Submitting in Vegas: (Vegas Morellis, #3)

by Sam Mariano

  Since she’s not an idiot, Laurel looks between us, not convinced. “What’s going on with you two? Why are you getting married in such a hurry? You weren’t even in a relationship yesterday. I assumed based on the fact that you actually liked each other yesterday, Rafe finally came around and decided to act on impulse, but right now, this? No. What is this?”

  Since our half-hearted ruse didn’t fool her, I pull away from Rafe and fall back a few steps. Rafe doesn’t appear pleased that I did such a piss-poor acting job, and he is not prepared to explain.

  His tone lacks patience as he tells her, “It’s complicated. Don’t worry about it.”

  “I am worried about it. She’s been in love with you for years, and now she looks like you killed her cat. What did you do, Rafe?”

  Ignoring her, Rafe signals to someone behind my head. “We’re ready.”

  Grabbing my arm, Laurel demands seriously, “Do you want to marry him?”

  Sin finally comes over and steps in, pulling Laurel away. “Come over here. Leave them alone. They’ve got their own shit to work out.”

  She lets Sin drag her away, but I hear her asking him, “What did he do?”

  Cracking a smile, Rafe murmurs, “She’s so sure I’m the one who fucked up.”

  A bespectacled man approaches with a briefcase. He puts it down on the wall of the fountain and pops it open, drawing out a form.

  “This is your Clark County marriage license,” he informs us, glancing from one of us to the other. “It’s all filled out, if you’d both just go ahead and sign it.”

  “Virginia Ann Malloy,” Rafe murmurs. “I didn’t know your middle name. It’s cute.”

  Virginia Ann Morelli.

  Suddenly my good humor evaporates and my fingers start to shake. I watch Rafe sign the paper first, his grip firm and sure. The nib of the pen glides across the paper like he’s not signing his life away, but I guess he’s not. I guess only I am. He can get out of this anytime he wants with a change of his mind and a single bullet.

  My stomach starts to twist up in knots. I swallow as he hands me the pen.

  “Um, shouldn’t there be—shouldn’t we have a pre-nuptial agreement?”

  “No,” Rafe says smoothly. “You’re married to me for the rest of your life. There’ll be no divorce.”

  I feel queasy. The rest of my life, he says. Not the rest of our lives. He’s 7 years older than me and given the difference in our lifestyles, it’s probably a given he’ll go first if we both go naturally.

  “I can’t do this.”

  Rafe’s jaw ticks, his impatient gaze sliding to mine. “Do not start with this shit again, Virginia. Sign the damned paper.”

  He holds my gaze and hands me the pen.

  I look down at his name on the document. The errant thought crosses my mind that I love the way he signs the R of his first name—the two halves of the letter aren’t connected like they should be, they’re just existing together side-by-side, complementary pieces that couldn’t get the job done without the other. He also signed it Raphael Morelli. I’ve never seen him use his full first name before.

  My husband, Raphael Morelli. I try it out in my mind. Virginia and Raphael Morelli.

  Married. I’ll be married. To Rafe.

  He handed me the pen in my right hand. He doesn’t even know I’m left-handed. I swallow, switching the pen to my other hand and try to convince myself to sign, but I can’t get my hand to lower the pen to the paper.

  Forever is a long time.

  Swallowing, I suddenly look up at him and meet his gaze. “Please don’t make me hate you.”

  Out of patience, he grabs my hand and presses it to the paper. “Sign it,” he says tightly.

  I glance up at the poor, bespectacled man with the briefcase and he appears supremely uncomfortable. Of course, I shouldn’t be signing these documents under duress, but given who the groom is, he’s not about to remind us of that fact.

  Before I lose my nerve, I sign the damn paper and drop the pen, taking a step back and staring at the document.

  Rafe nods once, then gestures for Laurel to come over. She’s holding Nicholas, patting his back, still looking uncertain. “I’d like to talk to Virginia first.”

  “No,” Rafe says simply.

  Clearing his throat, the man I assume is either an officiant or Rafe’s lawyer points to the line where Laurel needs to sign as a witness.

