Chapter 5
SANDRO
It doesn’t matter how little interest I have in a wife.
I can’t deny the truth staring me in the face.
Evelina Lombardi is objectively the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.
I knew she was pretty the night we met. And even bloodied and half-feral, I stayed far longer than I would have otherwise, because I found her oddly…
mesmerizing—like the Mona Lisa, with her quiet composure and secretive smile.
But here, draped in ivory silk, pearls glittering against her throat, plush lips parted like she’s afraid she might forget how to breathe, my bride is devastating.
Her shiny chestnut hair falls in gentle wisps around her face, calling attention to her refined features and warm gold-flecked gaze.
The veil cascading down her back and wrapping around her bare shoulders draws my eyes to her slender collar bones and impressive curves that she’s put on full display today.
Lucky. That’s the word. I’m lucky. Out of all the families whose support we could’ve bought with a ring, Raf chose hers.
It’s a gift, even if I never asked for it.
He stands behind me now, presiding over the ceremony as the new Don—or, more likely, ensuring that I don’t try to leave.
But with my bride standing before me, her slender fingers trapped between my rough ones, it’s the last thing on my mind.
The ceremony blurs. The priest drones on.
Leo, Miko, and Gio sit in the front row with their wives, witnesses to the new strength I’ll bring to our family with this alliance.
I can hear the soft murmurs of our guests, no doubt whispering about how desperate the Lombardis must be to willingly marry off their only daughter to the mad dog of the Chiaroscuro family.
But none of it lands.
My focus is locked on her—this girl who trembles and glows all at once, like the light of an inextinguishable flame.
She looks so scared, she’s still standing by sheer force of will, and yet she smiles, the light in her eyes promising a kind of acceptance that can only come from someone who’s either incredibly simple or unfalteringly kind.
And though I know through proven fact that kind people do not exist in my world, I can’t ignore the glimmer of intelligence in Evelina’s eyes.
So I convince myself that it must be a trick of the light.
I’m so riveted by her eyes that I almost miss the priest’s directive to exchange rings. And when I slide the ring onto her finger, my thumb brushes her warm, delicate skin—too delicate for a man like me.
Then the officiant is pronouncing us man and wife, and I step forward robotically to do what’s expected of me.
One arm catching around Evelina’s waist, I pull her close and lower my head to kiss my bride.
She smells like liquid sunshine, the fragrant warmth of a summer garden, and I inhale deeply without realizing it’s to take more of her in.
Our eyes lock, hers widening slightly in the moment before I cradle the back of her neck with my palm. Then her painted eyelids flutter closed, her long, thick lashes fanning across her rosy cheeks as her lips part on a shuddering breath.
The crowd erupts in applause as our lips meet, but I barely hear it. Because the moment her mouth finds mine, scorching heat blasts through me. I recognize the feeling.
Desire.
It’s ridiculous. I’ve kissed women before.
I’ve fucked them too. I know the mechanics, the routine, the relief.
I’ve done things to women that would make my virginal young bride blush to the roots of her lush brown hair.
But compared to my bloodlust, sex has always been…
muted, background noise, a way to take the edge off when my fists weren’t enough for one night.
But this—this is different.
Maybe it’s because this is the first woman I’ve ever called mine. Maybe it’s because, despite my lack of interest in social conventions or living by the rules, this moment still carries the weight of significance that it should. But I don’t think it’s just that.
Something about Evelina compels me in a way that no other woman has before.
Her lips are soft and inviting, hesitant but pliant. She tastes of nerves and sweetness, like spun sugar dissolving on my tongue. And my body reacts—my pulse kicking, my chest tightening, my fingers pressing into the small of her back as if to steady myself as I bring her closer.
A soft gasp rushes past her lips, and I’m dangerously tempted to chase it with my tongue. Instead, I pull back before I lose my grip. And I lock my emotions down before she can see the truth on my face.
The applause swells. My brothers smirk. And my beautiful bride smiles at me. Radiant. Unassuming. As if she has no idea what she just ignited in me.
