Shotgun Wedding: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance

by Natasha Tanner

  I flashed to me, grinding wantonly against his hard-on.

  Yes. I definitely needed to keep my distance.

  I couldn't imagine he was serious about buying me a new wardrobe, though maybe it was some status thing. Maybe he didn't want to be seen with me if I looked like I normally did.

  I tried not to let that idea hurt, too.

  But really, was there anything here I desperately wanted?

  After stuffing three plastic bags full of clothing, I realized I didn't even have that much stuff to begin with. Was just strewn all over the floor. But normally the last thing I wanted to do after working till two or three in the morning was to come home and tidy up.

  I had the framed picture of Gray and me stuffed in the bottom of one of the bags. I was just grabbing my toothbrush and razor when Gray stuck his head in the bathroom.

  "You ready, babes?"

  I scowled at him in the mirror. "Don't call me that."

  He grinned, reached around me, and easily hefted all three bags in the air. "Okay, sweetheart, whatever you want."

  "You don't have to pretend when we're not in public," I said. Then, before he could respond, I walked out of my front door. As soon as I stepped over the threshold, however, I had the strangest feeling. Like I'd never come home—not to this home—again.

  Back in Gray's car, I closed my eyes and leaned the seat back. I didn't want to talk to him or look at him.

  The gentle sway of the luxury vehicle and the gentle beat of whatever music he was listening to makes me zone out for a minute. When I open my eyes, I involuntarily gasp.

  I thought we were heading to O'Malley's, my family's bar. Correction: Gray and Viktor Solonik's bar. My place of employment, at least.

  But we weren't in Brooklyn anymore. We were on the Williamsburg Bridge, and across the deep-blue water, the New York City skyline spread out before me. The buildings' outlines rose and fell, like glittery, man-made mountains.

  "Where are we going? I thought we were going to work? Don't you have—business tonight?" I almost say I thought you were expecting a delivery, but it's probably a good idea not to get too involved with Gray's business. At least, not any more involved than I already am.

  "I have business at O'Malley's. You are going home."

  I open my mouth to explain that we just left my house, but Gray gives me a look and I give up. It's not worth fighting him on this. Just bide my time and I'll be out of here soon…

  Besides, his place can't be worse than mine. Right?

  And, unless he lives in a cabin in upstate New York, all I have to do is wait until he leaves for work, and then I can get out, get on the subway, and take care of my damn self.

  It's funny, but even though I live so close to Manhattan, I rarely ever come into the City. As a result, as Gray exits off the bridge and drives through the winding streets, I realize that we're going north and then west, but I have no idea where exactly we are. At first, the buildings are tall, cold monoliths, interspersed with a few older, beautiful arches and tower-topped buildings. Then I know we're heading slightly north, past the Financial District…

  As if he reads my mind, Gray glances over and says, "I live in Hell's Kitchen."

  I snort. "Of course you do."

  Gray gives me a grim grin, then turns back to the road. In the darkening evening, all I can see are the beautiful ridges in his face: his cheekbones, highlighted when we go under streetlights. His strong jaw, his full lips that only an hour ago were all over me—

  Don't go there, Kat, I tell myself.

  But it's hard not to.

  Just like he was oh-so-hard—

  Oh my God. I mentally slap my libido. "Get a grip," I whisper.

  "What?" Gray says.

  "Nothing," I say.

  Gray flicks the turn signal on, and pulls smoothly into the underground parking garage of a large, high-rise building. All of its windows face west, and reflect the blue night sky, giving the appearance of the building melting into the blue of the heavens above.

  It's not gritty. It's not terrifying. It doesn't look anything like the places my dad used to drag me to as a kid, when we took the subway in to Hell's Kitchen.

  "Wow, it's so…modern," I say.

  "What did you expect? That I live in a tenement welding, where we fight each other with ax handles?" At my confused look he says, "People used to fight a lot here. You can take a walking history tour."

