by Mj Fields
“Well, I’m still gonna rip Efisto’s fucking head off.” Amias’s voice is loud enough that Momma Joe gives him an arched brow, warning him to tone it down, and I elbow him. “He did this shit to her.”
“No, she did it to herself. Hearts can’t be broken unless you allow them to be.” A realization that hit me in one of my many sessions with Marley.
Max reaches around me and holds out a fist. “Damn right.”
I don’t tap it back, but Amias does.
I glower at them. “How is he any different than you two?”
“Neither of us fucked with Tris,” Max says, as if that’s any sort of viable reasoning.
“Well, that would be incest, so I’m not going to pat the two of you on the back.”
The music stops again, and Uncle Cyrus walks out from between one of the vineyard rows and into the garden where we are all pretending to patiently wait for this to begin.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says to us, which is so freaking formal and unlike him. To address our family in such a way is jarring. That, coupled with the fact that he truly looks like he’s at a damn funeral. “The bride and groom would like to inform you that there’s been a change in plans.”
“Thank fuck,” Amias says, loosening his tie that took me twenty minutes to fix because he can’t keep still.
“There will be no rehearsal. Tonight will be the actual wedding ceremony.”
I look at Truth, who closes her eyes and shakes her head slightly as my stomach drops.
Truth, Kiki, Bella, Tris, and I were supposed to have a “slumber party” of sorts tonight, at which time I planned on attempting to sway her decision; get her to see there is no reason to rush.
I watch as Cyrus walks toward Aunt Tara, and the pianist, now accompanied by a cellist, begins to play “The Prince of Denmark’s March.”
Tris’s sooner-than-expected-to-be husband, Matteo Arias, walks out, followed by who I’m going to assume are his brothers, Dante and Hugo.
I inwardly scold myself for the slight swoon I feel when I see the brothers. I should be immune to statue men with near devastating good looks—I’m surrounded by them daily—yet it’s different when you’re not subjected to the daily reality that they’re only human and all humans have faults.
Matteo is in a black suit, whereas the guys are all in dark gray. His thick, wavy hair is tamer than the pictures I have seen on IG while he’s working. He looks sexy GQ now as compared to the sexy, tortured artist. His photos certainly lack in bringing a clear picture of him.
I glance behind me, at Amias and Max, who are glaring at them. Then I quickly look back at Matteo, who gives me a slight nod in hello.
When “Bridal Chorus” begins again, I lean toward Matteo and say what I’m hoping translates well in Spanish, “Hazle dāno, te mataré—Hurt her, I’ll kill you.”
To that, his face lights up in a smile. Then, in a sexy AF accent, he replies, “La apreciare.”
Gaw … Of course she would fall for that! Hell, I’m falling for it.
I look away, but not soon enough, before my face breaks out in a smile.
“Seriously?” Amias huffs.
I look over at him and shake my head. “They’ll be fine, Amias.”
“For how long?” he snaps.
“For as long as they want to be.”
And that is the most truthful thing that has come out of my mouth so far today.
And you know what the truth does?
It sets you free.
Plot Twist
Ranger
“This is some major bullshit, even for Tris,” Patrick Steel snarls as we watch Tris and her father, Zandor, appear from amidst the row of grapes.
I don’t want to say a damn thing. It’s a matter of the heart, and I’m not paid to deal with such things.
“Did you know this was going down tonight?” he asks.
I glance over at him and nod once. “She has her reasons.”
The possible problem, the reason for the wedding being moved up to tonight, is flying into Pisa in a few hours. Her ex, Marcello Efisto, is that fucking problem.
“Paparazzi couldn’t get on this property if they tried. And I’m her fucking manager; don’t you think—”
“You’re her manager, but a week ago, when you announced you’d be going back to college, I was told to stop sharing information that doesn’t pertain to her contractual obligations.”
“By who?” he asks in shock, offended. “Zandor?”
“By my employer—Tris.”
“Ranger, you know damn well that—”
“I get she’s pissed at you, I get that you’re pissed at her, but Forever Four isn’t paying me; therefore—”
“That’s fucked up, and you know it.”
“Bro, you need to tone it down and chill. Be happy you’re going back to the States and don’t have to sit outside the honeymoon suite.”
“She’s making a mistake.”
I lay down some real. “Hers to make. She’ll be eighteen soon, and her parents are allowing this, so let it go.” I nod toward his family, all sitting there, looking constipated as fuck, none happy with her decisions. “Go chill with your crew.”
I pull my phone out of my pocket and open the app to check the security cameras, making sure the grounds are still secure. I know they are, but it never hurts to double- and triple-check.
After flipping through the screens, getting a visual on all possible points of entry, and am satisfied, I walk a bit closer to the ceremony and regret it immediately when bright blue-green eyes connect with mine.
This is so not worth the money, I think as I hold her stare.
She looks shocked. Good. The girl has needed a good ass-kicking for a few years now for pulling that shit she did. She not only put me in a shit situation, but herself, too.