The rest of it is obligation—toasts, dinner, endless congratulations. I’ve learned to play my role well enough, and tonight is no different. I raise a glass when I’m told, nod politely as the patriarchs of prominent families drone on about alliances and prosperity.
Then it’s time for dessert. My hand wraps around Evelina’s delicate one as we cut into a three-tiered cake with a knife I’d rather use on someone’s throat.
The effort Anika has put into this wedding isn’t lost on me, and I can’t help but think it’s the wedding she would have loved if she and Miko hadn’t rushed into a ceremony just to bring her under the protection of our family name.
At least Evelina seems to be enjoying it all.
And she truly shines beside me as she shares her warmth with everybody present.
My wife smiles like she means it. She laughs when someone teases us, blushes when I rest a hand against the small of her back and pull her close for our first dance.
She glows as if the candles scattered around the ballroom have cast their light just for her.
Her presence softens the edges of the night, almost enough to make me forget that this isn’t for me.
It’s for Raf. For my family. For our survival. Our revenge.
Eventually, my obligations run dry.
The guests are drunk. The speeches are finished.
My brothers dance with their wives while the Family elders disappear to their cigars and politics.
My bride is twirling with Gio and Stephanie’s little boy, Jackson, her skirts swishing, cheeks flushed with laughter as she dances with my nephew like she was born to be a mother.
No doubt my new bride will want children of her own to fill her time and pour her love into once she realizes how little I can offer her as a husband.
Then again, she probably already knows, considering I’ve done nothing to hide my reputation.
Above all, I value honesty, which is why I’ve done what I can to show Evelina exactly what she’s in for.
And tonight won’t be any different.
She doesn’t notice when I slip out, finding my opportunity when Raf is deep in conversation. I don’t bother changing. It will only increase my chances of getting caught. Instead, I head out on foot, welcoming the opportunity for a moment of peace and quiet after hours of agonizing socializing.
The night air is cool against my skin as I leave the estate, tuxedo jacket slung over my shoulder to trade marble floors and chandeliers for the stink of sweat, blood, and cheap whiskey.
The fighting pits.
Hidden under an Irish-owned pub, down two flights of concrete stairs, through a door no civilian would ever mistake for anything but storage, the bare-knuckle brawling competitions the Irish mafia host are tucked away where no one can accidentally find them.
Only those who have received a special invitation from the Murrays themselves can enter, and once earned, that right is almost never revoked.
That’s not to say they don’t pick fights or carry grudges better than most. They just tend to… remove unwanted patrons by other means. And since the Murrays were part of the force that helped the Tanakas overthrow my family, I know I’m running on borrowed time.
I’ve been taking risks, continuing to enter the fights when I know the Murrays want my family dead. Why? I haven’t been able to figure that out yet. But I intend to. It’s partly why I keep returning to the pits—even if it means putting my life on the line each time I step into the ring.
The Murrays could easily rig a match to take me out of the equation.
To be honest, I’m more than a little surprised they haven’t.
But the risk hasn’t stopped me from competing.
In truth, I savor the thrill that comes with not knowing which fight might be my last. And if they do decide to play dirty, I’ll be ready for them.
I’m granted access after a pair of mean green eyes peer at me through the slat in the reinforced metal door at the bottom of the concrete stairs.
The moment the heavy door opens, Seamus stepping aside to allow me in, noise crashes over me—shouts, jeers, the dull thud of fist meeting flesh.
The dank scent of musty concrete and rusting metal quickly envelops me as a heavy body hits the floor with a muffled thud, blood oozing from the unconscious fighter’s mouth.
Cheers erupt as the loud clang of the bell announces the end of the fight.
Then the door slams shut behind me, and heads turn.
“Christ almighty,” Liam crows from near the door, his laugh carrying over the din. “Would ya look at this? Chiaroscuro’s turned up for his fight in a bloody tux tonight.”
The Irishmen around him snort with laughter as more attention turns my way.
Someone whistles low, and Ronan points at the embroidered silk vest I haven’t bothered to strip yet. “Didn’t realize fighters were supposed to dress up for tonight’s big event,” he mocks.
I’m used to the razzing that happens here. Anything to get under a man’s skin. I don’t mind it. I’ve grown accustomed to the feel of my blood boiling. It makes me more dangerous in the ring.