  Laurel doesn’t touch the pen. She looks back at Sin, then takes a step in his direction like she’s going to talk to him, but Rafe cuts her off.

  “Sign as a witness or I’ll have Sin do it. His signature doesn’t come with conditions.”

  Since I know I’m the reason she is hesitating, I tell her, “It’s fine, Laurel. I already signed. Go ahead.”

  Glaring mildly at Rafe, then raking a concerned glance over me, Laurel heaves a sigh, but ultimately grabs the pen and signs her name.

  With that, it’s done. The man slides the signed document back into his briefcase, and I look at Rafe, unsettled to see a gleam of satisfaction in his dark eyes. He steps away from me to retrieve something from a table beside the chair he must have been sitting in while he waited for me. It’s an old-looking box, made of wood, but gold plated with ornate, decorative carvings. There’s a picture on the lid, some kind of painting. Perhaps Renaissance?

  “What’s that?” I inquire, peeking at it, my curiosity getting the better of me.

  “The Marriage of the Virgin by Raphael,” Rafe answers. “It’s a ring box,” he further explains. “My mother’s old jewelry box from when she married my father.”

  He cracks it open and draws out two simple gold bands. There’s a smaller ring box nestled inside. He sees me looking at it, so he cracks it open to show me a large amethyst stone set in a thick gold band.

  “That was my mother’s engagement ring,” he explains. “You can have it, but it’s a bit gaudy for its purpose nowadays. As a cocktail ring or for a night out it would be okay, but I figured we’ll just use the wedding bands.”

  I nod my head. “We skipped over the engagement, so we might as well.”

  He pulls the last treasure out of the box, a sparkling pair of drop earrings, dripping with diamonds. “These were my grandmother’s, passed down to my mother upon her marriage to my father. They’re yours now. Would you like to wear them for the ceremony?”

  I shake my head no and hold onto my bouquet with both hands.

  Slipping my inherited jewels back into the box, he closes the lid and hands it off to Laurel behind me. She turns and tucks the box inside the Victoria’s Secret bag containing my wedding present, then turns back to watch us, absently patting Nicky’s diapered bottom and swaying to keep him quiet.

  “When you’re ready, we’ll begin,” the man informs us with a thin smile.

  Sin moves over to stand behind Rafe, and Laurel moves into place behind me. I turn to face Rafe, but I’m number than I expect to be. I know I don’t want to be here right now, not like this, but some part of me should still be able to muster enthusiasm that it’s him I’m promising forever to.

  I can’t, though. Marlena flashes to mind for the first time in ages. I rarely think about the women Rafe has liked before, and if I’m going to think about a dead one, it’s usually Cassandra, but I can’t shake Marlena right now. She was dull and dim, and I assured Laurel he wouldn’t have cheated on her, but that was partially to protect them both.

  I do trust Rafe, I don’t consider him a weak or thoughtless man, but Laurel was the first time I saw a glimpse of him trapped inside an unwanted relationship, and I’m terrified that’s going to be me. Looking past Rafe fucking around with random women prior to our relationship was one thing, but what do I do if he tries it now? He won’t break my heart by accident; he’ll do it on purpose to punish me for the crime of perceived disloyalty.

  A stream of words spew forth from the officiant’s mouth, but all I can focus on is the memory of Laurel in the booth with Rafe, his arm around her, snuggling h
er, and then Marlena approaching and the look on Laurel’s face. I can’t stop putting myself in that booth, putting rings on our fingers, imagining the worst.

  Sin saved Laurel from a miserable future with Rafe, but there’s no one to save me.

  I may be standing here woodenly repeating vows as I’m expected to, but I don’t mean them, and he won’t either. It’s hard to imagine marriage being the thing that destroys love, but I’m deeply afraid it will the spell the end of my love for Rafe.

  Even as thoughts of his potential to betray me run through my mind, his rich voice rings out, clearly promising not to. I swallow and look down at my shaking hand as he brings the ring closer. He grabs my hand to steady it before sliding the golden band over my knuckle and into place, signifying our commitment to one another, for better or worse.

