“The believer is happy, the doubter is wise.” —Edgar Allan Poe
King’s beautiful.
I always think that, though.
It makes sense. After all, his name is King, and he looks like a monarch from the days of old—the one women would throw themselves at.
Wow, I just said days of old. Someone save me.
I shake the thoughts from my head. After all, he’s not mine to take, and even if he were, my heart belongs to someone else.
“Hey there.” Roman elbows me and abruptly straightens up when my uncle walks by. I walk farther into the kitchen to refill my drink. “Champagne?”
“Yeah.” I hold out my glass and take it all in.
The fact that this is going to be my life.
The fact that I’ll be sleeping in one bed while wishing I were in another. I bite down on my lower lip and nearly spill my full glass as Roman fills it to the brim. “Sorry.”
“No problem.” His eyes lock on my lips.
My uncle walks past again, gives us a brief head nod, and keeps walking. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until Roman puts a hand on my lower back. It’s barely there, his hand, but it’s enough that I exhale and attempt to inhale a few more breaths.
I don’t know why I’m still freaked out, but something feels off despite the whole we’ve waved the white flag between the families as I get married off to our freaking godfather.
It’s like a bad Hollywood movie.
And yet it’s my life.
“You’re fine.” Roman leans down and whispers the words next to my ear, so close that I can feel the heat of him against my neck. I shiver. “Don’t do that, though.”
“Hm, what?” I don’t even turn to acknowledge him; it’s too dangerous. I don’t trust many people.
I trust Roman.
I trust the second generation of the mafia.
I do not, however, trust any of the older men wandering around the kitchen, my own family included. I’ve been brought up to protect myself, to protect my words.
Reacting could mean death. So I sip my champagne and look straight ahead like the champagne bottle sitting on the counter fascinates me, and I put a dopey smile on my face like I’m drunk and stupid.
It’s a part I’ve played my entire life. It’s a part that’s kept me safe, compliments of my late mother, who always said the most intelligent woman in the room will always look the dumbest when working with men who think they’re the most brilliant.
She wasn’t wrong, and yet part of me thinks she wasn’t totally right either, not with how some of the other family bosses are looking at me.
Phoenix Nicolasi, for example. He’s talking to my uncle, he’s smiling, he looks like he’s participating in the conversation, but his left hand keeps rubbing his right hand like he’s thinking about punching him, and every few seconds, I notice his jaw tick.
Not that I’m being weird, but he’s a gorgeous man. You know, if I were into older guys or had a fetish. He’s quite honestly dangerously beautiful and probably old enough to be my dad; then again, so is Brad Pitt, and well, it’s Brad Pitt; he can hair flip and wink at me any day.
“What are you looking at?” Roman asks.
It’s a lot of pressure constantly being on, constantly making sure that I’m saying the right thing, looking the right way while on top of everything else carrying my entire family name into the Five Families of the Cosa Nostra, soon to be six or even seven if my family has anything to say about it. Vitela. Rossa. Di Masis.
They are all dying in Sicily. So my family decided that we would not be one of those families. We would play nice. We would play fair. Until we didn’t. Until we couldn’t. Until my dad and uncle broke the rules. Now it feels better, more fair; now it seems that we’ve all come to an agreement, but at what cost?
I don’t trust my uncle. I don’t know him well. Does he seem fair? Yes. Do I know that in my soul? No. I feel like a threat more than a pawn, and that scares me more than anything. It keeps me up at night. It terrorizes my days.
At the end of the day, the mafia overseas is dying.
It’s literally dying.
And they’ll stop at nothing to come to the States and make sure they have a piece of what the Families here already have.
Prosperity.
Honor.
Power.
But there’s a reason they aren’t doing well, and it has to do with the stupid leadership and the ways they’ve tried to weasel into everything, yet nobody will listen to anyone who says otherwise.
It sucks.
And now I’m, yet again, stuck in the middle.
Roman grabs my hand then drops it. “You look like you need a drink of water; come with me.”
Okay, I’m literally in the kitchen, but I follow him anyway, down a dark hall, around a dark corner, and into a dark bathroom.
The door shuts behind us.
He flips on the light. “What’s going on, Del?”
“Nothing.” I lie again. “I’m fine. It’s just a lot to take in.” I smile. “Is my bodyguard really that worried?”
His face tightens almost to a painful degree. I don’t look away because if I look away, I look weak, frightened… I reveal so many things I’m not allowed to show to Roman, to anyone.
I can tell King.
But can I?
I know I can trust him, to a degree, but there’s something there, something I see, something I feel that makes me want to both run into his arms and beg him to keep me safe—but shove him off a cliff for fear that he’ll be my downfall.
“Hey.” Roman crowds my space, and for the first time since falling for him, I want to back away, so I do. My shirt rides up, causing my skin to touch the marble countertop of the bathroom. It’s cold, soothing. It’s so freaking different than the way he puts his hands on my shoulders then slides them up my neck to cup my face.
He licks his lips.
He’s beautiful.
In my head, it’s always been him.
Why am I doubting so much tonight?
I swallow and lick my lips, then bite down on the bottom like an invitation. He leans his head in and presses a soft kiss to my mouth.
My bodyguard.
My savior.
My love.
I part my lips and welcome his heated kiss. I tell myself this is normal, that it’s all a game, damn near political when it comes to the mafia.
He smiles against my mouth, deepening the kiss. He tastes comforting, like this is what I need. A stolen moment in the bathroom of my fiancé’s house.
I wrap my arms around him and pull him close. He smells good, but something feels off as he wraps his arms around me and lifts me onto the counter.
I attempt a laugh as I nearly fall into the sink.
A knock sounds, but I ignore it until the door shoves open and King is standing there watching us, seeing everything.
My lips are swollen, and so are Roman’s, and even though King truly knows everything and is literally a savior to me—his eyes harden.
Roman jumps away, causing me to nearly impale my ass on the faucet as I struggle to scramble to my feet.
King locks eyes with me. “It’s time for the toast.”
The tension in the bathroom is tangible, felt acutely between the three of us. Roman not wanting to toast to my new marriage, and King wishing that Roman’s spit wasn’t currently drying across my lips like a tattoo. And me…
“Yeah, sure.” I adjust my shirt then tuck my hair behind my ears.
King curses under his breath and walks fully into the bathroom, past Roman and toward me. He grabs my wrist like he knew a scrunchie would be there, then slowly lifts my hair into a low ponytail, pulling pieces of my hair to the front to frame my face.
He wraps the scrunchy twice.
For some reason, this gesture makes me want to walk into his arms, but I stay still, too afraid to give myself away, too afraid to feel what I should not be feeling, and too afraid to hurt Roman’s feelings.
King’s fingertips singe my neck—they shouldn’t. That’s all I keep thinking.
They shouldn’t.
Yet they do as he quickly pulls my messy hair back and turns me toward the mirror. “Put on some lip gloss; try not to blush too much.”
This is my life now.
Orders.
Demands.
I am the queen, after all.
And this man.
My King.
