service and order coffee and toast. Maybe bacon.”

My stomach turns traitorous. “Don’t talk about food.”

She pushes herself upright slowly, the sheet slipping to her waist, revealing bare skin and the soft curve of her breasts. For a brief moment, my hangover recedes enough for me to take in the view.

I place my hand on the breast closest to me, testing the theory that this might be the cure I need.

She swats my hand away. “Absolutely not. We are not doing that right now.” She shifts gingerly on the mattress and winces. “I’m sore anyway. Damn it, Lars, how rough were we last night?”

I drag my forearm over my eyes. “I could kiss it and make it better.”

She laughs, then immediately regrets it. “I don’t know how you’re even thinking about sex. I can barely move. How are we supposed to fly home like this?”

Fly home.

The words cut clean through the fog. My eyes snap open fully this time.

“Shit,” I mutter. “We have a flight.”

I reach blindly for my phone on the nightstand, squinting at the screen until the numbers make sense. “It’s eight-thirty. We’ve got a couple of hours.” I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed, the room tilting. “I’ll call down for breakfast.”

As I steady myself, my gaze drifts across the suite. My clothes are a crumpled mess on the floor. Her heels are abandoned near the door. Chips ranging from five-dollar plastic to serious money spill from a dish on the dresser.

And then I see it. A piece of paper on the nightstand. My focus narrows as my pulse kicks.

Then I notice the weight on my hand.

A ring.

No, no, no.

“Neomi,” I say, my voice sharp now, the haze burning off in a rush. “Why the fuck is there a ring on my finger?”

I turn toward her and she’s staring at her own left hand, fingers splayed, a matching platinum band catching the light. All the color is drained from her face.

“Lars…” Her voice wobbles. “What did we do last night?”

I grab the paper from the nightstand, my grip tight enough to crease it, and turn it over. For one brief, idiotic moment, I close my eyes and try to will it to be anything else. A receipt. A joke. Some overpriced Vegas nonsense we’ll laugh about later.

It isn’t. It’s a marriage license.

My name, her name. Our signatures sprawled in messy handwriting.

I extend the paper toward her. She takes it with both hands, eyes flying over the page before snapping back to mine, wide and blazing.

“Fuck,” she breathes. “Lars…we got married?”