Page 3 of Married into the Mob
The celebrant hesitated, and the alpha growled, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder and squeezing. The alpha was a shifter, I determined by his scent.
“I am authorized by law to…” The celebrant winced under the alpha’s grip.
This was so wrong. While I didn’t know the omega’s story, he shouldn’t be made to marry anyone, especially the asshat opposite him.
Flint and Ranger would rage at me if I interfered. Not only would I be inserting myself in some human-slash-shifter business, but it could shine a light on our organization. And while we’d come up squeaky clean, we preferred not to have the authorities—the ones not on our payroll—sniffing around.
“Hey! This is against the law, forcing someone to marry against their will.” I wasn’t sure if there was such a law, but humans had a lotta rules, and buried in some dusty tome there was sure to be a ruling.
Three pairs of eyes, no, make that more, many more, stared at me, and I learned three things.
The alpha was someone I knew.
Stefan had snuck in through a side door.
The omega, whose scent drifted over the heads of the assembled guests, was…
Our mate!
TWO
ODELL
There was nowhere to hide in our tiny apartment.
We had a small living area with an attached kitchen that fit one person, with a bathroom that reminded me of the ones on a plane it was so compact, plus two bedrooms. Or one room with a bed in it, and the other had a folding contraption that I slept on, but the space was also for hanging wet laundry as we didn’t have a dryer, and a desk, storage, and Uncle’s closet.
It was a lot to ask from one small room, and I suffered from claustrophobia. I’d go about my life and never have a panic attack, but if I couldn’t see outside or I was anxious about something else, the walls would close in on me.
This room had a window, but it was covered by a bookshelf, and so night after night, I’d distract myself with music or podcasts or I’d sleep outside on the couch.
I went to sleep surrounded by the stink of wet clothes, and closets that wouldn’t close because they were overflowing with stuff. Sometimes, I’d be at the desk rather than trying to sleep, planning my lessons for the next day.
We had four salaries coming in, two from my aunt and my two. I taught school and at night waited tables and sufferedthrough meager tips, rude customers, and aching legs. My Aunt Louisa was a receptionist at a realty firm by day and cleaned offices in the evening.
Uncle Stan was disabled—one hand was missing two fingers, and he walked with a limp—having been hurt in a workplace accident, but his compensation didn’t cover our food bills. His employer had finagled the lowest payout, blaming Uncle for ignoring the proper protocols at the factory. That led to us selling our home and moving into a shoebox-sized apartment.
The worry of wondering if we could pay Uncle’s next medical expense or the power bill during winter was constant and oppressive. Some nights I lay in bed struggling to breathe as stress crushed the air out of my lungs.
On the rare occasions when Aunt Louisa and I were at home and awake at the same time, we’d huddle in my room and study our monthly budget. We rarely had cash remaining at the end of the month and often there was a shortfall.
But we had a pact never to worry Uncle Stan, and we didn’t discuss money in front of him.
Perhaps that was a mistake. He was an adult and part of our family, but the doctors said his heart couldn’t cope with a lot of stress, and our method of dealing with his health was to pretend we were better off financially than we were.
But this evening when I returned from scraping leftovers off plates and mopping the restaurant floor, Uncle Stan and Aunt Louisa were waiting for me.
My aunt’s puffy eyes betrayed her sadness, and Uncle was standing behind her, his face set in a grim expression as he leaned on his cane. The air shimmered with tension.
I took my time dumping my backpack at the door and toeing off my shoes while my mind whirred. Trying to catch my aunt’s eye was a no go as she bent her head and fiddled with the edge of the lace tablecloth.
“What’s going on?” I made to hug Aunt Louisa, but she didn’t return my embrace, her body stiff and unyielding.
“You and my wife have been conspiring against me.” The man I’d grown up with, my mild-mannered uncle, had never spoken to me that way. There was venom underlying his steely tone.
Instinct told me to edge toward the front door and get the heck away, but I had to protect my aunt from whatever was going on. Instead of fleeing, I pretended there was nothing out of the ordinary and plonked myself in a chair opposite her.
“Everything all right?” That was a ridiculous thing to say because obviously the situation was far from okay. But I was biding my time, hoping I’d get a hint of what caused my aunt’s distress and Uncle’s fury.