Had I not been invited to Sunday dinner with the Steel family, I wouldn’t have known she was one of them, or that she was just a kid. I’m pretty damn thankful that I found out the next damn day and immediately blocked her instead of asking her out on a date.
I have managed to avoid the Brisa situation for all those years. Strategic planning on my part, and some damn good luck, too.
I scrub my hand over my face as I look away, silently reprimanding myself for the hundredth time for kissing that girl when she was … Fuck, I can’t even say the number, but it sure as hell wasn’t the same number I’d thought, or the one she gave me when I asked her.
She said she was nineteen. Sure as hell looked like she was, too.
In hindsight, nineteen was still pushing it, I suppose. Hell, I was twenty-six at the time. Not that I am ever accepting of excuses, but the girl with her looked younger. She did not. I knew Tobias dated older than his age, so I assumed she was one of his “friends.” She was not.
Straight-up, I really liked the way she looked at me. That may sound arrogant as fuck, but it’s true. Until I went in the military, I had been a six-foot-two bag of fucking bones who didn’t have shit and had to scrap for every fucking thing I ever needed. Fuck, wanted; need came first. Then leaving the military was a major adjustment, maybe even harder than when I joined and left Jersey. I didn’t leave shit behind except an older sister who I love, but she wasn’t ever going to be legit unless we both busted ass.
Two kids, two years apart, both raised under the same shitty circumstances, shared the same dream, to get the fuck out of poverty, and off the system. I craved that shit, craved normal, and I wasn’t afraid to work for it.
Sissy was softer, weaker. A two years older than me, she hustled working at a gas station and as a waitress at night as soon as she turned eighteen and our junkie mother left us.
I owed her, so before I enlisted, we had a plan. I was going to send her money so she could stop working two jobs and get her ass into community college. She wanted to become a nurse, and while enlisted, I became a medic. In my fucking mind, we would rise together and always have something in common.
When I finally got o
ut of the military, I realized my money, every fucking cent extra I had that I sent to her, she shot up. I should have known better, but it had always been us against the world.
Now it’s just me.
I tried to get a job, thinking that with my former employer being the US Military and all I accomplished there, I could find forty hours anywhere then further my education and become something.
No one would hire me. Not enough experience.
I legit took a back seat on survival and knocked on good old Frank’s door, same man whose door I knocked on when my mother took off, trying to find a way to make money for basics.
Frank knew everyone, and I became somewhat of an errand boy to him back then. I didn’t sell drugs or any shit like that. I simply collected information that he could use against anyone in case he needed a favor.
I was good at that shit, too.
So, naturally, I went back to him, and he got me hooked up with the underground circuit. When I wasn’t fighting, I was working at a tattoo shop. I was real good at both fighting and the art of tattooing. I also had way more info on the hierarchy at that school for rich punks than anyone but Frank. I have no clue how, but … well, now here I am, working for one of those punks, making legit fat bank, and oddly bored out of my fucking mind half the damn time.
Now Tris has asked me to stay on and even offered to pay me double my salary when I declined.
With what I have saved in the past three years since working for the Steel family, I can finally do legit.
I gave her until the first of the year, my thirtieth birthday, and then I’m going to be like Billy Madison but going to college and dreaming bigger or doing what I’m damn good at already by opening up my own tattoo shop, plant fucking roots, and enjoy life, providing for myself, on my own terms.
I watch as the Steel family stands and claps while Tris and Matteo are announced husband and wife. Doves are released in the distance, and I laugh, thinking what a fucking waste of money.
Standing in the corner of the tasting room that has been transformed into a dining room, I look up from the screen on my phone just in time to see Hugo Arias walk up to Brisa Steel at the bar.
Out of all three of the Arias brothers, he’s my least favorite. This comes from extensive background checks. He’s married, and his wife is rarely with him, yet his dance card never seems empty, if you know what I mean.
I glance around the room to make sure someone’s got eyes on this, meaning her father, brother, or one of the other male cousins. None of them do.
Hugo puts his hand on the small of her back, and I see her lean toward him. Again, I look around.
When I see him guide her toward the exit to the garden, I look around the room yet again. Zandor is looking at the door they just exited, a crease forming between his brows as he looks over his mother’s head then at me.
Get your girl, I think, hoping he does just that.
Nope, he nods for me to follow.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I sigh to myself as I walk toward the door.
Once outside, I do a quick sweep of the area and don’t see them anywhere. Then, when I hear her laugh, I head toward the rows of grapes, hell-bent on stopping whatever it is that’s about to go down.
“You sure you lost it out here?”
“Yes, and my bride will not be too forgiving of such an infraction.”
“Where is she?” Brisa asks.
“She’s ill and couldn’t make the trip.”
I quietly move closer, secretly hoping her fucking father makes his way out here soon to deal with this.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says rather sweetly.
“To be honest, I’m very glad to be here alone with you.”
Motherfucker, I think, and then I hear a loud smack, skin to skin.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Bris yells.
“You don’t have to play the innocent card with me, my dear. I see how you look at me.”