  He drives smoothly down and into a pristine parking garage, well-lit and obviously well-moneyed. He's got a reserved spot, and he again walks around and helps me out of the SUV, lowering me gently to the ground.

  "You've taken a walking tour of Hells Kitchen? The big, bad mafia man likes historic walking tours?"

  Gray grins as he ushers me into an elevator off the parking garage. "I didn't say I like walking tours. I said you could take one." He pauses and punches one of the top floors. Number twenty-eight. As we wait for the elevator, he shrugs and says quietly, "I like the History Channel."

  I don't think my eyes could any bigger. I'm trying to imagine Gray coming home from a hard day's work of beating the shit out of people—or whatever he does for a living—then sitting down on his sofa and watching The History Channel.

  I'm still quiet when we step into the elevator, and in the silence stretches as we move upward. I shift and glance at Gray. He checks the time on his phone and looks down at me, then up at the ceiling.

  Well, living together will be a piece of cake. Totally normal. Totally relaxing.

  Geesh. You could cut the tension with a knife.

  "I like cooking shows," I finally say.

  Gray raises his eyebrows. "You always fed me, when we were younger."

  I don't know what else to say. I can't reconcile what we were with what we are.

  Then the doors open onto a luxurious hallway with white walls and expensive-looking artwork. Gray steps outside, gestures to the left, and says, "Welcome home."

  11

  Kat

  His apartment is huge. It's so big it almost—almost—makes him look like a normal-sized man. And it's also gorgeous.

  "Wow, you really made it, Gray," I say, dropping my bags on the floor in the entryway.

  Gray shrugs. "It's a place to crash. Come on, I'll give you the tour."

  He leads me into the first room, his hand at the small of my back. The front door opens onto a large, open-air floor plan. The kitchen is to the left, and even from just a quick glance I can tell it's a chef's dream kitchen.

  There's a marble-topped bar with a three, perfectly placed barstools. A step down from that and the room flows into a large living room, with high ceilings and one wall that's basically an entire bank of windows. There's a large, tan, overstuffed couch with white faux-fur throws tossed on either end. Two rich leather club chairs, and a tufted ottoman that's so big I could sleep on it. There aren't any curtains on the windows, and I can only imagine how bright and airy the place will look in the sunlight. Right now, the windows show the beautiful blue of the river at night, with the lights of the New Jersey skyline twinkling like stars in the distance.

  Everything's decorated in muted shades of white and cream and gray, of course. Call it gut instinct, but I can't imagine my Gray picking out the perfectly positioned sculptures of giraffes that decorated the bookshelf. Or the dreamy, cable-knit throw that's in a basket by the fireplace.

  The place screams interior designer. Probably a female interior designer. Not that I care.

  "Kitchen, living room, closets," Gray says carelessly, though he carefully hangs his jacket up in the spacious entryway closet. He sounds like he doesn't give a shit that his apartment is basically interior-design heaven. He leads me deeper into the apartment, down a long white hallway. The floors are hardwood, smooth and shining and a perfect, it dark-chocolate brown.

  But as beautiful as it all is, it also feels strangely unlived-in. I frown. There are no photographs on the mantle. No mess. No signs an actual person makes his home here. For one s
econd I wonder, am I even in Gray's apartment? Has he just dumped me off at an expensive, pre-furnished rental?

  Which is fine. I need to get out of here, as soon as possible. I need space. I need to go to my bank, see how the hell I can withdraw my life savings. Even if the grand total of my savings is a pitifully small amount.

  I need to decide where, and when, I'll skip town.

  I need to map out my entire life, I guess.

  "How long have you lived here?" I ask.

  Is it my imagination, or do Gray's shoulders freeze for just one moment? "Not long," he tosses out over his shoulder. "Come on, let's get you settled. I've got to hit the road."

  Ugh. Why do I even bother trying to make conversation? Gray is just like his apartment: impressive on the outside, but cold and soulless once you look a little deeper.

