Page 21 of Unhinged Little Angel

“Fuck you. Pour me some coffee.” There’s a lightness in the bratty demand that almost makes me laugh again.

“Keep pushing me, and you’ll find out how I prefer to handle brats,” I warn, picking up both garment bags and carrying them into the bedroom to hang.

I pull on the other robe and when I step back into the living room, I notice two steaming mugs of coffee, one in front of Dante, the other on the coffee table. I round the couch, and hewatches me over the rim of his mug as he takes a sip, like he’s daring me to comment on the fact that he poured us both a cup.

Shame. I was kind of hoping he’d keep testing me.

Chapter 10

DANTE

I’ve never bothered to imagine what my wedding might look like. Mostly because I never planned to get married. I assumed marrying someone would have to mean I had lost my goddamn mind enough totrustsomeone. I shudder at the thought. I guess I just wasn’t thinking creatively enough since I hadn’t considered this possibility. A chapel with a waiting room, a gun tucked into the back of my white silk pants, and a ‘fiancé’ who’s clearly even less mentally stable than I am because I keep seeing him smile when he thinks I’m not looking.

Insane or not, Salvatore is wearing the hell out of the black three-piece suit and burgundy shirt. He puts his hand between my shoulder blades, the warmth of his touch spreading through me instantly thanks to the weightless lacy fabric of my top, which does nothing to blunt the feeling of his fingers tracing down my spine. Another shiver runs through me. I keep my eyes trained on the chapel doors, waiting for them to swing open to signal that it’s our turn. Obnoxiously romantic songs like Etta James’s “At Last”keep playing through the overhead speakersand I swear all the creepy, smiling people in the photos hanging on the walls are staring at me. I tap my foot and smooth my hands needlessly over my unwrinkled pants.

“I hope you’re not getting cold feet, Angioletto.” Salvatore slides his hand up to the back of my neck. His touch stays light, but the way his fingers rest around my nape feels unmistakably possessive. “Having second thoughts about marrying a man with so much blood on his hands?”

I huff out a laugh, the sound laced with all the darkness that tainted my soul years ago.

“There are worse places for bloodstains than a man’s hands, believe me,” I mutter.

His hand tightens around the back of my neck. He tugs me to face him, his expression full of thunder and rage that should probably confirm my worst thoughts about him and everyone else, but instead it just makes me feel…safe.

“Tell me who hurt you, Angioletto, and the last thing he’ll ever feel is the cold metal of my gun barrel gagging him as he tries to choke out his last words,” he growls, and all the nervous energy that was building up inside me a minute ago evaporates.

I put my hand on his cheek, dragging my fingertips along the roughness of his two days’ worth of stubble.

“If having your last name isn’t enough to scare him off, I’ll take you up on that.” I press my lips to his other cheek, leaving a faint imprint with my lipstick. Salvatore managed to order the perfect shade to match the shoes he picked out for me. Say what you will about the man, but he has an eye for style.

The doors swing open, and a happy couple comes bursting out, a bubble machine creating iridescent bubbles that surround them and stick to their clothes while the wedding march plays loudly. Once they’re gone, a short, stocky man in a white suit—thankfullynotattempting any kind of Elvis cosplay—waves us in with a smile.

“After you.” Sal gestures for me to go ahead and I eye him skeptically.

“You’re not about to make a last-minute run for it, are you?”

His lips twitch with a smile. “Of course not. You still have the gun. I always assumed I would die in a hail of bullets, but not fleeing from my own wedding.”

I snort a laugh and then head into the chapel with Salvatore right behind me.

The man—minister? Officiant?—tells us to call him Larry then starts to explain the process with the rapid efficiency of someone who’s done this a hundred times and knows how to keep things moving.

“Here’s the marriage license for you to sign.” He sets the paperwork on the small wooden table just inside the doors to the chapel. “I’ll need to make a copy of your ID to send into the state. And finally, an affidavit stating that neither of you are already legally married and that this marriage is not being done under duress. No shotgun weddings allowed.” He laughs at his own joke. “And that you aren’t biologically related.”

I shift uncomfortably. No shotgun weddings, but what about a pistol wedding? Sal doesn’t hesitate though, picking up the pen and signing in the proper spot on each form before handing it over to me. My fingers tremble and I clench the pen tighter to keep it from visibly shaking. It’s fine, this is temporary. He’s calm because he knows this doesn’t mean anything.

I jot my signature on each line.

“Perfect.” Larry gathers up the paperwork and takes our IDs, then disappears for a minute to make copies. When he returns, he leads us to the flowered arch at the front of the small chapel. “Do you want traditional vows, a particular religion, or did you write your own?”

I try not to laugh. Imagine if we’d written our own.

Do you, Dante, take this mafioso to be your wedded murder deterrent, to argue and to fight for dominance, from this day forward until the threat has passed and it’s safe to divorce, for better or worse, in violence and rage, until death or a prison sentence parts you?

I do, I really, and truly do.Cue the tears for such a lovely ceremony.

“Traditional is fine,” Salvatore answers.

Larry nods. “Face each other and join hands.”

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