Page 33 of His Bride

“Fuck! Ow!”

I let go, grab my mug, and down my coffee. I made it so strong it’s borderline Turkish.

Leaning back, listening to Isaia’s smug face sputter and swear and rant on about my imminent torture-and-murder plan to be initiated by him—some people are so childish—I light up and lean back, breathing out a plume of smoke in his direction.

“I do feel better,” I say.

“Fuck you.”

“It’s okay, but I think I’ll pass. Better offers and all. Besides, I’m way out of your league. You’re more of a bottom dweller. I’m top of the food chain.”

He stands. “Yeah? But I got to fuck your smoking hot wife. And who knows,” Isaia says, his death wish showing, “maybe I’ll get to do it again.”

Isaia stalks off, and behind me I hear the hiss and rumble of the expensive espresso maker, fresh ground coffee perfuming the air.

“Screaming my name,” he continues. “You know, I think she said something like ‘Ooh, you’re so much better than that guy I had to marry. What was his name?’”

“Keep talking. No, really. Because with every word, you’re getting closer to your last.”

“That’s true of everyone, you moron,” he says.

I laugh—softly because my head still hurts. “But you most of all. Especially if you touch her again. Fuck, or even think about it.”

“You’re not the thought police.”

“Just wait until Alexius heals, and I’ll tell him how you lusted after his wife. We’ll see how long you last.”

He comes back, puts a cup in front of me, smacks me on the back of the head, then takes his seat. “Watch your tongue. And fuck, man, work it out with Giana.”

“She’s none of your business.”

“I know this might come as a shock to you, but you’re a dick.”

“Thank you.”

“She’s hurting, too, you know.”

I know that. And I’m going to sort it out. Soon. I did leave her phone outside her door today. She knows enough not to say anything to her father.

But the plan is, we’re going to spread the word that Alexius is coming home while Nicoli and Mira are off to Italy for a last hoorah before the baby comes. But Giana doesn’t know these details. It’s not that I don’t trust her. I do. But I don’t know if her father can read her, and she’s going to have to see him at some point.

She’s also his princess. A Belucci princess.

I hate myself for my next words; I do. “She’s not truly one of us.”

Isaia stares at me. “Did the alcohol kill your last remaining brain cell? Because, as I remember it, you went insane at the thought of that prick Aurelio taking your wife whoisn’t truly one of us.” He air-quotes the last part and adds a heavy dose of sarcasm to his voice, which is all a little overkill.

I take the espresso in front of me, swallow it all, and I’m about to argue, or explain, or something when Nicoli comes into the kitchen.

The sun’s streaming in, and it glints off his hair, which is usually more unruly, yet it’s styled to perfection this morning. The grim set to his mouth, the intense determination etched on his face, it’s all Alexius.

Sure, they’re identical, but I know their differences and can tell them apart. But this, he’s exuding his twin. And I think our plan just might work.

I lift a brow. “I see you have that whole Alexius version two-point-O thing going today. Practicing?”

“It’s gonna take me a minute to suppress my natural charm. I figured some practicing might be a good idea.” He buttons up his suit jacket, eyeing me. “Feeling better?”

Isaia barely withholds a snicker.

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