4. Brady
Brady
The first time I see my wife in person, she’s walking down the aisle. And fuck me.
She’s gorgeous.
I knew she was pretty. There aren’t many photos of my “Samantha Greene” online. But in all of them, she’s cute. In a meek and mousy sort of way. Like she’s trying to blend in with the background. Ready to skitter away if you look directly at her.
As she walks toward me, she does a decent job of concealing her meekness. Her head is high. Her stride is steady. She’s taking her role as my bride seriously. Good. I’m inclined to think she’ll take her role as my wife seriously too.
Playing her bridal part nicely, she’s in a long white dress with no frills, just smooth fabric that hugs her every curve. And the way she’s carrying herself.
She knows she looks good.
And definitely not in a mousy way. Her hair is brown, but now it’s rich like chocolate, pinned up so I have a full view of her face.
If she weren’t looking at me, I might describe her features as delicate or fragile. But she is looking at me.
She’s fucking staring me down.
And that expression is anything but fragile.
It’s then that I realize she’s walking down the aisle by herself.
Da was supposed to give her away. Her father certainly wasn’t going to be here.
It’s one thing to tolerate Connor on our turf.
But unlike his son, Cormac Muloney knows to stay away from Chicago.
He and his wife sent their regrets as soon as the marriage was agreed upon.
With Muloney unavailable, Da should be the one walking Cora down the aisle. I’m positive that was the plan. Mam said it twice. I scan the room for Da, but there’s no sign of him. When I glance at Mam in the front row, she’s smiling, but it’s closed-lipped.
No, my bride is not supposed to be walking by herself.
It’s the first time I’m seeing my future wife in person. And already she’s disobeying my family’s instructions.
Interesting. So my wife-to-be is apparently not the submissive type. I should feel frustrated, trapped. Or at the very least, annoyed. Instead, my lips twitch into a grin.
I’ve always loved a challenge.
“Hello.” Cora greets me tersely when she reaches the altar. As if this is a business meeting she’s ready to be done with.
“Hello.” I keep my voice pleasant. I’d like to add more. A compliment about how gorgeous she looks. But the priest clears his throat.
“Welcome, beloved family and friends…”
Mam had surprised me when she’d told me the Catholic ceremony would be in one of my hotels’ chapels, rather than our regular South Side church.
I’d figured it was a matter of keeping things simple.
Easier if the ceremony and reception are at the same venue.
I was never faithful about attending Mass or confession at our church anyway, so it didn’t matter much to me.
But now, I’m glad we’re in the modern chapel I designed with exposed brick walls and wrought iron chandeliers.
Cora’s glare would burn down church beams.
She has her pointed chin lifted, as if daring me to oppose her. A telling indication of what’s in store for me. All I can do is smirk at her as the priest drones on.
She’s not about to burn me down.
“And now for the handfasting,” the priest says. “Both hands each, please.”
Cora’s been clutching her bouquet like she’s trying to wring its neck. The strip of lace around the stems has a small horseshoe tied in its loops, but the lucky token is sideways from how much she’s been fiddling with it. All the luck in the horseshoe has spilled out.
If you believe in such things.
I don’t.
But I do find it amusing that she’s messing with our traditions. Another sign of the disobedience I’ll have to school out of her.
My bride realizes she has no place to set down her bouquet.
No bridesmaid to give it to either. She looks ready to toss the flowers on the floor.
Then Mam steps up to take them from her.
Cora looks like she’s struggling against appearing grateful, but then clenches her jaw and gives Mam a nod of thanks. A concession. Excellent.
Mam doesn’t react. She simply takes the bouquet as she sits back down, and resituates the horseshoe.
When the priest arranges our hands, Cora’s palms are shockingly hot against my skin. Her face may look cool and composed. But her fidgeting hands and sweaty palms give her away.
My smirk widens.
I have her.
With her bouquet out of the way, I get the full view of her body directly in front of me.
And damn. That dress doesn’t just hug her curves.
It showcases them. So much so that I’m tempted to make her wear my tux jacket.
No one else should get to see what’s mine.
Knowing those curves are mine now, mine to undress and run my hands over, mine to squeeze as my wife screams my name. It’s intoxicating.
Once again I’m glad we’re not in an actual church.
As the priest binds us together, I give my bride’s hands a little squeeze between mine. A preview for her of what’s to come. Her palms get even hotter.
When it’s time for the rings, Cora slides a simple platinum band over my knuckle. She’s not gentle about it. I present her with a ring that’s both engagement ring and wedding band in one.
A platinum Claddagh ring with a sapphire heart, flawless diamonds all along the band.
I selected it for her myself. The sapphire is for her eyes. They’re ice-blue and piercing, with dark blue rings around her irises that match the ring now on her finger.
The ring that tells the world she’s mine.
“You may now kiss the bride,” the priest says.
My lips are on Cora’s before he’s finished speaking.
I can tell she’s going for a light peck.
But I demand more.
I press my mouth to hers so firmly that she bends back slightly. The way she inhales sharply tells me she feels the same reaction I do.
An overpowering want.
It’s so strong I have to force myself to break away. When I do, we’re both a little breathless.
Cora’s lips are parted as she stares at me. Not the burning glare of before. It’s the shocked expression of a woman whose entire perception of her world just changed.
