Married to the Mafia Devil

1. June

JUNE

SIX YEARS AGO

The stripper’s late.

That’s not something I ever thought I’d worry about, but Party Bill’s Wild Boys promised to send their best-looking male dancer and I need my best friend’s bachelorette weekend to go off without a hitch.

However, the entertainment isn’t here yet.

And the ladies were promised sexy man meat.

“They’re starting to get feral,” Beth whispers as another champagne bottle cracks open to a loud screaming chorus of dump it down my throat, bitchhhhh. “Seriously, where is that guy?”

“I tried calling but Party Bill isn’t picking up.”

“Big shock there. Who ever thought a guy named Party Bill would be reliable?”

“I did! They’re charging five hundred dollars per hour!”

Beth’s jaw drops. Her round cheeks turn slightly pink. We’ve known each other since college at West Chester and I think she’s the most easily embarrassed person I’ve ever met. “Wait, seriously?! That’s like, extortion. That’s sexy man extortion. Sextortion? It’s wrong!”

“You know how Marnie can be.” We both gaze at our best friend as she laughs loudly and knocks over a glass of wine. It rolls along the carpet and ends up under the couch. I’ll be cleaning that up later, like always. “But she’s been going through a lot lately.”

“Yeah, like being the biggest bridal asshole ever.” Beth bites absently at her knuckle. “This guy’s gotta be really hot if he’s five hundred for an hour, right?”

“God, I hope so.” I flinch at another shriek. “At least Marn’s paying for everything.”

“Yeah, and she’s going to be bankrupt if we don’t get this shitshow under control.” Beth tugs at her hair. “Do you know anyone who can step in last second?”

I snort at the thought. “I’ve dated one guy in the last five years and you remember how that ended.”

Dave. The infamous Dave.

Things had been going well. He was a nice guy I’d met in school and only really started dating after graduation. I thought we were hitting it off and I was happy.

Until one afternoon, he straight up vanished, like he’d never been in my life at all. Moved out of his apartment, changed his number, ignored my emails. It was the most clinical and efficient dumping I’ve ever experienced.

Really messed me up.

I haven’t been able to look at another man since, not seriously anyway.

Beth’s nose wrinkles. “Yeah, okay, good point. I’m not exactly swimming in dick either.”

“Beth! Terrible image!”

She laughs but it gets cut short at another shriek, followed by a squeal, followed by the drunken chanting of ten sorority sisters out for blood and straight tequila shots.

“I’ll handle it,” Beth says quickly, moving to intercept the ladies before they get too sloshed. “I’ll make them weak drinks. Just please, find that dancer!”

I curse to myself as Beth wades into the nightmare of twerking asses and cheering. Marnie’s already glassy-eyed and it’s barely past nine at night.

This is going to be really, really bad.

But it’s Marnie. I love that girl more than anything.

When Dave ghosted, she was the first person on my doorstep and she stayed with me for a week to make sure I was okay.

Even though she’s marrying a total toolbag named Dennis McWitt, the douchiest douche-nugget to ever sail the seven DoucheSeas, I love her more than life itself.

I’d kill for that girl because I know she’d kill for me, too.

With a groan, I hurry to the door and peer out the tiny hole, hoping against hope?—

Only to find a man lingering in the hall.

Holy shit.

Without thinking, I rip the door open, elation burning in my veins.

He’s finally here!

The man looks up. There’s no surprise in his stormy gray eyes. I silently thank God and Party Bill, because our stripper has to be the sexiest human I’ve ever seen in my entire life.

He’s massive. Tall and broad. The fitted, dark suit pulls tight over his well-worked muscles.

Tattoos poke out at his collar and wrists, and I’m pretty sure he’s wearing a real gold Rolex.

He’s got the body of a Greek god, thighs like a professional wrestler, arms like a football player, and that’s not the best part.

It’s his face. Those lips, full and serious, tugged into an expression somewhere near annoyance.

His chin is cut glass, his skin like marble, the stubble somehow so fine and perfect that it makes my stomach churn.

His hair’s dark, messy, ideally tousled like he rolled out of bed looking like a model.

And those eyes. Like the ocean on a cloudy day. Not husky-bright, but intense, etched with fine lines. I’d put him in his late thirties or early forties, but the age only makes him that much more gorgeous.

My heart skips a beat as our eyes lock.

Sweet Jesus.

Party Bill did good.

I love Party Bill so much right now.

“You!” I lunge at the dancer. I rip a twenty-dollar-bill from my back pocket and grab his wrist. “You’re late!

” I tug at him, but it’s like pulling on stone.

He doesn’t budge. “Here, take this, find the bride, she’s the pretty one with the blond hair and the glassy eyes, actually that’s all of them, her name’s Marnie—“ I’m babbling, my god, and I can’t help myself, the dancer is too gorgeous and my heart’s racing.

