Page 3 of Carnival Master

That ringmaster is the worst of them all. Who does he think he is, undressing me with those dark eyes and giving me that wolfish grin? The nerve of him flirting so brazenly after literally slamming into me. I don’t care how ripped he is under that stupid ringmaster costume, with those intricate tattoos snaking across his muscular arms.

Ugh, I can’t be thinking about him like that. I’m spoken for, thanks to dear old Dad setting up this ridiculous arranged marriage. To a mobster—because that’s just what a girl dreams of. Marrying into the family business of extortion and violence.

My aimless wandering leads me right to the freak show tent. Of course. I peek inside, grimacing at thestrange human oddities on display. A woman with a beard thicker than most men, contortionists folding themselves into impossible knots, and...is that a guy hammering a nail into his nose? I stumble back, hand over my mouth to stifle my revolted gasp.

“There you are.” Dad’s gruff voice makes me jump. He grabs my arm, yanking me away from the tent flap. “C’mon, we gotta meet Tyson about that shipment.”

Tyson

Isn’t that the ringmaster’s name? My heart stutters in my chest. I don’t want to see that arrogant, inappropriately flirtatious jackass again.

But I don’t have a choice. Dad’s already dragging me toward the main tent, his beefy hand clamped around my wrist like a vise.

I steel myself as Dad yanks open the tent flap, the heavy canvas parting to reveal a dimly lit space that reeks of cigarette smoke and cheap beer. A few burly men lounge around a rickety card table, their laughter rough and grating.

In the center of it all is the ringmaster himself—Tyson. He’s shed the gaudy red jacket, wearing a tight black tank that strains against his muscular frame. Those intricate tattoos I noticed earlier wrap around his bulging biceps, disappearing beneath the fabric. A cold sweat prickles my neck despite the heat as his dark gaze lands on me.

“Mr. Moretti.” Tyson rises to his feet, that insufferable grin playing at the corners of his lips. “I wasn’t expecting such lovely company.”

Dad grunts, oblivious to the way Tyson’s eyes roam over me. “You got those supplies we talked about?”

“Of course.” Tyson’s focus shifts back to my father, all traces of flirtation vanishing as he launches into logistics about weights, quantities, and drop-off points.

I try to tune it out, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment and anger. The way he looked at me like he wanted to devour me right there. Surely, if he knows anything about my dad, he knows I’m in an arranged marriage. Not that I want to marry that slimeball Paulie Gambino, but still. I have my obligations.

Tyson’s deep voice cuts through my thoughts. “Everything’ll be ready by midnight like we discussed. You’re good for the payment?”

Dad huffs out a laugh, slapping a thick envelope on the table. The sound of it smacking down makes me cringe. “You know I’m good for it. Now, are we done here? I got places to be.”

“That’s it, Mr. Moretti. Good doing business with you.” Tyson scoops up the envelope, tucking it into his waistband.

I avert my gaze, refusing to meet his eyes again. But not before catching the briefest glimpse of the bulge in his pants and how it strains against the fabric.

No. I don’t want to think about the bulge in his pants. I turn on my heel and storm out of the stifling tent, leaving Dad and his goons behind. The carnival has officially lost all its charm. Not that it had much in the first place.

I storm away from the tent, my face burning. Thenerve of that Tyson guy, looking at me like a piece of meat right in front of my father.

Heavy footsteps sound behind me, closing in fast. Before I can react, a strong hand clamps down on my upper arm, wrenching me backward into the shadows between two tents.

“Let go of me!” I cry, struggling against him while he pins me against the faded canvas.

Tyson’s face looms in front of mine, his eyes glittering with an intensity that makes my breath catch. Up close, I can see a faint scar over his eyebrow, remnants of past fights or troubles with the law. He’s terrifyingly attractive in a rough, dangerous way.

“You shouldn’t have run off like that.” His voice is a deep, gritty rasp that sends a shiver down my spine. “We weren’t finished talking.”

“Get your hands off me, you pig!” I snarl, pushing against his chest. But he doesn’t budge, his body a solid wall of muscle trapping me in place. “If Paulie knew you were touching his future wife, he’d cut your filthy hands off.”

A dark chuckle rumbles from Tyson’s throat as he leans in closer, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Is that what you want? To be Paulie Gambino’s little wifey, popping out babies and turning a blind eye while he fucks every piece of ass in the city?”

It’s true—everything Tyson’s saying about Paulie. The guy’s a notorious womanizer, bragging to his goons about all the side pieces he’s got stashed around the city. And I’m sure that won’t change once we’re married. It’ll just be another way for him to flaunt his power andstatus, keeping his wife at home barefoot and pregnant while he philanders around.

But it’s my duty. My obligation as the daughter of a mob boss is to make this arranged marriage work. To play the good little mobster’s wife and keep up appearances, no matter how much it makes my skin crawl.

“It’s my duty,” I grit out, struggling against Tyson. “Something a carnie like you could never understand.”

His eyes narrow to dangerous slits. But then that insufferable grin creeps back across his lips, and he leans in until our faces are inches apart.

“Oh, I understand duty just fine, baby girl.” His raspy voice drips with contempt on that last word. “But I also understand when someone’s trying to convince themselves they’re okay with a shitty situation.”

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