There’s a full beat of silence before the crowd breaks into applause.
There are only fifty people or so, but their cheers feel thunderous in my ears.
It’s like I’ve just gotten my sense of hearing back.
I could’ve gone temporarily deaf for all I know.
My overwhelming need for my bride could’ve easily stolen my senses.
When I take her hand in mine, she lets me. I reward her with a kiss on the back of her hand, and there’s more cheering from the crowd. Her palm is sweaty against mine as we walk back down the aisle.
But I don’t let go.
* * *
I don’t notice what I have for dinner, though I’m pretty sure I eat. For the most part, all I do is watch my new wife.
“You’re staring at me,” she says, accusation in her voice. She doesn’t look up from her halibut.
We’re sitting at a small table just the two of us. Side by side beneath a floral altar, facing out at the rest of the room.
“You were staring at me the entire ceremony,” I point out.
“That was different. We were face-to-face. There was nothing else to look at.”
“You couldn’t look away from me, you mean.”
She looks at me then. I can tell it’s an accident because she immediately looks back at her plate. Her cheeks turn the slightest shade of red. But her voice remains cool.
“If that’s what you want to tell yourself.”
I hum in amusement as she spears another bite of halibut onto her fork. She swipes it through her mashed potatoes before bringing it to her lips. I watch her tongue press against the tines of her fork as her lips close around it. I envy that piece of metal in a way I never thought possible.
When she lays the fork aside, I’m tempted to pocket it. To steal all of her utensils so she’s forced to eat from my hands. Her tongue would caress my thumb as I slip each small bite between her lips.
She takes a sip of champagne. Her glass is almost empty after Da’s toast, and I motion for a server to refill it. The one who steps forward is a young man.
Big mistake.
I glower at him as he approaches my wife. He’s about to have a prime view of her cleavage as he pours her glass.
“No,” I growl at him. “Someone else. Her.”
Red-faced, he hurries away to the middle-aged server I indicated. He hands her the bottle. If they exchange words, I don’t hear.
My wife saw everything that happened. She does not look pleased.
That’s too damn bad for her. I shouldn’t have to explain why I don’t want other men ogling her breasts.
The female server refills Cora’s glass with her eyes trained on the champagne. My wife beams up at her, her smile so wide I’m sure it’s meant to irritate me. It’s working.
“Thank you,” Cora says, almost obsequiously. The server nods but says nothing as she backs away.
“Dance with me,” I say, my voice still rough. My wife pauses with her champagne glass halfway to her lips.
“It isn’t time yet.”
I watch the young male server retreat into the kitchen. The heat of my jealousy cools. For now. I crack my neck.
“I know it’s not time yet.” When I return my gaze to my wife, I can’t help but grin. “I just want an excuse for you to be face-to-face with me again. So you’ll have nothing else to look at.”
She slides her eyes toward me. And is that the twitch of a smile on her lips?
“Fine.” She stands up abruptly, tossing her napkin onto the table like a white flag of surrender.
Grinning with victory, I take my wife’s hand and lead her to the dance floor. The DJ takes a few moments to realize what’s happening. Then he cuts the instrumental dinner music. He announces that it looks like it’s time for the bride and groom’s first dance.
Damn right it is.
I don’t know what song to expect. What comes on is the classic version of “I Only Have Eyes for You” by that old Chicago band.
I put my hand on Cora’s waist, then pull her sharply closer to me.
She catches herself with her hand on my shoulder. She looks flustered, but only briefly. With the song’s slow start, we fall into a natural rhythm.
“You’re staring at me,” I tease.
“I don’t have a choice,” she says flatly. There’s fire in those ice-blue eyes of hers. A defiant fire I wasn’t expecting from my assigned, meek little mafia wife. I smile to myself. This is going to be fun.
Nothing about Cora is what I expected, but I find myself drawn to her in spite of that.
Or perhaps because of it.
I get the impression that she’d expected to be displeased with me. And she finds exactly what she’d expected. Funny how that works. If she’s dead set on being dissatisfied with me, that’s her prerogative.
It makes my challenge all the more intriguing.
“There’s always a choice,” I say, and she scoffs.
“For you maybe.”
The song’s backup vocals begin. They add depth to the music as I lead my wife around the parquet floor. We’ve never danced together before. But we’re moving together flawlessly. I’m surprised she’s letting me lead, given how feisty she’s been today.
It’s almost as if she’s accepted her role in this dance.
“You had a choice,” I tell her. “And you made your decision.” She opens her mouth to protest. But I continue, “Your choice now is to bitterly regret that decision for the rest of your life. Or, to make the most of it.”
She purses her lips. Her mouth is too plump to make a straight line. It’s still a very sexy pout.
“Who knows?” I say. “You may even be pleasantly surprised.”
As the song’s lyrics crescendo, I spin my wife away from me. She gives a small, startled yelp. But she recovers perfectly. She even flourishes out her arm before spinning back into me, a little too hard.
When her back hits my solid chest, she lets out a soft, “Oof.”
As the song fades out, I cradle her there against me. I relish the feel of holding her so close. I dip my head so my lips brush her ear.
“I know I am,” I whisper.
She shivers in my arms.