“Anyway, find her, and tell her you have something for her—“ I tuck the money into his waistband. “And tell her to use her teeth?—“

It’s around this point, my fingers shoved into the front of his dress slacks, when I realize something is wrong.

There are two other men in the hall, for starters. Do male dancers have pimps? Do dancers need pimps? These men are also in suits, also large, but they’re much more worn-looking, like they’re used to hard miles and burning weather. Craggy is the word that comes to mind.

They stare at me in horror.

One is reaching into his jacket for something. A phone, maybe? The other steps forward, powerful shoulders bristling.

I look back at the dancer.

Why is a male stripper wearing a suit? Why is he wearing what looks like a real Rolex? And expensive shoes? And a belt that feels like supple baby calfskin…

“I think you’ve confused me for someone else, little doll,” the dancer rumbles, his voice like the grinding edges of a tectonic plate.

My entire body pulses. My core clenches. My guts go damp and I want to beg for his forgiveness but I can’t make words come out.

Mortified. This is the definition of mortified.

I try to snatch my hand back, leaving the money behind, but he catches my wrist, moving lightning-quick. I let out a gasp as he holds me close, his smell like cologne and musk, pleasant and scary too.

He oozes danger. I don’t know how I missed it. I was too worried about Marnie and not thinking, but this man, he’s so clearly not an exotic dancer that it’s like I mistook a hungry lion for a tabby cat.

“Boss, you want me to handle her?” the closer man asks, hand still inside his jacket. I catch the hint of what he’s holding.

Not a phone.

A fucking gun.

I open my mouth and only a pathetic moan escapes my lips.

The man holding my wrist studies me like he’s not sure what to make of me, like I’m an alien that landed in his yard and he can’t decide if he wants to exterminate me or not. My knees go weak and it’s all I can do to stay upright.

“What do you think, doll?” he asks, grip tightening. “Should he handle you? Or should I handle you myself?”

“I’m sorry,” I manage to gasp, forcing words from my chest, because I’m pretty sure that if I don’t talk, something bad will happen. “I’m so, so sorry, we’re having a bachelorette party and we were waiting for a stripper and you were here?—“

He squeezes. My wrist grinds, and I yelp. “Is that why you shoved your hand down my pants, little doll?”

“Please, you’re hurting me.”

He looks at my arm like he didn’t realize. His grip loosens. “What’s your name?”

“June.” I whisper it, hoping that if I’m small and weak, he’ll go away. Like playing dead for a hungry bear. “Please, I’m sorry.”

There’s a long moment. One of the worst of my life. I wish Grandma were here, even if she can’t walk so well these days. She’s the strongest person I know. She’d be able to get me out of this.

“Uh, sorry, but I think I’m supposed to be here?”

A voice cuts into the moment. I’m so relieved I let out a soft sob as the man releases me.

I step back, rubbing my wrist. A fourth person sheepishly approaches, looking around like he’s lost. He’s a few inches taller than me, out of shape, not terrible looking but a pale wisp of a human compared to the monster who nearly broke me.

This newcomer is dressed in a cop’s uniform and he’s carrying a boombox.

“I think your entertainment is here.” The monster gazes at me a second longer before waving once at the men beside him. “Stand down. Enjoy your evening, June.”

I lean against the door, heart hammering, as he walks away, followed by his two men. Neither glances in my direction like I’ve completely disappeared already.

In their wake, I’m left horrified.

What the hell just happened? Who the fuck was that guy?

I feel like I narrowly escaped with my life, but I don’t understand why.

It’s like I met true evil in person.

I touch my wrist, wondering if I’ve been poisoned by that creature.

That beautiful monster.

“Uh, excuse me? You okay? I’m looking for a bachelorette party?—“

The door to the hotel room opens and screaming spills into the hallway. Beth pokes her head out. “Hey, everything okay? They’re getting restless. Oh, is that?—“

“It’s the dancer,” I say, gathering myself together the best I can. “Let’s take him to see Marnie.”

Beth looks at the guy skeptically. “You sure it’s him?”

“Hey, babe, don’t worry, I put on a great show.” The dancer grins. His teeth are crooked. He does a few hip-thrusts that aren’t too bad. “You got a place I can plug this in? And maybe charge my phone? And some coke if you got it?”

“Jesus Christ…” Beth leads the real dancer into the room by the arm. “No, we don’t have coke, but there’s a plug over here.”

I take a moment in the hall. The monster and his two men are gone, turned the corner, vanished into nothing. Who was that guy? And why do I feel like he’s still standing beside me? His smell infuses the hall, leaving his mark.

I run a hand down my face with a groan.

What would I have done if he had tried to drag me off?

Nothing, I don’t think.

What the hell is wrong with me?

There’s a shriek from the hotel room followed by laughter followed by the low thump of terrible techno music, and I drag myself into the party, putting thoughts of that man behind me.