“Sure. Just... Bronson—”
“Yes?” I snap.
Unfazed, he presses on. “Just don’t do anything stupid. We will figure this out—just like we always do. One minute of air, then I’m coming down there.”
One minute is all I need. “Sure.”
I take the stairs two at a time. I burst from the door, jump into my car. Thank God I always have it waiting by my curb.
“Go to Paige’s.”
My driver gives me a long, hard look. Carter must have gotten to him first.
I growl, warning him, “Remember who pays your salary. There are plenty of men vying to get up the ranks to become head driver.”
He gives me a nod and we’re off.
Minutes later we pull up to Paige’s. I fly from the car, run up the stairwell, and enter her room.
The scent of her perfume hits me. A pang shoots through my heart.
Paige.
I will my senses to return to me. Detaching my mind from my emotions, I sharpen my thoughts.
There’s not a wrinkle on the bed. She hasn’t slept here.
By the closet, the white garment bag I delivered at the beginning of the week still hangs, the carefully pressed wedding dress inside.
I open her drawers. It seems the majority of her clothes are still here.
I know it’s a silly notion, but relief washes over me all the same—she hasn’t pulled a runaway bride.
Thank God.
My gaze searches the room.
There it is.
My stomach falls to my feet. My breath leaves my body.
On the nightstand stands a small white card.
I know before I touch it that it’s for me. And will tell me what’s happened to Paige.
I reach out, my skin making contact with the thick paper. I feel a fire in my fingertips, in my belly. Heat washes over my face. My hands shake as I open the card.
Five hundred thousand, cash
North River Pier 86
Five o’clock
Come alone
Whoever has taken her knew I would come to her room looking for her. That I would see what others had overlooked.
It is Alice’s fiancé’s family, finally seeking their retribution.
Eye for an eye.
Fiancée for a fiancé.
Only my fiancée is priceless. I am almost offended at the measly amount they want in exchange for the love of my life.
Is sweet Ingrid behind this? It can’t be. But here, she has access to Paige.
If Ingrid or her family need money, they only need ask.
It doesn’t matter who has taken her.
They will pay. Dearly.
No one threatens the life of a Bachman and lives to speak of it.
The softness, the safeness, the beautiful hum of the everyday routine that has come over me since meeting Paige suddenly washes away.
My blood runs hot.
My blood runs Bachman.
And I’m on the hunt.
Taking the card between my fingers, I race from the room.
Half an hour later, I sit, surrounded by my most trusted men.
Together, we ten make a plan.
There will be armed men manning boats surrounding the pier.
There will be sharp shooters standing on the nearby bridge.
There will be gunmen, carrying concealed weapons, casually milling about on the pier.
I will arrive precisely at five p.m. A bulletproof vest beneath my tux. A duffle bag of cash beneath my arm.
Anticipation pulses through my body, leaving my muscles tense, my palms sweaty.
By four forty-five, every man is in place.
Dressed in my tux, bag underneath my arm, I step onto the pier.
I see the windowless black van immediately. It slows to a crawl, pulling up by the pier.
I glance around me, Bachmans everywhere. Hidden in plain sight.
The driver of one of the boats spots the van. The boat moves closer to the pier.
I’m only a few feet from the van.
My heart pounds in my chest.
Paige.
Paige.
Paige.
A middle-aged man with olive skin and dark hair comes out of the passenger side of the van. His beard is untrimmed. His clothing rumpled. He runs his hand through his tangled hair. His bloodshot eyes dart right, left.
He looks so familiar.
Do I know this man?
I squint my eyes, getting a closer look.
He looks like... Paige.
He spots me. His eyes lock on mine.
They are big brown eyes. They are Paige’s eyes.
“Holy mother of God,” I breathe. Fury like I have never felt before races through my body.
Don’t do anything stupid, Bronson.
I want to torture him. Inflict more pain on his body than anyone has ever felt.
I want him to pay for the agony he has caused me.
The agony he is causing his daughter.
I want to take my gun from my belt. To shoot him between the eyes.
Has a more selfish man ever lived?
What he sees in my face makes fear flash in his.
I’m over to him in a few long strides.
My voice is so dark, I barely recognize it as my own. “Where is she?”
“Bachman?” his trembling voice asks.
“Where. Is. She.”
He looks as if he will piss his pants. I take another step toward him.
He gulps. He straightens his spine, rising to his full height. He tries to feign confidence. “Give me the money first, then I’ll tell you where she is.”
I almost feel pity for him.
But I want to kill him too badly.
I lean in. My gaze burns into his. “There are fifty men surrounding this pier. The boats behind you have armed men, their scopes trained at the back of your head. There are sharpshooters. Right this moment they have their guns focused on you. Ready to pull the trigger. A bullet will rip through your skull, your brain bursting from within. Bits of your sticky face ruining my tux. Wouldn’t that be a shame? To ruin the groom’s tux—on his wedding day, no less?”
With every word I speak, the coward shrinks back further.
I hiss between clenched teeth, “Bring her to me, now. Or I give the signal. The one that makes them all shoot at once.”
