Page 49 of Mafia Boss's Fake Wife

His eyes snag on the corset top, which is shoving my breasts up into actual cleavage.

“This part I like,” he murmurs.

I’m too stunned to speak.

His hand tugs at the voluminous skirt. “This part is a lot.”

“I can wear whatever I want,” I protest.

Weakly.

Marco’s eyes lock with mine again. “You can.”

“If I want to get married,” I whisper.

His eyes go dark. “Do you?”

I don’t know. I don’t know that I’ve ever given it too much thought, until now.

But the thought of Marco, standing there at the end of a long aisle, suddenly flashes into my mind.

“I might,” I say, my voice hoarse.

His nostrils flare, and I can see the muscle in his jaw flex. The silence between us gets tense, like a bow string as it’s pulled back to the tightest point.

Marco gives me one last, lingering look. “This isn’t the one,” he mutters.

With that, he spins, leaving the room.

I’m stunned.

Because he left right as another question popped into my mind.

Was he talking about the dress?

Or me?

9

MARCO

Fucking.Hell.

Seeing Roisin in that dress did something to me. It broke something that I didn’t know existed. It created a loop, an endless cycle, that I can’t seem to stop seeing.

The dress was hideous. Truly ugly, a frothy monstrosity that would have looked disturbingly inelegant on anyone…

Except Roisin.

She was stunning.

The delicate arch of her collarbone, the way the top was tight enough to press her luscious breasts up, creating an eye-catching amount of flesh that just begged for my touch, the neat waistline and how I could practically feel the arch of her hip under the voluminous fabric… she looked absolutely incredible in that fucking dress.

And, more than that, she looked like abride.

Deep down, I am a possessive man. I want to protect the people I love, I want to make sure that they are happy, and I want it because they’remine.

When I saw Roisin in that dress, something clicked in my mind. She was no longer just Roisin.

---