Page 35 of Wedlocked

I played by her side, winning a few thousand while she lost almost as much as what she’d previously won. In the end she won most of it right back again and together we won a whole lot more than we lost. My wife really was my lucky charm.

I noted my brothers, each one of them in different corners of the huge room and watching us from a distance. Nothing would get past their watchful and alert gazes. That wasn’t to mention the security team that worked the premises daily, watching out for anything untoward, while another team watched security cameras.

Though my brothers had insisted on keeping watch on myself and my wife, at least until our honeymoon was over, I could have commanded them to go back to directing their own soldiers and their individual operations. I didn’t expect, nor did I want them to babysit us thanks to the greater risk imposed by my marriage. I had enough of my own soldiers to keep guard.

But I wasn’t stupid, either. Apart from my enforcer, Valentino, my brothers were unquestionably the best in the business. And it was just as important to keep my family happy and not further questioning my logic and judgement by marrying a Costa. Our malevolent upbringing had managed to only bring us siblings closer together. I wouldn’t now risk being pigheaded and eroding that bond between us.

After collecting our winnings, and handing it to my wife who then grinned as she tucked the cash in her clutch bag, I drew her toward the nearest bar. I looked down at her shortened steps, restraining a grin at her obvious attempt to keep the ribbons of her dress from splitting apart. That she still managed to look graceful was a credit to her.

Her platinum ponytail glinted under the lights and my dick throbbed with a need to pull on her hair while I fucked her into orgasm, after I flogged her ass and tested her pain threshold limits. Not enough to bruise her—never that—but enough to redden her delicate skin…enough to arouse her

My dick throbbed some more and I hid a grimace. I’d need to tie a knot in my shaft soon to keep from ejaculating. Or maybe I should just stop thinking about my wife and what I’d like to do to her.

“Thirsty?” I asked.

She nodded. “What are you having?”

“A double shot of bourbon.”

“Perfect.”

“You’re a bourbon drinker?” I asked. She seemed more like an expensive champagne kind of girl.

“I’m an anything-alcoholic-except-beer type of girl,” she said with a laugh.

I nodded at the bartender who immediately poured our drinks and placed them in front of us. I raised my glass. “To our marriage.”

She raised hers. “May it thrive.”

My chest tightened and I swallowed my double shot in one big mouthful. I needed the burn that tracked down my throat like fire before it slid deeper into my belly.

She narrowed her eyes, then lifted her glass to her lips, tipping it back and drinking the amber liquid just as fast. I was impressed even as I frowned. I didn’t want her too inebriated for what I had planned for her later tonight. I wanted her to feel every whack, remember every stroke and touch.

I certainly didn’t want to drink anymore. My wedding night would be embedded into my brain, with nothing to cloud my mind.

A group of five men approached the bar, their spirits high and their heads clearly muddled by however many drinks they’d already consumed. I didn’t need to move my gaze away from the men to know my capos, my brothers, were closing in. We could scent trouble like wolves scented blood.

One of the men, a tall, well-muscled blond guy in a multi-colored striped dress shirt and fawn pants nudged the man closest to him. The other man was darker-skinned but with a similar physique.

Football jocks, if I had to guess.

“I think we’ve just died and gone to heaven boys,” striped-shirt crowed, “because I’ve found us a silver-haired angel who is just our type.”

It was curious the iciness that moved through my previously heated blood, killing my passionate nature and returning me to the usual cold and clinical, detached criminal self. It was a defense mechanism that kicked in when I needed it most. Though these men were no real threat, I couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow them to disrespect my wife, or my position as don.

“It appears your type is my wife,” I said, my tone glacial.

Mr. striped-shirt was too wasted to recognize a threat when he heard one. He took a step toward my wife, reaching for her. It was only when Sabrina took a shocked step back and her dress gaped open for all the men to see her wares that things turned bad.

The men froze right along with Sabrina. I stepped in front of her, concealing her gorgeous body from the other men.

Too late.

“I’ll have a piece of that,” striped-shirt groaned, stepping forward and grabbing at me to thrust me aside. The coldness inside evaporated into a fiery explosion. I pivoted and rammed my elbow into his throat. As he gagged and choked, desperate to suck in air, I grabbed his head and shoved it against the bar.

Crack.

Blood sprayed from his nose and he sobbed like a baby, yelling, “You broke my nose, you damn well broke my nose!”

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