4. Livvie
FOUR
Livvie
A single gunshot explodes into the night, slicing through Kingston’s words and sending my heart slamming into my ribs.
The bullet whizzes between us, the air shifting. My breath catches when his grip on my chin tightens, and his eyes darken as they sweep over my body.
“You okay?” he asks, the question rushed.
I nod. “Who was that aimed?”
Kingston releases me, his movements swift, controlled violence simmering beneath his calm exterior. In one fluid motion, he reaches under his suit jacket, his fingers brushing aside the fine fabric to reveal a matte-black handgun holstered against his side.
He pulls it free, the weapon a natural extension of his hand.
His eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of movement. The sight of him, armed and ready to kill, sends a chill through me—a reminder of exactly the type of man I married and the world I’ll be free from.
Screams erupt from inside the ballroom. Glass shatters. Tables overturn. The music cuts out, replaced by the frantic shuffle of panicked guests. The terrace floods with armed men—both his and mine—moving like a coordinated storm, weapons raised, bodies primed for a war.
My security team surrounds me first, forming a tight circle, their guns drawn. Kingston stands a few feet away, his expression carved from steel as his men move into position around him, too, shielding the powerful Viacava leader.
For a moment, we lock eyes, our bodies still thrumming with the aftershocks of lust and adrenaline. My dress glitters under the moonlight, but underneath my veins are full of fire, pumped full of anger from reality of what just happened.
Aside from letting desire rule my head, someone took a shot at us—at me or him —and neither of us knows who the intended target was.
The chaos inside subsides. Yelling guests have calmed now there are no more bullets flying. Shattered glass crunches under expensive shoes as a swarm of armed men in dark suits move through the ballroom, scanning for threats.
Our combined security teams call out in clipped voices, confirming each area is clear.
“Nothing on the east wing.”
“We have secured the south entrance.”
“No visual on the shooter.”
Kingston’s grip tightens on the gun, his eyes never leaving mine, as if daring the world to test him. The danger might be contained for now, but the threat lingers—an unspoken warning that whoever took that shot is still out there .
He marches through the wall of men guarding me, shouldering the security team like they’re nothing more than chess pieces in his way. His shadowed features are stern, but his energy crackles with authority.
Before I can react, his fingers wrap around my wrist—firm, inflexible.
“You’re my wife ,” he says, his voice like gravel, deep and edged with a dangerous promise. “That means you’re under my protection from now on. And whoever the fuck thought they could take a shot at you—at us —is already dead. They just don’t know it yet.”
My pulse spikes at the sheer force of him, the way he looks right now—raw power in an expensive tux, broad shoulders tense, his dark hair a little mussed from the chaos. He’s lethal in his own right, and to my annoyance, devastatingly sexy.
But I refuse to be something he owns .
I yank my hand back, my jaw tightening.
“As you can see, I have my own security, Kingston.” I emphasize his name like it’s venom. “I don’t need you taking over.”
His jaw ticks, but his eyes gleam, arrogance playing on his lips like he enjoys the fight. “Too late. I’ve already said my vows and taken over.”
“If we go home together, we’re a bigger target,” I snap, planting my hands on my hips. “Whoever did this knows exactly where you live. Splitting up makes it harder for them.”
“That’s the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.” Kingston crosses his arms, looming over me. “You think separating makes you safer ? You think your team can protect you better than I can?”
“They’ve been doing it my entire life.”
“Well, congratulations, wife ,” he drawls, voice thick with mockery. “That job’s mine now.”
Before I can spit back another retort, the terrace doors slam open.
A wave of silence ripples through the crowd as my father steps onto the terrace.
Cormac O’Callaghan.
Though he’s not as tall as most men, he’s broad-shouldered, dressed in a sharp black suit and radiates the same untouchable supremacy Kingston does—except he’s colder, less patient with fools. Deep lines on his face tell stories of battles won and the enemies he had buried in cement.
His silver-threaded hair is neatly combed, but his pale green eyes burn with barely restrained fury as he approaches.
“You’re going home with Viacava, Livvie. No arguments,” he says, running an eye over my dress, checking for signs of injury. “There’s more at stake here than your independence. Empires will crumble if you screw it up.”
My hands curl into fists. “I don’t need him to?—”
He silences me with a glare. The kind that’s made grown men weep in the past.
“You’re his wife now. And that means you go with him .” His tone is absolute. Final.
I grind my teeth, hating the way I have to obey these men—like a shiny object being passed from one to the other. Despite that, I know better than to argue with my father when he uses that tone.
He turns to Kingston, their eyes locking like wolves sizing each other up. “She’s your responsibility now, Viacava. I expect you to protect her as I would. Increase your staff and if you come up with any leads, let me know. I have my best man on it. If he can’t find the fucker, no one can.”
My stomach knots. He’s talking about Roman Keane.
Kingston nods once, unaware of my past.
“She’ll be with me twenty-four-seven. You have my word. I’ll protect her.”
My father’s gaze cuts to me. “Focus on the honeymoon, Livvie, and post plenty of pictures for everyone to see the happy, believable couple.”
He lights up a cigar, satisfied with his input, and saunters back inside, leaving me standing there, fuming.
Kingston shifts closer, just enough to taunt me with his cologne and muscular build. He tilts his head, eyes gleaming with amusement. Then he smirks—cocky, provoking.
“See—I always get what I want, wife .”
I scowl at him. “Then you should have married a woman who listens.”
He laughs, low and rich, and my belly swoops. “I like the one I got just fine.”
“Shame the feeling isn’t mutual.”
“Eventually, you’ll realize there’s no point fighting against this. Remember your vows? ‘Til death do us part and all that bullshit. I’ll eliminate whoever took out a hit on us and that will ensure neither of us dies too soon. So grab your bags, wife. You’re all mine now.”
Click here to pre-order The Mafia Marriage Contract by Kristen Luciani & Autumn Archer on Amazon If you crave dark mafia romance with enemies-to-lovers angst, an arranged marriage, and a dangerously possessive husband.