  What happened to him? I wonder. But really, it doesn't matter. "My Gray" is just a memory, a figment of my imagination. I'd better pay attention to the real Grayson Petrokov, and right quick. Even if it's only so I know how to make him happy, calm, and content before I flee the state.

  We pass a bathroom on the right and a bedroom on the left, and I get a quick glance of another monochromatic, perfectly appointed room. The hallways dead-ends into a large—holy shit, larger than my entire apartment—bedroom.

  This must be the master.

  The bedroom is immense, Spartan but luxurious. The only things in the room—besides another wall of giant windows and an enormous bed—are night stands on either side of the bed and a long, low bench at the foot of the bed. The bed frame and all the furniture match, and they all look like they were hewn out of fallen wood or something.

  It's that beautiful, rustic look that makes it feel like someone just happened to come across a fallen tree in the forest, haul it back home, and decorate their house with it.

  I bet they're as expensive as fuck.

  Gray drops my bags on the bed, and gestures to another room behind him.

  Oh wait. It's a closet. A closet as big as my Dad's office at the bar!

  Or, Gray's office.

  It's perfectly organized, like a display at a store.

  "Are you really this anal-retentive?" I say, studying the rows of perfectly arranged shoes, and jeans, and black shirts. And more black shirts. Oh wait, there's a dark gray one. Gotta have variety. "And this…Goth?"

  Gray smirks and comes up behind me, putting his hands on my shoulders. I shrug him off and walk back toward the bed.

  "I paid some chick to put all that shit together. But—if you haven't heard of it—this space is called 'a closet.' It's where you hang all your clothes and put your shoes."

  My mouth drops open. Is Gray being…bitchy?! Kinda funny, but bitchy?

  "I know what it is, Gray."

  "Oh, really? I wasn't sure, after seeing your bedroom."

  "Oh my God!" I shriek. I am so pissed off.

  And I am so trying not to laugh.

  Then I realize Gray is doing the same. He loses the battle and throws back his head and laughs.

  "That's right. Crack yourself up," I say. I cross my arms and bite my lip so I don't smile. "Fucking hilarious."

  "I'm just giving you shit, baby girl. You can throw your stuff all over the place, if you want. But, you can also hang it up." He gestures to the side of the closet, and I realize there's a space that's cleared out, full of cloth covered hangars and nothing else. Gray opens a few of the built-in drawers, and they’re empty, too.

  "Make yourself at home, babes."

  I smile. That is actually sweet. Then it hits me.

  "Wait, Gray. Is this your bedroom?"

  Gray stares at me like I can't see my nose in front of my face.

  "No. It's our bedroom."

  I'm pretty sure my mouth drops open and I look like a goldfish.

  "I think I just take the other bedroom. I know we have to sell this whole 'marriage' to make your boss happy," I pause. And to keep my dad alive. "But this is a little overkill, don't you think?"

  Gray's face freezes into that impenetrable mask that I'm already beginning to hate.

  "We'll discuss this later." He pulls out his wallet, goes through it, then holds up a credit card and a wad of cash. "I've got to get to work, order yourself some food and we'll talk later."

  I take a few steps toward him, put my hands on my hips, and pointedly don't take his money.

  "Actually, I've got to get to work, too. I'm bartending tonight."

  "Kat, we already discussed this. I'm going to work. You're staying here. Where it's safe."

  "Gray, if you're worried about keeping me safe, and I remind you that I would be going to work with you? You would literally be in the same building as me, I assume? Besides, O'Malley's is like my second home. I'll be totally fine there."

  "O'Malley's isn't your anything anymore, Kat. And the sooner you get that through your pretty little head, the better. I'm not saying this to be an ass—"

  "Oh really?" I hiss. "Because you're doing a pretty good job of it!"

  Gray growls and takes a step closer to me. He towers over me, and I guess I should be afraid or angry, but all I really feel is a thrill of anticipation. He wants to fight? Bring it on!

  "Kat, really bad men almost killed your father tonight. I watched as they beat him to a pulp while he was tied to a chair in a dark, Brooklyn basement. This is not a fucking joke. Those same men will have absolutely no problem hurting you. So when I tell you to do something, you do it, because I am looking out for you. I'm the only sucking person in the entire world looking out for you."

