Chapter 2
Most girls dreamed of their wedding—the venue, cake, dress, groom, and of course, the grand romance that led up to it.
I got the dress—a gorgeous rainbow-gradient bust that flowed into a pure-white skirt—a veil embroidered with dozens of colored crystals, and exclusive stiletto heels from my favorite designer.
That was about it.
There was no great love. No big ceremony. No bouquets. No reception. No joy. There was only my queasy acceptance and guarded optimism.
As we waited for the groom to arrive, I paced the front of the aisle at the Lyon City Hall, snapping my fingers, and kept one eye on the solid oak doors. The clack of my heels thundered against the hardwood flooring, louder than my apprehension.
I fanned the air. There was way too much air freshener in here. The lavender, eucalyptus, and lemon blend tickled my nose, and I stifled a cough. My veil scratched my face. My clammy palms fisted my skirt. Was I sweating? I probably was. My armpits felt sticky. I cracked my neck.
“Chin up,” my mother whispered beside me. “You look perfect. He is going to love you.”
Now, wasn’t that the dream? A connection with someone who’d love and care for me.
Someone who’d make me their priority, not shelf me on their backlist. Someone who saw me for me, not for what I could do for them.
Who noticed my efforts and took pride in them.
Did I dare to hope? Like a desperate simp, I did.
But the groom was still absent, and the longer we waited in the city hall’s wedding room, the more my hope crumbled. I drummed my fingers against my other palm, then pulled at them. No one else seemed bothered.
The mayor chatted with my father, taking advantage of the wedding ceremony lull to discuss market trends and the latest investment opportunities.
My mother fretted over my thirteen-year-old brother’s posture as he played on his portable video game console.
My seventeen-year-old sister sat alone in the middle of the six-by-eight arrangement of chairs, her nose buried in a book, dressed in head-to-toe black.
Lastly, my middle brother, Adrien, and his best friend, Erel, slouched in their front-row seats, both silent and closed off.
They stared, expressionless, at the muraled portraits surrounded by gold molding on the wall behind me.
I hadn’t seen a smile on Adrien’s face since my twin’s death just over two months ago, which was the last time he’d seen Tessa, his now ex-fiancée.
The only time he looked alive anymore was when he went off on one of his self-assigned missions for his and Erel’s joint hitman enterprise, concealed under the guise of a virtual reality arena company named Endgame.
“You’re giving me a headache, pacing like that,” Erel carped as he twirled a pen between his left index and middle fingers.
“Then close your eyes,” I snapped back.
With his wavy blond hair and chiseled features that rivaled those of Greek gods, I once thought, after a drunken kiss, that Erel was my soulmate and we were destined for marriage.
That hadn’t been my brightest idea. With the aggressive way the two of us sparred and rolled in the ring, we probably would have ended up killing each other hours after exchanging vows.
As my mother always said, Erel and I were like water and fire, incompatible to the core.
“If you don’t want this, back out,” Adrien said flatly. He flicked away a piece of lint. “There is still time for another choice.”
I forced a smile. Behind that blank facade, I knew he cared.
“No, there isn’t.”
He didn’t understand. He couldn’t, and I wouldn’t rectify that anytime soon.
In a way, if it weren’t for my trolling, my psychopathic twin brother wouldn’t have tried to kill Adrien’s ex-fiancée.
My twin, then, wouldn’t have been killed by her brother, and we wouldn’t now be at risk of a war between our French mafioso family and the California Cosa Nostra outfit.
There was no escaping my responsibility for the mess we were in.
I fidgeted with my gown, patted down the beads affixed to the lace, and fixed my veil.
I snapped my fingers and slapped my palm down on my opposite fist. There was still no groom, and there was nothing to do but twiddle my thumbs and count the number of crystal buttons draped in chains down the chandelier or the bumps in the gold trimmings around the windows.
This was a waste of my time. I could be back in my lab mixing chemicals and scents, making a new perfume.
“Distract me,” I said. Adrien glanced at me skeptically as I took up the orthodox boxing stance. “Spar with me.”
A twitch of a smile reached his lips. I shook out my hands, adjusted the train of my dress, and bounced in place.
In a wedding dress, my face covered in a veil, I definitely looked ridiculous, but right now, that didn’t matter.
