Page 81 of Twisted Vows

I nod.

When he unapologetically opens the door and saunters past Aurora into the hallway, I snap out of the trance he wove around me and curse him just loud enough to ensure he hears me. With a deliciously wicked glance over his shoulder, he promises retribution before turning the corner and walking out of sight.

Aurora slips into the room and shuts the door.

She rolls her eyes and chuckles as she crosses the room to the dress form.

“Don’t worry, Giorgio was the same way on all my wedding days. At least he hasn’t seen you in your dress yet, right?”

“Dannazione, I love you,” I blurt before bursting into tears.

She calms me down, helps me into my dress, and coordinates the rest of my preparations as I mentally check out. Her quiet vigilance as Katherine, a few of my female coworkers, and several other ladies from the mafia circle carousel through my room to greet and congratulate me before I walk down the aisle helps me keep my emotions in check.

I have zero doubts about Fiero—or my new extended family—but a picture-perfect wedding was something I never thought I could have, yet here I am, about to march toward the most lethal groom in the nation’s most densely populated city with said cityscape in the background.

When I stand at the back of our tiny congregation and see Fiero waiting at the altar for me, joy pulls my lips into a smile. Giorgio, his best man, offers me his arm to walk me down the aisle. As I accept it, Aurora wipes a tear from her eye and serendipitously hands Katherine a tissue as they stand shoulder to shoulder on the bride’s side of the stage. Tristan shifts his weight from one foot to the other as he stands behind Fiero.

Nico Russo—the man I saw from across the clearing at Aurora’s wedding—sits with his arm around Serenity, his heavily pregnant wife. She looks ready to pop any second now, but the love and excitement shining from her eyes assures me she’s ascomfortable as she can be while sitting in the sun. Other familiar faces smile up at me, but the world fades away as I meet Fiero’s eyes.

The ceremony passes by in a blur, but when the officiate—the same lawyer who married us the first time—announces the groom may now kiss the bride, everything snaps into focus. I grab Fiero’s nape and yank him down for a demanding kiss. He groans into my mouth and enjoys my hunger for a moment before taking over. When he finally pulls back, I decide breathing is overrated and tug him down for another.

The rest of the celebration continues without a hitch, and by the time Fiero ushers me through the farewell gauntlet—where everyone waves bubble guns at us instead of throwing rice—and tucks me into the car, my entire body throbs from exhaustion.

Fiero shuts my door, walks around the hood to the driver’s seat, and rolls down the windows so we can wave at everyone as he pulls out of the parking lot.

When I reach for his hand, he takes my wrist and kisses my ring before setting my hand in my lap. Hurt spears through me, but it’s gone as soon as he reaches into the back seat and pulls out a bag of snacks.

“I knew you wouldn’t eat much with so many people around, so I came prepared,” he says.

“You’re just trying to fatten up your pregnant wife,” I joke.

He steals my hand and kisses my knuckles, barely taking his eyes off the road as he responds, “You know it. The bigger, the sweeter.”

For a few moments, I feed us both and crack open a water bottle to share with him. By the time I finish my snack, we’re on the outskirts of the city.

Fiero’s shoulders stiffen. He slows and glances between my window and the front windshield several times before cursing under his breath.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“That’s Ermanno Mancini, Nico Russo’s consigliere. We’re far out of either of our districts, but he looks—”

The telltale sound of gunshots bounces off the buildings. Fiero curses again and pushes my head down as he jerks the wheel and hits the gas. Less than ten seconds later, he slams the brakes and throws the shifter in park.

“Stay in the car,mia caramellina.”

With his curt demand hanging in the air, he exits the car, hits the lock button, and slams the door behind him. I fight a wave of nausea as I sit up. My stomach clenches as I glimpse Ermanno and Fiero darting around the block and out of sight.

A man with blood gushing from his shoulder and thigh staggers onto the sidewalk from the outpatient clinic halfway down the block. When a second and third victim stumble into the street, I snap into nurse mode and unbuckle my seat belt. As I open the door and step onto the sidewalk, I dial nine-one-one and hit send, giving them the street names as I run past the sign. I stay on the line and call out updates as I reach the gaggle of victims.

The man with two gunshot wounds is the most serious, so I get him to lie on his back and apply pressure to the wound on his thigh, but it’s not enough. I glance around for something to stanch the flow as I lean more of my weight onto him. He screams. I apologize but don’t decrease the pressure.

A woman with blood smeared over her hands and face rushes out of the clinic. She strips off her sweater and rushes to the victim in second most critical condition.

My patient pushes at my hands and groans as his pallor turns ashen. When his arms flop to the concrete and he passes out, I curse, rip two strips of fabric from the bottom of my dress, ball up the smallest and shove it in his thigh wound before tying the second strip tight around the dressing.

The ambulance sirens blare in the distance as I tear more fabric from my skirt and apply pressure to the man’s shoulder. Fiero and Ermanno stalk into view.

Fiero’s furious glare might make a lesser woman cower, but I snap out instructions for him to help the man sitting on the curb. My mouth waters despite the situation as my husband strips off his suit coat and presses it against the laceration on the man’s back.

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