Page 75 of Secret Baby for the Italian Mafia King

Of course I don’t. I wasn’t given time to prepare myself for this, much less something to say. And what the hell would I even say if I did?

I shake my head.

Ren’s silence is heavy. When he doesn’t answer either, the priest continues. He reads a passage out of his book. Something about devotion and Christ’s love and eternity. We’d probably be better off if he picked one of the passages about hell. At least it would be relevant.

Ren takes a ring from his pocket as the traditional vows are exchanged—through sickness and in health, till death do us part. My voice betrays me, hitching tight and high. My emotions flood over into my eyes. Ren is stony-faced as I start to cry, unable to hold it back anymore as a cold, tight band slides around my finger.

Everything I wanted right here together.

Me, him, her.

So why does it make me sad? So, so sad.

The priest continues. He has probably seen his fair share of crying brides, and my tears don’t stop him.

“You may now—”

“Kiss the bride!” Harper yells in delight. “Kiss the bride, kiss the bride, kiss the bride!” She jumps up and down as she chants at us like we’re at a football game, urging us to score.

The interruption trips the dour, serious priest up so badly that I laugh through the tears. And Ren—he smiles again. For a second. Just one perfect, precious second.

I chase that side of him, the side of him that can still smile and laugh, and step into his arms as our mouths meet. Myforwardness surprises him. I taste my own tears between our lips. His thumbs stroke them away, tug me closer by the small of my back.

His hands clench into the fabric as if he’s trying to root me to him.

It shouldn’t last as long as it does. That kiss should be professionally short. Damning. No more emotionally charged than signing our marriage certificate. But I kiss him anyway, long and slow, as my dream comes true and I become Ren’s unworthy bride—Nadia Caruso.

It’s not enough for karma to just be a bitch. She also has to have a fucked-up sense of humor.

21

Ren

My thumb keeps finding the ring. Fiddling with it. Twisting it. Like it’s not supposed to be there, and when I’m not thinking about it, I mess with it to try and make it feel right. It doesn’t.

There’s no honeymoon for Nadia and me. There’s no time for that, and no joy. Nadia cried through the whole ceremony. I could see her breaking, little by little, as I made her mine in the final way. I had her indebted to me, then in bed, and now in name. Every box checked off. If there’s an afterlife, I hope we’re chained together there, too.

My arm still fucking hurts. I tell myself it’s the weather.

On the drive home, Nadia and I discussed our marriage with Harper. Fielded her questions and managed her overexcited glee. She told me she’s never had a daddy before.

I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

I want to give her a father, but I don’t think fathers can be easily bought. And how the hell else is she supposed to get a good one? It’s not me, that’s for sure.

“Mazel tov,” Atlas says, the line making his voice scratchy. “I just heard the good news.” Probably a cheap burner phone that he’ll trash immediately after this conversation. I’ve yet to find out how this man is connected to Dellucci. None of my own connects has been able to source him. The name is a fake.

“No face-to-face meeting this time,” I say, cradling the phone on my shoulder while I stand at my desk and load my pistol. I have been a married man for about six hours now, so naturally, every mob connect in the underground has already heard about it. I have signed my name to Nadia Petrone’s life and every bit of bad blood that she has coming her way.

“Never saw a good opportunity. No more little girl hanging on your coat tails to keep you leashed. I saw what you did to Leighton, and frankly, my face is too pretty for that kind of treatment.”

“What do you want, Reicher?”

“I’m just making good on my promises. I told you I’d contact you one last time. One final shot for you to take the deal, skip town, start over with the new wife and kid. Hell, how many of us haven’t thought about doing that every night since we hit thirty?”

“I’m not thirty.”

“Oh, Christ,” Atlas mutters, like it’s a problem. Something in the background whistles, like an old-school coal train. “No wonder.Well, take it from the mentally developed, you’ll get there, and if you’re still alive—big if—you’ll lie in bed one night and wonder why the hell you didn’t take that deal that dear old Atlas offered you.”

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