Page 9 of Curse of the Bride Assassin

Stop it. Lock that shit down,I internally yell at myself.

I cannot afford to have butterflies over this man! He’s my way into the Conti family, a means to an end to get this job done. A way to find my mother and bring her home—nothing more.

He isnotmy future husband. I amnothaving romantic feelings about him. Love can wait, because this mission is about something so much more important—finding Mom. And killing Mario so the guild doesn’t come after me.

“I’m sure you say that to all the women you meet,” I quip to lighten the mood. He’s a mafia man, so he’s probably a player anyway. Certainly not fated mates or husband material.

“So funny. Why do you think I used a dating service to find you, beautiful? Meeting women when you’re as busy as I am is hard. Making them stick around is even harder. I barely dated.”

Even without a pulse speed to key in on, I know he isn’t lying. Something deep inside me justknowshe’s not a player. That same feeling keeps telling me I’m safe around him. That I can trust him.

I wish that inner feeling would shut the fuck up and stop being such a hippie dipshit. A man as dangerous as Vincenzo Conti can’t be trusted. He isn’t safe. He’s the intended head of a vampire mafia clan that wreaks havoc on this city. A vicious criminal. A killer.

Aren’t you a killer, too?My conscience jumps in, teaming up with that deep seated feeling against me.

While they’re right, I’m more of a vigilante than a criminal.

“I’m sorry our dinner date didn’t go as planned,” he apologizes as he takes my hand, his thumb rubbing over my knuckles. “Unfortunately, we’ll have to stay in one of thefamiglia’ssafehouses until we know the threat is neutralized. I can have something ordered in, though.”

“Our safety is important. It’s fine.” I mean it, too.

Spending time with this man isn’t a hardship at all. It feels…easy, like I’ve known him all my life. And the longer I’m with him, the closer I’ll get to taking out my target.

Vincenzo directs his attention toward his driver.

“Which safehouse are we going to?”

“The one in Astoria,” the driver replies. “We should be there in about twenty minutes.”

“Ah that’s a nice one. It’s a brick duplex on a quiet street. We rent the left side to one of ourCapos, and the right side is a safehouse or a guest home when we have visitors. There’s a great pasta joint around the corner we can order from.”

“What’s your favorite pasta?” I ask him, out of curiosity.

“Oh a tie between ravioli and carbonara,” he replies. “You?”

“Same.” It’s strange that we have the same favorites, but probably a coincidence.

“What’s your favorite dessert?” He gives me an expectant look, like this very question could make or break this fake engagement.

“Tiramisu.”

“Mine too,” he laughs.

We go through a few more questions and realize we share many favorite things. We both love hockey, prefer the shore to the mountains, hate jaywalking, and prefer pancakes over waffles.

Again, all coincidences. Everyone likes tiramisu. Pancakes are obviously better than waffles. It probably doesn’t mean anything at all. I have no clue why I’m fawning all over him because we have the same favorite breakfast.

When we roll up to the duplex, the driver parks the car in the driveway. This must be an expensive piece of property to have its own parking space…

“Thank you,” Vincenzo says before coming around to my side of the car to open the door.

He escorts me to the front entrance, pushing me behind him. Biting my tongue and acting like I have no clue how to defend myself is killing me, but I need to keep up appearances and the protective instinct is a little bit hot. He punches in a door code, then slowly opens it and turns on the light, his gun at his side.

We walk into a gorgeous foyer, with a long cherrywood console table. There are landscapes of the city hung on the walls in various metal-toned frames that work well together. As we walk through to the kitchen, he opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of white wine. Then he grabs a bottle opener from a nearby drawer and two wine glasses from a cabinet.

“My guard must have called ahead,” he explains as he fills each glass with a crisp, citrus-smelling liquid.

I would have done an entire sweep of the house and had my gun locked and loaded. Something feelsoffhere. Part of my banshee powers give me a sixth sense when something bad is about to happen, especially if it involves death. But how do I tell him that without giving myself away?

---