He gives me a long, hard gulp.
He turns, going to the van door.
How I long to shoot him in his back.
I won’t do that to Paige. Knowing her, no matter what this prick has put her through, she wouldn’t want him killed.
The door opens.
Paige!
She runs into my arms. I drop the bag, flinging my arms around her. Holding her so tightly I can feel her heaving breaths expanding her ribcage. Her heart beats against her chest.
“Oh, Bronson!”
“Paige. My sweet, sweet Paige.”
“Don’t hurt him,” she whispers.
I knew it. I knew she wouldn’t want that.
It takes every ounce of my self-control to do what I do next. Leaning down, I pick up the bag from the ground.
Her father stands, watching, shaking.
I toss him the bag. “If I ever see your face again, you are dead.”
He scrambles for the bag, climbs in the van. It speeds off.
My men will track the van.
We will have to decide what is to be done. But that can wait.
We are to be wed.
I stroke her hair, her back. The feel of her trembling body in my arms is the single most wonderful thing I’ve felt.
Tears sting my eyes. I whisper, “I’m so sorry. I should have kept you with me. I should have protected you.”
Paige shakes as she speaks. “It’s not your fault. It’s my—I can’t even use that word for him. What a piece of—”
I say, “You don’t need him. Not anymore. You have me.”
Her beautiful eyes look up at me. T
he only good thing her father has ever given her is those eyes. She says, “I don’t even want to talk about it, Brauny. I’m almost more upset that we’ve missed our wedding. Oh—you’ve got your tux on!” Her eyes rove over me, appraising me.
“It’s our wedding day. If you are still—”
“It’s the only thing I want. It was all I could think about. But we’ve missed the church service and...” She gives a shudder.
“Shh. Let’s not worry about it, now. You need rest.” I wrap my arm around her. My driver, sensing our intimate moment of reunion is over, pulls up beside us.
We get into the car. She snuggles underneath my arm.
I rest my chin on the top of her head, inhaling her scent.
Moments later, she’s asleep, snoring softly against my chest.
“She had a long night. Why don’t you do a few laps around the city—let her sleep.”
“Yes, sir.”
I watch the setting sun as we round another block. We will be married. Tonight. I have a plan.
Paige
Want to know what sucks even more than your parents not wanting you in the first place? Them finding out you’re engaged to a wealthy man and kidnapping you for ransom. Yep. I win the award for suckiest parents. Ever.
How stupid was I to think that when my dad showed up at my door, after the rehearsal dinner, that he was there to congratulate me? What an idiot. I guess children like me never quite get it through their heads that their parents don’t actually love them.
It’s a hard concept to swallow.
Long story short, once I was on the street, my dad and some ruffian acquaintance threw me in a van, where I spent the night. My mother was nowhere in sight, but I know she was in on it too. He kept telling me not to worry, that everything was going to be fine. He was just collecting a debt.
I should have let Bronson kill him.
I am still shaking from anger and grief when Bronson takes me to my room. After a hot shower, he towels off my body. He caresses every inch of my skin, massaging it with rose-scented lotion. He sits me down at my dressing table. He lovingly blow-dries my hair for me.
He watches as I do my makeup. Seeing the look on his face as he stares at me is almost worth getting kidnapped for.
It is utter, total adoration.
When I am ready, he slips the white satin Dior over my head. It fits like a glove.
“You take my breath away,” he says.
I blush.
“I apologize for breaking the rules,” he says.
“What rule?”
“Seeing the bride before the wedding. After today, I’m not sure I’ll ever let you out of my sight again. You’ll be sick of seeing my face.”
My hand strokes his cheek. “I’ll never grow tired of seeing this face.”
We kiss.
I ask, “What do you have planned? We missed the church service. The caterers were cancelled. There isn’t a single place in New York City open this last minute to accommodate the number of people we have.”
He says, “It’s all worked out. As long as you are sure you’re up for a wedding, after the trauma you’ve faced—”
“My parents are dead to me. I won’t wait another day to become a Bachman. To officially join your family.”
He hooks his arm in mine. “What are we waiting for?” We go down our stairwell and out to the car.
What feels like moments later, we arrive at the place we had booked for the Bachman-only reception.
Now, we ride the elevator up three flights. The doors open.
To reveal the most elegant evening wedding.
My eyes widen so hard they hurt, taking in the scene before me.
Hundreds of white globe lights crisscross above us, dotting the dark sky.
The breeze blows, the scent of roses brushing by with it. The flowers are everywhere. The Bachmans must have ransacked every florist in the city.
Thirty bridesmaids line up on one side. Thirty groomsmen on the other.
Creating an aisle.
Bronson gives me a smile. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
Arm in arm, we head down the ‘aisle.’ Ingrid hands me a bouquet. All of my friends hold out their palms, touching mine as I walk. Each smiling face precious to me in its own way.
Bronson gives his groomsmen high-fives as we go along.
We reach the altar, a bar top table that had been covered in tulle and rose petals. A preacher, not the one we booked, stands behind the table. Bronson whispers in my ear that the man officiating our wedding has connections with the Bachmans, and a little Robin Hood in his heart.
