Page 31 of Vicious Heir

“Mr. Marino, I must be the luckiest man in the world.”

I look down the block and instantly go tense. Demir Yilmaz walks toward me, his hands conspicuously held out to either side of him, almost like he’s trying to show that he comes in peace.

“I don’t think you were invited.”

“No, no, of course not.” He grins, wolfish and dangerous. Luca steps forward, a hand in his jacket, likely gripping his gun. I don’t bother to tell him to stand down. “But I thought maybe I would run into you one more time before the wedding. I assume you spoke with Helena about her arrangement with my operation?”

“She says everything’s above board. She thinks the lawyers can handle it.”

Demir laughs. He tilts his head back and barks like that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “Leave it to the fucking rich fools to think their fancy suits can solve all their problems.”

“What do you want, Demir? This wedding is happening.”

Mostly because my sister would straight up murder me if it didn’t.

“Just one last warning, if you’ll indulge me. Helena Willing-Morris was not being upfront with you about the full extent of her promise to me. Yes, there is money involved, but money—” He makes a face and waves a hand. “That can be easily solved. No, it’s the less official part of the deal that worries me so much.”

I move closer to him. “I’m fucking tired of games, Demir. Either tell me what you want, or I’m going to order my people to scoop out your eyes while I cut off your tongue.”

“You’re not the first man Helena Willing-Morris promised her granddaughter to.” He shows me his teeth again. This time, there’s no mirth in his eyes. “That girl belongs to me. And I plan on having her. If you marry her, that only means I’ll have to eliminate you first.”

I stare at him in astonishment. I try to make sense of what he’s saying. Helena promised Lucy to this man? As part of the loan agreement? It’s so absurd, but it sounds exactly like something that old witch would do.

And it explains why Demir’s so intent on this marriage.

A thousand ideas flip through my brain like fluttering pages in the wind. I could kill him now. I could go kill Helena and call off this wedding. I could simply refuse to say the words.

That old woman lied to me.

But the memory of Lucy in my office, her moans, her hands zip-tied behind her back, her body beneath mine quivering and shaking, so wet and fucking beautiful, fills me with a white-hot rage.

“Lucille is fuckingmine,” I snarl at him. He steps back in surprise at the sudden ferocity of my rage. “You won’t ever get near her. Do you hear me? That girl is fucking mine, and I will murder and burn your whole organization if I have to. I will raze you to the ground. Now get out of here. Leave now and be happy I didn’t put a bullet in your head.”

Demir’s face twists. His anger nearly matches my own. I’m filled with a holy fury, livid that he would dare come do this on my wedding day, but even more angry that he thinks he can take something from me.

Something that I want. Something that I own.

My own fucking wife.

“You’re making a mistake,” he says, stepping away slowly. “The Marino Famiglia is strong, but you’re not a match for Gray Wolf. Your operations will wither and die when I call for a boycott of anyone who works with you. I’ll murder your captains, lieutenants, and soldiers. I’ll come for you, and I’ll take her too.”

Demir walks away. He strides off and turns the corner, leaving me seething outside the church.

“Adriano? What was all that?” Luca gives me a worried frown. “Should we tell someone?”

“No,” I say, storming away. “Get my sister. Tell her to hurry the fuck up. I want my wife at the fucking altar in two minutes. We’re doing this right fucking now.”

Lucy

So many familiar faces. There’s Caroline Wellington and her jowly husband, James. Their daughter, Elizabeth, called me apoor, broken sluttwo years ago. Near them is Charlotte Vandermeer. We took equestrian lessons together when we were kids, and she stopped answering my calls. The Harrington-Pierces cut ties, the Rothwells canceled plans, and the Chen-Williams took it to the next level and sold their beach house because it was next door to ours.

These people hate me. When my parents died, not a single one of them called with condolences. They’d already written my entirefamily off by then. They treated us like mangy, rotten dogs, all because our finances were much worse than anyone realized.

It was all about the money for them.

And now they’re here, smiling up at me. Big, false grins, like their faces are stretched and held in place by invisible clothespins. A few years ago, all these people would’ve gladly spit on my grave.

Now they’re packed into the pews.

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