  I tune back in as the officiant says, “You may kiss the bride.”

  A rakish smirk steals across Rafe’s face, a light shining in his eyes, both possessive and playful. My heart does a somersault, momentarily recognizing the Rafe I actually do love, and relief flutters through me if only for a moment, because that’s the Rafe who wraps his strong arm around my waist, tugs me close, and brushes his lips against mine.

  I’m still faintly trembling with nerves, but he’s strong and sure, so I wrap my arms around his perfect neck, close my eyes, and kiss him back like a real bride.

  It’s the only moment of this farce of a wedding that feels remotely real, so I hold on tightly, afraid of what happens when I let go.

  37

  Virginia

  Sitting in Rafe’s car outside of Giordano’s pizza place, my groom glances over and tells me, “When I said you could pick where we had dinner, this isn’t quite what I had in mind.”

  I shrug my shoulders, looking at the hole in the wall pizza place. “It’s what I wanted. He sauces his pizzas perfectly. Is pizza not an adequate wedding night meal for you?” I question, looking back at Rafe.

  He looks at the restaurant one more time, then shrugs. “All right.”

  Rafe pulls the latch and lets himself out. He’s already on his way over to open my door, but I go ahead and do it myself. Still, he offers me his hand and helps me out.

  “Shane brought all my things over today,” I remark, since Rafe will be welcomed by a disorganized foyer when we get back to his house.

  Our house? That’s going to be weird.

  “I know,” Rafe replies, taking a few steps ahead of me and opening the door.

  “Do I still have an apartment?” I inquire, stepping inside.

  “No. You’re my wife now, you live with me.”

  “I bet that’s weird to say.”

  Rafe cracks a smile, but his focus is on his surroundings, not on me. “Right? Never planned to be a husband or father, and now here I stand with a ring on my finger and a son across town. Life is weird.” He misses a beat, glancing around the restaurant. “Looks like business must have picked up. The place looks better than it used to.”

  “He’s been paying you, hasn’t he?” I murmur, keeping my tone low, since there is a man standing at the counter, waiting for his pizza.

  Rafe glances over at me, cocking an eyebrow. “Should you know that?”

  I offer a faint smile. “That’s why I signed my life away today, right? Because I know too many things?”

  Rafe doesn’t comment, just looks back at the new menu board.

  Even though I didn’t get anything out of it and I have no stake in this shop’s success (beyond wanting them to stay open, because good lord, can this man make pizza), I feel a sense of pride looking around the little pizzeria. I didn’t have the budget to make enormous changes, but when Giordano was struggling to stay open (let alone pay Rafe the money he apparently owed him), I stepped in and volunteered my time and talents to help him out.

  I may not know how to run a pizzeria, but I’ve learned plenty about how to run a restaurant from working in food service. Marketing wasn’t my forte, but I did some research, staged a few Instagram photo shoots with local Insta-famous babes enjoying pizza at the Las Vegas “hidden gem” pizzeria, and did a little advertising to make locals aware the place exists.

  I also spruced it up a bit. It’s a hole in the wall and I can’t do anything about that, but rather than fight the small Italian pizzeria vibe, I embraced it. Giordano doesn’t care about style, he only cares about making good pizza. I came through and cleaned the place until every surface sparkled, took down his god-awful menu board and replaced it with a chic chalkboard menu, put Italian-style red and white checkered table cloths on the scratched up old tables, and ordered some Tuscan-style vinyl lettering for the front windows and door. There’s also old school Las Vegas Rat Pack music playing now to set the mood, whereas before all you could hear was the buzzing of the god-awful fluorescent lights that used to hang overhead.

  I could have done more, but I didn’t have the budget. At least now instead of looking like the sketchy kind of place the health department is always one stop from shutting down, it looks like a charming pizza place run by a hapless old man who can make a pizza that tastes so good you want to cry when it’s gone—which is exactly what it is. And really, once you taste the pizza, you’re sold anyway. Getting people in the door was the problem.

