Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 103124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
“I’m not the one who’s been shooting death cannons from my eyes all night,” I mutter as Eve makes her way through the crowd toward us.
“She’s young, and you’re ferocious. Be nice.”
“Like an angel,” I mutter.
“That’s what I’m afraid of, Lucifer.”
Bella leaves, and my new stepsister flops into the seat next to me.
“Your wife is hot,” she says, taking a sip of champagne.
“Thank you, I think so too.”
“But then, I expect nothing less from the don of the De Kysa Mafia.”
I have to hand it to the kid. Not too many people can catch me off guard, but her comment just did.
I chuckle before I can stop myself and gesture toward the glass of champagne in her hands.
“I think all those bubbles have gone to your head. Are you sure you’re old enough to drink?”
“Relax, gangster. I’m nineteen and can handle a glass of bubbly. Besides, take a look around the room. I think underage drinking is the last thing the authorities would be interested in, given the guests in attendance. It’s like a made men museum in here.”
“Made men?”
She nods. “You know, the Mafia. The mafioso. Goodfellas. I’m going to make him an offer he can’t refuse.”
I almost choke on my mouthful of scotch at her attempt to impersonate Don Vito Corleone. “I believe that particular quote was from The Godfather, not Goodfellas,” I point out.
She shrugs. “Whatever. You get the point.”
“Not really. Other than you’re good with impersonations. Can you do others?”
“Not nearly as well as you can change a subject.” She takes another sip of champagne. “You’re not worried about our parents tying the knot after knowing each other for a mere five minutes?”
“They’re adults.”
“Not to mention reckless.” Her gaze shifts to our parents dancing cheek to cheek on the dance floor. Admittedly, they look very happy. Especially my father.
“They call you the Heartless King from the North,” Eve states randomly. I get the feeling she’s been itching to bring it up since I walked in. “They also say you’re equally revered as you are feared.”
“You seem to know a lot about me,” I say.
She lifts her glass. “Google is a fabulous thing.”
“And so reliable,” I deadpan.
Her expression tightens. “Listen, my mom is a good woman.”
“I’m sure she is.”
Her face softens as she gnaws the inside of her mouth. “You seem like an alright guy. Please don’t let anything happen to her.”
It’s fleeting, but I don’t miss the flash of vulnerability in her eyes.
“Why would anything happen to her?” I ask.
“I don’t know. But when this all falls apart because they’ve only known each other for a couple of months, what happens to her then? She’ll be privy to all your Mafia secrets.”
For all her googling, Eve really doesn’t know how this works at all.
Juliet will never know any secrets.
It takes years for a bride to become privy to anything that happens within the inner sanctum of our family business.
Eve pleads, “Promise me nothing will happen to her.”
“What exactly do you think I’d do to her?”
“I don’t know, a pair of concrete shoes or something?”
I can’t stop the chuckle that escapes me. “You’ve been watching too many organized crime shows.”
We don’t bother with concrete shoes anymore.
We’ve developed more creative ways of disposing of our enemies.
Not that any De Kysa bride has ever been on the receiving end of something so heinous.
“I like your mom,” I say.
“You do?” She looks surprised.
“You’re not bad either. For a brat stepsister.”
Her eyes widen, telling me she likes the comment. Then her gleaming eyes narrow. “You’re not nearly as scary as I thought you’d be. You know, for a Mafia madman.”
I clink her champagne glass with my scotch tumbler. “Oh, I’m scary. I’m just on my best behavior tonight.”
30
Bella
It’s a business deal.
I remind myself as I stand in front of the full-length mirror wearing my wedding dress.
Then why does it feel like my heart is about to be nailed to the wall?
Because you can’t help but hope that somewhere inside the man you’re about to marry is the boy you used to love.
Which is pointless, I know.
But the heart can’t help but want what it wants.
Frowning, I refocus my attention on my wedding dress.
Magda Bianchon has done an incredible job. It’s simple and classy, with twenty-five thousand dollars’ worth of elegance thrown in. It’s rare Italian silk in the purest of whites, with spaghetti straps and a plunging back. Every inch clings to my curves until it reaches my toes where it fans into a sweeping train.
Today, my unruly red-gold curls are pulled tight off my face and secured into a taut bun at my nape. I reach up and touch my veil, which is yards of the silkiest tulle trailing to the floor in soft white waves.
I draw in an unsteady breath and then release it shakily.
I miss my mama, and her absence weighs heavy in my heart.