Page 8 of Married With Malice

Daisy moves over to investigate. “Ooh, maybe this isn’t a good idea. Daddy will hit the ceiling.”

My teeth grind at the mention of our father. “Daddy is getting his way by selling me off to the heir of the Amato family. He’ll just have to live with my wardrobe choices. Now help me squeeze into this thing. I can’t reach the back so one of you will need to lace it up.”

The dress is a fright. If I was invited to a zombie vampire ball, this is what I’d pick. The black corset bodice is laced with blood red stitching. The skirt is composed of yards of layered black tulle. Before I leave the room I plan to add a lime green wig and a gothic black veil. The wedding photos will be hideous.

Awesome. Luca, with his perfect suits and his perfect looks, is all about appearances. The last thing I want is for Luca to look down the aisle and think for a second that he’s hit the jackpot.

What Idowant is to watch him go slack-jawed with horror as the ‘How the fuck do I get out of this?’level of panic sets in.

Seeing that kind of dread on his face would almost make this day bearable.

Almost.

If Luca has any complaints about swapping out one Barone sister for another then he has kept his thoughts to himself.

Then again, he was always good at behaving like a model citizen. Local football star. Top scholar. The pride and joy of his Uncle Richie, who raised him.

Total bullshit. Luca is a gifted chameleon. We’re exactly the same age so I’ve had the displeasure of watching him since we were kids.

Back then, he was an insufferable prankster who would squirt chocolate sauce on the seat of my chair and then paste on a deadpan expression of innocence as he handed me a napkin to clean off my backside. And all the adults would look on and cluck some variation of “Luca is such a sweet, thoughtful boy.”

Then five minutes later he’d pour hot pepper on my slice of cheesecake. He’d never get caught and tattling was out of the question. I do have standards.

By Luca’s teen years, he’d graduated to organizing vast gambling rings that emptied the pockets of the prep school crowd. I can easily picture him catfishing for amusement.

Not that his reputation ever suffered. Luca’s misdeeds never seem to catch up to him and the general consensus is that he walks on fucking water.

But I know better. On the flip side of that upstanding façade there’s a deranged mastermind. With talents like that he’d be set for life no matter what future he chooses. But Luca Connelly, even with the handicap of an Irish last name, will likely be king of the New York mafia one day. I just hope I’m far away from here by the time that day arrives.

Luca can keep the whole psychotic empire for himself. I want none of this blood and vengeance and constant power feuds that I was born to.

And I definitely don’t wanthim. I’m getting off this revolting ride the first chance I get. As soon as I’m sure that my sisters are taken care of.

Things would have been far easier if Luca’s older brother Cale was still going to inherit the Amato throne. I’m completely indifferent to Cale but I could have handled him. Cale would have stayed the hell out of my face.

No such luck with Luca.

He’s not the aloof and detached type. He’ll tap dance on my last fucking nerve for shits and giggles. The only way I can win is if I get under his skin more than he gets under mine.

So be it. Game on.

“Luca really is crazy hot,” Sabrina says as she watches me squeeze into my nightmare wedding dress. “Remember that one spring break when we vacationed with his family in Cabo? Hard to miss the sight of Luca in his swim trunks.” She lets out a low whistle and fans herself with her hand. “The boy packs some heavy artillery. And if all the locker room girl gossip is true, he’sverygood at using it.”

“That’s disgusting.” I suck in my breath as Daisy tightens the corset laces. “Never utter those words in front of me again.”

Anyone with eyes can see that Luca is in the top one percent when it comes to looks.

More importantly,heknows this too.

Luca is used to making satin panties spontaneously combust just by waltzing his tall, muscled self through the door, raking a hand through his thick black hair and flashing his charismatic dimpled grin.

Brina snaps her candy necklace and rolls her eyes. “All I’m saying is that you could do much worse than fucking Luca Connelly every night.”

“Says the girl who has never fucked anything more substantial than her purple dildo.”

“Suck just a little harder,” Daisy says. “Almost done.”

“That was a low blow on the dildo insult,” Brina complains and crunches her candy necklace. “Ow, I think I cracked a tooth.”

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