  Anyway, Rafe doesn’t know any of that. Sin must not have mentioned it even after last night. I consider telling Rafe he’s the one who paid for the improvements, but just in case he’d get mad at Sin for letting me be productive instead of wasting everyone’s time with undue violence, I keep my mouth shut and shuffle forward as the customer in front of us retrieves his pizza and makes his way out the door.

  Giordano’s leathery face softens with a smile and his brown eyes twinkle at the sight of me. “Virginia! Eccolo qua, il mio tesorino.”

  I grin and meet him halfway around the counter for a hug. He pats my back heartily, and I tell him in Italian how good it is to see him.

  When I pull back, Rafe is scowling. I suppose it’s probably because Giordano is calling me endearments and he has no idea why, but I don’t have time to explain.

  The jovial expression drops off Giordano’s face when he meets Rafe’s gaze, but he nods once in stiff acknowledgement. I get the impression the older man would rather spit at his feet than offer even his grudging respect, but he knows better.

  Turning his attention back to me, Giordano asks, “What brings you in, tesorino?”

  I’m not immediately sure I want to say, but Rafe lifts my left hand, smiling mildly at the older man. “Wedded bliss.”

  Giordano stares at the gold band on my finger, then looks back at my face, stunned. “You married him?”

  In an attempt to make things look more amicable than they are, I free my left hand from Rafe’s and slide my arm around his waist. “I sure did. He’s paying tonight, so make sure you charge me extra,” I joke.

  Neither man smiles. Tough room.

  Slipping away from the awkward moment, I go over to the refrigerated cooler and grab myself and Rafe some beverages to go with our meal. When I get back to the register, Rafe is paying. He slides a glance my way as I put the drinks on the counter to make sure Giordano saw them and charged us. When I come in alone, he always feeds me for free since I helped him out, but he’s a small business owner and Rafe has more money than he’ll ever need, so I would tell Giordano to charge him for napkins if I could.

  Hunched with his general aura of displeasure, Giordano makes his way to the back to start making our pizza. I look at the receipt and see Rafe ordered us salads to start. Since Giordano appears to be working alone tonight, I tell Rafe I’ll be back and head behind the counter. Back when I was helping him fix the place up, I occasionally volunteered my services and helped in the back on my night off from the restaurant each week, so he shouldn’t be too surprised to see me behind the counter, even though I’m a customer tonight.

  Giordano is standing in front of a flour-covered table, tying his once-white apron when I get back there. I don
’t know whether he forgot about the salads, or he planned to make them after, but he seems distracted.

  “Hey, do you mind if I make our salads while you make the pizza?” I ask him.

  He shakes his head. “Go ahead.” After a moment, he says, “Hey, come here.”

  I put down the salad plates and approach him, thinking maybe he needs me to grab something for him.

  Instead of asking for help with anything, he leans closer and asks me, “What’d you marry a shithead like him for, huh? Nice girl like you could do a lot better.”

  My eyes widen in surprise. “Giordano, that’s not nice.”

  “He’s not nice,” he states unapologetically. “Testa di merda, that’s what he is.”

  Leveling him a stern look, I tell him, “That’s my husband you’re talking about.”

  Shaking his head with unwavering disapproval, he says, “Well, I hope that miserable thug makes you happy, tesorino.”

  “Good lord,” I mutter to myself, going over to make the salads. Glancing back over my shoulder, I tell him, “You shouldn’t say things like that, Giordano. Not to me, and not to anyone else.”

  “He doesn’t deserve you,” he insists. “You wanted an Italian man, I have a widowed son I could have set you up with. Much better than that one.”

  I’m not sure if I’m more annoyed at myself for the protective instincts rearing up, urging me to defend Rafe, or Giordano for saying things that would bring Sin right back to his doorstep if Rafe overheard. I don’t even know what my responsibilities are anymore. As Rafe’s wife, I guess I should demand he be respected in my presence, but… well, he has been a bit of a shithead.

  Either way, Giordano shouldn’t say so. I finish making the salads and head back out to the dining room, figuring Giordano’s bluster will blow over once the news isn’t so new anymore. Thankfully, Rafe is waiting at the table he picked out for us, not eavesdropping.