The man smiles at me, welcoming me.
“Who gives this woman to be wed today?” he asks.
“I do,” Bronson says proudly.
There’s a wave of laughter in the crowd.
The man smiles and says, “Welcome to all who have gathered here this day to share in this marriage ceremony of Bronson Bachman and Paige Silverman.”
I can’t wait to lose my last name. My last tie to my deadbeat parents.
The preacher continues. “These words spoken today are sacred, and celebrate a lasting bond that already exists between Bronson and Paige, who have already joined their hearts together and chosen to walk together on life’s journey. Today, as Bachmans, we bear witness to the pledge of a sacred, eternal bond. One that may not be broken.”
Beside me, Bronson breathes the word, “Amen.”
“Those of us in attendance today are present to witness a statement of lasting love and commitment between Bronson and Paige. The ceremonial union of two people in marriage, in its primordial form, is as ancient as our very humanity and yet is still as fresh as each day’s sunrise. The commitment of love between them is more than a declaration of love. It is a promise to remain loyal, faithful, and in service to one another until the day that death parts the two of them.”
He gives my hand a reassuring squeeze.
“Everyone gathered here today was invited to this ceremony because you have played a special role in Paige and Bronson’s lives. You are present at this ceremony to celebrate their marriage and to witness their vows of love to one another. Will all of you, gathered here to witness this union, do all in your power to love and support this couple now, and in the years ahead? If so, please respond, we will.”
A resounding, “We will,” rises from the crowd.
“And Paige and Bronson, have you come here today with the intention to be legally joined into the unique bond that is a Bachman marriage? Do you pledge to remain faithful, loyal, and adhere to the ways of the Bachman family?”
My eyes lock with Bronson’s. In unison, we declare, “We do.”
“Then let us witness the exchange of vows. Bronson, please repeat after me. I, Bronson, take you, Paige, to be my wife; to have and to hold, from this day forward; for better, for worse; for richer, for poorer; in sickness and in health; to love and to cherish; until we are parted by death.”
His eyes search mine. He speaks with eloquence, sincerity as he proclaims his vow. Tears are brimming in my eyes.
“And now, Paige, please repeat after me. I, Paige, take you, Bronson, to be my husband; to have and to hold from this day forward.”
My voice shakes as I speak. “I, Paige, take you, Bronson, to be my husband; to have and to hold from this day forward.”
“I vow to accept your headship over our family. To obey your word. To accept your discipline.”
There are hushed whispers of approval from a few of my bridesmaids. They hadn’t blinked an eye when I’d told them about Bronson’s old-fashioned arrangement. Ms. Beeman had declared, “Old-fashioned? Please! That’s how it was in our day, and it worked!”
My hands tremble in his as I repeat the words, “I vow to accept your headship over our family. To obey your word. To accept your discipline.”
Bronson’s thumbs stroke the backs of my hands. His eyes gaze at me with love, pride, and desire.
“For better, for wo
rse; for richer, for poorer; in sickness and in health; to love and to cherish; until we are parted by death.”
I say the words. And I mean them. From deep within my being.
We exchange rings. Matching platinum bands from Bachman’s. The date we met etched within the backs of them. His fingers linger on mine when he slips the band over my finger, his whispered words declare, “I love you.”
“Bronson and Paige, inasmuch as you have pledged yourselves, each to the other, and have declared the same in the presence of this company by the exchange of vows and the giving and receiving of rings, by the power vested in me I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride!”
Applause, catcalls, and hoots rise from the rooftop as we kiss.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to present to you, Mr. and Mrs. Bronson Bachman!”
We kiss again, his arms wrapping around me. His hand squeezes my ass for all the world to see.
Reminding them I belong to him.
As he turns us to face the crowd, a smile stretches across my face so wide, it hurts.
The way the elderly dance that night, you’d think thirty years had been erased from their biological clocks. Alcohol is a strict no-no at home, but tonight, all rules are off.
They talk and dance and drink and laugh. They tell bawdy stories of their youth.
The Bachmans are the most gracious hosts, helping everyone into cars as they leave.
Then, the Bachman-only celebration begins.
The wedding with my family from our home had been a legal binding ceremony. We had signed the marriage license and were now officially husband and wife in the eyes of the state of New York.
And my last name was Bachman.
But I wasn’t yet initiated into the Bachman clan.
First, Bronson and I had to perform the rite of passage into a Bachman marriage.
It’s the final piece in the ceremony. The last threshold to cross.
My heart pounds in my chest. All eyes are on me. I stand before the altar, alone, surrounded by Bachmans. The lights are cut. The night is silent.
You could hear a pin drop.
My stomach falls into my red-bottomed shoes.
I clasp my hands before me, wringing them together, waiting.
For what, I have no idea.
Then, in the dark, the light of a single candle burns.
It moves toward me.
Bronson is holding a white pillar candle in one hand, a red Bachman’s box in the other.
Bronson: A Mafia Billionaire Romance Page 15