This was the first spark of life I’d seen on his face since he broke contact with Tessa, and that achievement spiked my confidence.
“What do you think Father’ll say if I bruise you up on your wedding day?”
Knowing our father, he probably wouldn’t notice, even if I left a trail of blood in my wake.
I shrugged. “It’s not a wedding day if the groom gets cold feet.”
With a mocking thump, the wedding hall door opened and scratched to a halt against the hardwood.
“Quand on parle du loup, on en voit la queue,” muttered Erel, his voice dripping with condescension. Speak of the devil, and he appears.
I rolled my eyes at him, dropping my arms, as a paunchy man with weathered skin and gray-white hair stepped through the doorway.
“Sorry, we’re late.”
Three statuesque, lithe men, all in their twenties, with hair in shades of brass and dark copper, crowded behind him.
I swore my heart stopped beating for a few seconds.
The tallest led the pack with a stare as cold and deadly as a mercury overdose.
He held himself like a conqueror of old, head high, every stomp forward a warning to any opposition.
My mouth went dry. This was a man who knew his worth and didn’t give two fucks what anyone else thought.
That confidence, I wanted it, and if my guess was correct, he was about to be all mine.
Cillian O’Leary, the Boston Irish mafia heir.
The tailored cut of his dress shirt draped over his sturdy shoulders and sinfully tapered down to his waistline.
It disappeared into jeans that hugged his thick thighs.
I ached to rake my nails over all those delicious muscles flexing across his torso with every stride forward.
With arms like that, he’d probably toss me around real good.
And those tattoos that crawled from behind his ears into the neckline of his shirt, I wondered how far down they went.
One word: yum. I’d never known I was into gingers before, but I was ready to be splayed out on a table of his choosing and signed up as his breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Hello, husband dearest, and welcome to my life!
The other two men weren’t bad to look at either, but whereas the leader of the trio demanded attention and caution, the other two faded into the background.
The bald one, with a scraggly beard that offset the lack of hair on his head, carried bulk from heavy weight training.
He rocked from side to side with each step, and his eyes flicked everywhere and nowhere, as if he were taking note of everything at the same time.
The other had a tuft of curls falling over his eyes that matched the color of his freckles, and he vibrated with barely restrained energy.
Only my future father-in-law, Angus O’Leary, wore a full suit and tie.
Though he, too, was covered in tattoos from hands to neck, his style leaned more toward classy camouflage in a den of lions rather than the Viking-heathen-dragged-up-from-hell look his sons preferred.
I’d take the latter type of corruption any day.
“My son and heir, Cillian O’Leary.”
The tallest inclined his head and shook my father’s hand. I’d guessed right.
Through my veil, I ogled him shamelessly.
Despite my stilettos, he still dwarfed me, and I wasn’t a short woman.
His neck was one thick column, bearing the weight of a roguish face.
A well-trimmed boxed beard framed his harsh jawline and melted into a plain crew cut that didn’t soften his features one bit.
His nose was one brutal line, and his lips were pinched together—not thin but not full either.
Even across the room, his eyes were gloomy, sapphire magnets, tugging me into their orbit with both a warning to stay away and a promise of the best hate bang of my life.
He didn’t want to be here. That much was obvious.
Not once did he look at me as he joined my family at the front of the room.
The mayor took position behind the antique pedestal desk that served as an altar, still deep in conversation with my father.
Cillian stepped forward to my right, his gaze pinned on those damn murals.
He didn’t say a single word to me or even spare me a glance.
It wasn’t ideal, but everything was salvageable with effort. I exhaled a deep breath and held out my hand to him.
“How about we introduce ourselves?” I softened my French accent for his benefit.
“No need.”
“Of course there is.” I waggled the fingers of my outstretched hand, proud of the confidence in my voice. “I am Alizé, your wife-to-be.”
“Let’s get this over with,” he announced in a deep, flat, monotone voice, his Boston Irish accent doing all the work for him as he ignored my hand. It was as if he’d resigned himself to this and didn’t seem to care whether it was me there or anyone else.
“Don’t.” My voice shook. I couldn’t take that. I dealt with that at home, under my parents. I refused to deal with it in my love life too. “Don’t treat me like I don’t exist. That’s not a way to start our marriage.”