“Yeah, well, that ship sailed when you played the marriage card, Hugo.”
“Then pretend as if I didn’t and kiss me—”
Slap.
I feel for the twine so that I can duck under it and not clothesline myself, to get to them as Bris snaps at him, “You touch me again, and I will kick you so hard in the nuts that your future children will feel it.”
“You’re a feisty little—”
She steps back as he reaches for her, and her back hits my chest, causing her to startle and jump forward into him like a little ping-pong ball.
Wrapping his arms around her, he says, “I love crazy Americans—”
“Take your hands off Miss Steel now.”
Brisa pushes him away and turns toward me. “Ranger?”
“Your father is looking for you.” I step past her and toward him.
“Okay, well, it’s dark.” She grabs my elbow. “Could you walk me in?”
“Follow the path,” I tell her through gritted teeth, standing eyeball-to-eyeball with Hugo.
He tries to hide his shock, his voice steady as he says, “I’ll escort Brisa—”
“Listen, motherfucker, the girl said—”
“Woman.” Brisa attempts to jack my elbow back. “I’m nineteen years old.”
Unable to stop myself, I sneer, “Again?”
“Yeah,” she says, releasing my elbow.
For a brief moment, I think she’s doing what was asked of her—walking back in to rejoin the party. A very brief moment.
Wedging herself between myself and Hugo, facing me, she demands, “Go inside. Now.”
Hugo steps back. “I was under the impression—”
“Walk away, motherfucker,” I seethe, “while you can.”
“He’s family now.” Brisa actually defends the asshole.
“Walk.” I step back, turn, and wave my hand in front of myself. “Now.”
Squaring her shoulders, her head held high, she walks past me.
I take the opportunity to grab Hugo by his collar and jack him toward me. “That’s off limits. As a matter of fact, every fucking female in this place is off fucking limits.”
Brisa grabs my arm, digging her nails into my bicep as she tries to get a better grip, and snaps, “It was a misunderstanding!”
I shove him away. “Better not happen again, you fucking feel me?”
I glance down at her. “You wanna take your hand off my arm?”
“Depends,” she smarts off.
“On?”
She scowls. “Are you going to behave?”
“You gonna walk?”
She crosses her arms. “You first.”
When Hugo slides by us like the snake he is, she straight up changes her mind and walks ahead of me. Pretty damn sure she’s doing it to keep me from kicking his ass. Ass and his hand that is just about on hers, yet she followed him out here. The fuck is her deal?
I make damn sure to keep my damn eyes focused on the back of her head, regardless of her declaration of being a woman, or the fact that she had the balls to put her hands on me. No one does that shit without permission.
No one … except her.
Back to Fifteen
Brisa
Of all the days to give my eyes a break, I come face-to-face with Ranger for the first time since meeting him, falling in insta-love, and then the dreadful family dinner.
Four Years Ago…
Truth and I just left our first solo party after a play we were in, and not on good terms. Then we realized she left her phone there, knowing damn well Uncle Cyrus will have our heads if he can’t track her. We also somehow managed to leave the keys to her vehicle behind.
We really have no other choice than to go back.
To make matters worse, mid-freak-out, a car rolls up behind us and three long-haired, badass-looking men, one who looks like he stepped off the set of Sons of Anarchy, a show about bikers that I secretly binge-watched last summer, hop out of a still running car, the driver remaining inside.
Now, being that I watched Sons, I’m no dummy. So, knowing the situation is probably dire, I do what most fifteen-year-old girls do when leaving their first party where her and her female cousin have been left alone by everyone except the four pissed-off men that Truth just insulted. I gasp dramatically and say, “Oh, God, this is how it ends.”
Truth acts like it’s cool and says, “Like hell it is.”
She has lost her damn mind.
Then she steps up to them like they are old friends. “Hey, Frank.”
Who the hell is Frank? I think but don’t dare say it.
The older of the three scary-looking biker dudes steps closer, and now I can see him. Recognition lights up his face as he says, “Laces, is that you?”
Oh, God, he thinks she’s someone else.
She laughs. Fucking laughs!
“What the hell are you doing out here? Let me guess, looking for trouble?” He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a pack of smokes.
I feel like that’s what the Sons did before all hell broke loose. But Truth acts like it’s no big deal.
It’s totally a big deal!
“Just leaving a party down by the beach. Left my phone and keys there,” she responds.
He takes a drag off his cigarette then exhales as he says, “That’s a problem.”
And here we go, I think. Raped, maimed, and murdered, or maybe become someone’s old lady if all goes well.
“Not as bad as it’s going to be getting them back.” She laughs as I hide behind her like the little bitch I certainly am.
“That so?”
She nods. “Kind of pissed off a couple people on the way out.”
“Pissed-off people are my favorite kind.” One of the other two men chuckles as he steps out of the shadows and stands right under the streetlamp. “How about we back you ladies up?”
I look at him and am immediately hit with Jax Teller vibes and the thought of being someone’s old lady. Well, his old lady. The idea doesn’t seem as horrible at it did just moments before.