  Gray stops talking suddenly, his chest heaving. He's got that slight reddish tend to his cheeks, his eyes are burning into me, and it's the longest speech I've ever heard him make.

  Am I fighting him or fighting fate?

  "I need to make money, Gray. Can't I just go in with you tonight and bartend for a few hours—"

  Gray grabs my hand and closes my fingers around his credit card and the thick wad of cash. "Anything you need, I provide for you. Now stay here, take a bath, take a nap, watched the fucking Cooking Channel till you pass out. I don't care what you do, as long as you do it in this apartment."

  And then he fucking kisses my forehead and leaves the room!

  "Gray," I say, stunned. I follow him down the hallway. He's flipping leaving! "Gray!" I shout.

  I run up to the front door, just as he stepping through it.

  "Gray, please, let's talk. Where are you going? When will you be back? This is insane!"

  Instead of answering me, Gray begins punching and numbers on a small keypad on the wall. I hadn't noticed it before, and his fingers are moving too fast for me to memorize a code or anything.

  "This place has a better security system than the White House." He pauses and looks back at me, ignoring the small series of beeps the alarm system is making.

  I'm so angry I'm seeing red.

  "Well, you don't need to set it, because I'll be going out tonight. And going to work. Just give me the code to get back in."

  Gray keeps talking like I hadn't even spoken.

  "I'll be back early tomorrow morning." He pauses, suddenly looking a bit sheepish. "I don't think I have too much food here. But, order whatever you want. From anywhere—talk to concierge, they'll deliver. My wife deserves the best."

  He flashes me a grin and then starts to shut the door.

  "What!" I shriek "Are you honestly locking me inside your apartment!"

  "Don't think of it that way," he says as he begins to shut the door. "Think of it as me locking the bad guys out."

  And then he slams the door. I immediately open it, ignoring the beeping alarm. Then I jump, because there's a man standing in the hallways.

  Right outside my door.

  Gray's patting him on the shoulder.

  "Kat, this is Dacko. He's here to protect you."

  "You mean keep me from leaving?" I cross my arms and cock my hip. Seriously wishing I had death-ray eyes right now. There'd be one giant,
steaming, dead hot guy on the floor.

  Gray stalks back to me; he moves so swiftly it's startling. I get a glimpse of what his enemies must feel when he turns on them. Except, I'm not scared.

  I guess I know he'll never hurt me.

  Except—he's hurting me right now! By being an arrogant, stupid, domineering ass!

  "No, I'm protecting you." He leans in close to whisper in my ear. I hate that I breathe him in, like I can't get enough of his scent. He's sweet and spicy and there's a hint of tobacco and—I'm officially losing my mind.

  Grays' lips touch my cheek as he speaks, low so that only he and I can hear. "There's a man out there who wanted to use your body as his own personal toy. And then he'd put you in a brothel. He's fucking pissed he lost his little prize, and he fucking hates me. So please know that this is not to punish you, or dominate you, or go on a fucking power-trip. This is me, keeping you safe, in my world."

  He takes a step back, then another, walking backwards down the hall. His eyes are suddenly anguished. "I tried to keep you out of this world, Kat. But now you're here. And you need to learn the rules."

  Dacko's face is bright red. He looks like a young, sweet bulldog. I don't want to cause a scene in front of him.

  Then Gray smiles and blows me a kiss.

  I give him the finger and slam the door in the face.

  I still feel annoyed, so I scream through the stupid door, "You don't have to worry about anyone else! Because as soon as I can get out of here, I'm going to kill you!"

  12

  Gray

  I'm still smiling at Kat's threat when I get to O'Malley's. I shouldn't be—I know she won't try to kill me, but who knows if she'll try to injure a major organ or not. Normally when I have a woman, I'm with them for a night, a week, a month at the most. In my line of work, it's better not to get attached.