Tossing my tuxedo jacket onto a stool, I shrug out of my vest, then strip my tie as I loosen the buttons around my collar. The white dress shirt clings to my back and shoulders as I roll up my sleeves to the elbow. My silence only fuels them.
Kennedy, the broad-shouldered bastard with a shaved head who I’m supposed to be fighting tonight, leans on the ropes of the makeshift ring, grinning wide enough to show gold teeth. “You’re late, Sandro. What kept ya? Your prom date want to slow dance?”
I crack my neck. “Had to tie the knot,” I say flatly.
That earns me a roar of laughter and several wolf whistles as I kick off my shoes and strip my socks, then I slip into the ring still wearing my dress pants and shirt.
Most guys prefer to box in gym shorts or athletic gear, but it’s not unheard of to fight as you come, and I don’t really give a damn if my dress clothes get ruined.
It was the price of ensuring I made it out of the house unnoticed.
“No wonder he’s late!” Ryan scoffs, his accent thick, his thinning red hair bright under the harsh overhead lights. “He was sayin’ his vows!”
“Jesus, it’s your wedding night?” Kennedy hollers over the riotous crowd. “Shouldn’t you be balls-deep in your bride instead of down here with us?”
The pit shakes with the echo of uproarious laughter, men doubled over, some nearly spilling their pints. Perhaps he’s right. But I don’t want to take my virgin wife to bed for the first time when I have days of pent-up violence still thrumming through my veins.
I know I have anger issues. Fighting is what gives me focus. It calms the storm inside me.
And I won’t touch Evelina until I know I’m in control.
I let the noise ride out, ignoring Kennedy’s jab with a silent scowl. Then I step forward, stripping off my shirt entirely and baring the dark tattoos that cover my arms, neck, and torso. They depict motifs of death, a silent warning to the men I fight of what’s coming for them.
I’m unusually devoid of bruises tonight—due to the considerable effort Raf has gone to in order to ensure my face was “presentable” for today’s ceremony. But now that the ink is dry on my marriage license, I’m ready to beat someone bloody so I can find some peace of mind.
“Are you ready to fight?” I growl at Kennedy, voice carrying over the din. “Or did you need more time to think about my balls?”
That shuts him up quickly enough, and the ropes creak as he pushes off of them to stand tall, his expression instantly stony.
Kennedy is all Irish muscle—thick arms corded with veins, chest peppered with old scars, nose crooked from breaks that never healed right.
He’s bigger than me by a good twenty pounds, but slower.
I can see it in the way he moves, heavy-footed, drunk on Irish stout and bravado.
The crowd circles closer, shoving and jostling for the best view. Money changes hands, odds shouted over the racket.
Kennedy spits on the sand-covered ground—the most effective footing when it comes to soaking up the blood that’s spilled in this ring—then he cracks his knuckles. “You sure ya don’t wanna be home with the missus, Chiaroscuro?” he taunts. “First night’s supposed to be special.”
I roll my shoulders once, loosening them, and meet his gaze without blinking. “Don’t worry. I intend to make this a night to remember.”
The crowd roars approval.
Ryan—a wiry old bastard who’s been overseeing these fights since before I could throw a punch—doesn’t bother with ceremony. He just raises his hand, drops it, and bellows, “Fight!”
Kennedy lunges first. He swings wide, telegraphing the punch with his whole body. I duck under it, his fist whistling past my ear, and drive my own into his ribs hard enough to hear the air shoot out of him.
He grunts, stumbles, but recovers fast enough to bring an elbow down toward my temple. I block, absorb the hit on my forearm, and answer with a sharp jab to his jaw.
The crowd surges with every strike, their shouts deafening, their bloodlust feeding mine.
My knuckles split on his teeth, but I barely feel it. Because this is what I came for—the rhythm of violence, the simplicity of the fight. No vows, no politics, no family to fail. Just me, an opponent, and the purity of pain exchanged blow for blow.
I square up again, and as I circle the Irish brute, my lips peeled back in something closer to a snarl than a smile, I feel that rare calm.