LA King (L.A. Ruthless #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

Alana

My heart flutters in my chest like a butterfly trapped in a glass jar, growing more turbulent with every second that passes. My father squeezes my arm, the one that’s linked through his. I imagine it’s meant to be a reassuring gesture, but it’s simply a reminder of what I’m about to do.

“Remember why you’re doing this, Alana,” he reminds me, his voice strained. “This is a good thing.”

I turn to him, force a smile, and swallow down my fear.

Three years to spare a lifetime—isn’t that how he sold it to me?

It made sense at the time. It felt like something I could do.

Yet now that I’m about to walk down the aisle, I’m not so sure.

Spending three years with the devil himself could feel like a life sentence.

The wedding march begins to play. My feet move of their own accord, my head aware of what needs to be done even if my heart says this is wrong.

I walk willingly toward my fate—my husband-to-be—Alejandro Montoya, the sole heir to the prestigious Montoya Corporation, one of my father’s biggest donors.

I suppose he looks every inch the respectable businessman today, standing there in his exquisitely tailored suit.

There’s no doubt he’s one of the most handsome men I have ever seen.

A fine dusting of stubble covers his strong jawline, and his thick, dark hair is the perfect length—not too short, but not long enough to reach his collar.

In fact, it’s just long enough to grab a handful of, and I can’t help but wonder how many women before me have done just that.

My own dress is understated and elegant, made of silk the color of white lilies—my favorite flowers. I’ve dreamed about this day since I was a little girl. I’ve been saving myself for this day since I was old enough to date boys. Never in my wildest imagination did I envision anything like this.

To the outside world, my wedding would appear like a fairy tale, here in this picturesque little chapel.

The twenty-five-year-old daughter of a prominent politician, but nobody of real importance herself, whisked off her feet and about to say “I do” to a man that so many women would give anything to spend a single night with.

He’s famous—or should I say infamous?—his full and varied love life well-documented.

“Hot as fuck and rich with it” is how my best friend, Kelsey, described him.

I wish she were here with me today. But if she were …

then I’m certain she’d see right through this fake smile I’m wearing, and we couldn’t have that.

The rest of the world needs to think this is real, or it won’t work.

My eyes drift back to Alejandro, who stands silently, head bowed and hands clasped in front of him.

We have never met. Never even spoken, yet I know everything I need to know about him from my father.

There’s no denying my husband-to-be has an aura about him, magnetic in its intensity.

I imagine wherever he goes, women flock to him like moths to a flame.

So, why is it that I’m the lucky lady he chose to be his bride?

Because while this might look like a fairy tale …

It’s far from it.

This is no dream come true.

This is my nightmare.

Alejandro Montoya is no Prince Charming. He’s the king of the Los Angeles underworld, the head of the Spanish Mafia, and he’s given me no choice but to go along with the whole charade.

Three years to spare a lifetime.

The ceremony is over quickly. No cheers of congratulations. No kissing the bride.

Instead, a team of armed guards escorts me and my parents from the chapel while Alejandro hangs back, speaking to the priest and his father, Mateo—a man I recognize from photographs I’ve seen of him with my own father.

A particularly stern-looking man approaches as soon as we step outside into the glare of the early afternoon sun.

“Say your goodbyes, Mrs. Montoya.” A fleet of cars waits at the curb, and one of them will take my parents to the airport so they can get back to their life in Manhattan. Back to my old life.

My father hugs me tight. “You did the right thing, Alana. I’m so proud of you.”

His pride brings me a measure of comfort. That and my reason for doing this are all that’s stopping me from begging that they take me with them.

He releases me from his embrace, and I reluctantly pull away and face my mother.

Never one for physical affection, she simply pats my arm and offers me a smile, which is as much emotion as she displays of late.

As far as she’s concerned, this is my shot at success.

She once told me she was worried I’d end up a spinster in an apartment full of cats, so marrying me off to a handsome billionaire goes beyond her wildest dreams.

While she knows this union isn’t exactly a love match, she’s unaware of the full extent of the awful circumstances behind it.

My father convinced me that she’s far too delicate a creature to tell her, that it would be tantamount to cruelty to burden her with such knowledge.

She wasn’t always so delicate though. Not always so meek and passive.

When I was young, she was sharp and witty, and she held her own in rooms full of important people.

My parents are ushered to a car, and I stand helpless, watching them leave without me.

“Take her to the house,” Alejandro barks to one of his minions.

His dark sunglasses cover his eyes, but his head doesn’t turn in my direction at all.

He loosens his tie and walks to the car at the front of the convoy, with his best man, Jackson Decker, whom I know to be his second-in-command, beside him.

Alejandro gives orders in Spanish, apparently indifferent to my presence.

I blink at the brightness of the midday sun, a sob welling in my throat.

Swallowing it down, I remind myself who I am and why I’m doing this.

None of these men will ever have the pleasure of seeing me cry.

It can only be a good thing that the devil himself shows such little interest in me.

Three years, and then this will be over.

A firm hand grasps my elbow, and I’m frog-marched to another car, my heels clicking on the pavement as I almost stumble.

“Take your fucking hand off her.” Alejandro’s voice cuts through the air like a hot knife through butter. “Now!”

Immediately, the hand at my elbow falls away, and I spin to find my husband glaring at the guard who manhandled me, a murderous look on his face.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the guard says, a tremor in his voice.

“Touch her again and you will be.” Alejandro’s voice is ice cold and dripping with menace, and it sends a chill down my spine. While I’m thankful for his intervention, I don’t appreciate being treated like his property. Wisely, I bite my lip and remain compliant—for now, at least.

The car door is opened for me, and I climb inside before two giant bodyguards get in behind me. They sit on either side of me, careful to avoid contact after their boss’s outburst, but I still feel uncomfortably sandwiched between them.

“The boss says to take her home,” the biggest one says to the driver.

Home? That would be laughable if it weren’t so depressing.

The place we’re headed isn’t my home, and it never will be.

My home is my tiny little apartment back in New York, close to my parents and Kelsey.

She should be here. She should have been my bridesmaid and is pretty pissed she couldn’t be.

Probably more pissed about the fact that she didn’t get to throw me a bachelorette party.

But I played my part like a pro, telling her how madly and quickly I’d fallen in love and how I couldn’t wait a second longer to become Alejandro’s wife.

With only twenty-four hours’ notice, she didn’t have time to take off work and fly out here.

She understood. Excited for me, like the good friend she is, she wished me well.

A wave of abject sadness washes over me, but I remind myself that this part of my life is temporary.

At least he won’t be expecting to consummate our marriage tonight because he isn’t coming back to the house with me.

Maybe we’ll never have to consummate it at all.

His reputation as a player is well-documented.

If reports are to be believed, he has a different woman for every night of the week.

That shouldn’t bother me. Our marriage is one of convenience and business, and I should be pleased that he’ll continue fulfilling his carnal needs with his mistresses rather than with me. Should be, but for some reason I’m not.

After about an hour, the car pulls up outside a beautiful gated mansion deep in the hills of Bel Air. The Spanish influence is obvious from the minute we drive through the gates, and despite not wanting to be here, I can admit that it’s a magnificent property.

But its beauty brings me little comfort.

A gilded cage is still a cage.