Page 49 of Santa Daddy
Her mouth snapped shut.
The word hung between us, heavier than the gun.
I watched her face go carefully still, that protective blankness sliding into place. It took her a heartbeat now; it used to take her five. She was adapting.
“Our what now?” she asked. Her voice was steady. Her fingers were white where they gripped the edge of the island.
“Seventy-two hours.” I checked my watch. I didn’t need to. I could feel the clock in my bones. “That’s how long we have before the council meets.”
“Council?” Her brows shot up. “Like… mafia HR?”
“Old men,” I said flatly. “My father’s friends. My enemies’ sponsors. They sign off on who takes his chair. His routes. Hisproperty.” My gaze held hers. “They also decide what to do about loose ends.”
“Loose ends,” she repeated slowly. “You mean me.”
“You.” I put my hand on the wall. “Witness to a hit. American. Not bound by our rules. Maksim is already whispering that you’re a liability. That I went soft.”
“So your solution is…marriage?” Her laugh came out sharp. “That’s your fix?”
“It’s the only thing that makes you untouchable,” I said. “My father’s will is very clear: anyone who kills my wife is treated as if they killed him. Every man in that room would be obligated to go to war for you. They lay a finger on you after the vows, they declare war on me and on themselves.”
She went a little pale. “So if I’m just…a girl you dragged out of a tree lot?—”
“They order me to ‘handle’ you,” I finished. “Put you in the ground and prove my loyalty. But a wife?” I shrugged. “A wife is sacred. Off-limits. Protected. You become shield instead of weakness.”
As if a Christmas Eve wedding between a Bratva heir and an ex-mall elf could ever qualify.
“This is what they need,” I said. “Photos. A church full of people to swear on their children they saw us say yes.”
Her brows shot up.
“St. Bartholomew’s. Christmas Eve,” I said. “Candlelight. Bells. They’ve been persuaded to adjust their schedule.”
Of course they had.
“I told you,” I added, “I needed a wife who looks like she’d bleed for me.”
She already had. In my bathroom. On my sheets. On my floor.
“I never said yes,” she whispered.
“But you never said no,” I reminded her. “You don’t have to say anything. You just have to show up and stay.”
Before she could answer, the elevator chimed in the foyer. Right on time.
Heels on marble. No hesitation.
Valentina swept into the kitchen like a blizzard in couture. Mid-fifties, silver hair scraped into a severe knot, wrapped in a camel coat she didn’t bother to remove. She air-kissed my cheeks, leaving invisible marks, then turned to Dani with the hungry look of a woman who saw brides as raw material.
“And this,” she announced, studying Dani from bare feet to bedhead, “must be the bride.”
Bride.
Say it enough and it becomes part of the air.
“I’m sorry, there’s been some mistake,” Dani said quickly. “We’re not actually?—”
“You don’t have long.” Valentina cut in, already unzipping an enormous Chanel tote on the island. “It is tight, but not impossible. Royal families, oligarchs, celebrities, all think they can call last minute. I’ve never failed.”
