by Blake York
I twine my fingers, but they shake hard enough to rattle my arms and my shoulders. I suck in a bracing breath as my four-inch heels hit the marble tile, and I begin my bridal march.
Candles are everywhere, blinding with their golden glow. Four beautiful women stand next to four striking men, creating an aisle for me to pass through.
At the end of the path, I see him.
My groom.
Warrick.
He’s stunning in a black tux, the stark white of his shirt against his tanned throat drawing my eyes. A dove gray bowtie circles his neck.
He clears his throat, and I jerk my gaze up to his.
The breath is punched out of me. What am I doing? This isn’t me. I’m stronger than this. I swore when I left Detroit I wouldn’t succumb to the mafia life again, and now I’m marrying into another one?
Those were pipedreams, I tell myself. Before Nick found me in Chicago. Before I was almost raped because of him.
Before I was sold to the highest bidder.
I only hope this devil is better than the other.
I reach Warrick’s side, and he grips my trembling hand. I barely register the priest’s words or my own mumblings in answer. I never feel the gold ring sliding up my finger to settle at the base.
“Welcome to the family.” Warm arms encircle me. The woman draws me into her embrace. My nose brushes against silky, fragrant blonde waves of hair. Automatically, I bring my arms around the person hugging me. She pulls back and smiles into my eyes. Hers are vivid blue.
Another and yet another set of female arms wrap around me. Each of the sisters-in-law welcomes me to the family with kind, soft words.
“You look beautiful. We’re so glad to have a new sister,” one tells me.
“You’re going to be happy here. I promise you.”
I’m not so sure about that last comment, but we’ll see.
Their words touch me. Maybe it’s because I’ve only had my mom—the worst role model—for my entire life. I clung to my sisterhood with Melody, and the offer of a different sisterhood has me excited to get to know them.
A new set of lips poise at my ear. “Let’s get out of here.” The low, rough voice brings me back to reality.
I’m married to a stranger.
I stiffen, worry clutching at my stomach.
Warrick grabs me by the wrist and tows me out of the living room where we’ve just been married. My heels click on the floor as I hurry to keep up with his long strides. I don’t even know my new husband.
But I know what he expects of me. Can I go through with the…
I swallow hard.
The wedding night?
There’s a reason I’m untouched. Long ago, an evil man ruined the idea of me ever finding pleasure in bed.
Warrick stops walking and turns to me. Our gazes lock. The black depths of his eyes glimmer, but not in a cold, frightening way.
“I wanted a moment alone with you before our wedding feast, Everly.”
I blink up at him.
For the second time, he surprises me by stroking a tendril of my hair off my cheek. Is it possible that this man, a Rossi, can be tender toward me?
“My father arranged all my brothers’ marriages. But you weren’t chosen for me,” he says.
His statement has my heart freezing mid-beat.
Waiting, I search his eyes.
“I chose you for myself.”
“I-I don’t know what to say,” I stammer out.
“I wanted you to know in case my father digs at you. And I want you to hold your head high and give it right back if he does.”
My jaw drops. The only time I’ve ever been so astounded is when Warrick walked into my bakery and told me that he paid a million dollars for me.
“Understand?” he presses.
I nod.
“Good. Let’s do it.”
He tugs me by the hand behind him. We pass by priceless works of art and sculptures carved from marble to another grand space. The dining room is set for a feast with bone China and gleaming, polished silver. An Irish linen tablecloth is snow white against the mahogany table that looks long enough to seat an army.
Everyone swings our way as we walk through the doorway. The women, my new sisters-in-law, are decked out in satin and diamonds and hold delicate glass champagne flutes filled with golden nectar.
I remember days like this, times my family had extravagances. Lately, my biggest luxury is being able to afford takeout once a month—as Nick so frightfully reminded me—or treating my little sister to a manicure on her weekends away from school.
One man raises his glass high. “To our little brother, who we never thought would take his dick out of one of his dirtbag girlfriends long enough to settle down!”
I suck in a gasp that gets trapped in my throat.
At my side, Warrick goes dead still. I feel the hum of his anger through his fingers wrapped around my wrist all the way up my arm.
He gives me a single squeeze and releases me. Then he strides right up to his brother, I don’t know which one, and gets in his face.
“I don’t think you want to repeat that, Gabriel,” Warrick says.
“Gabriel! Enough!” The barked syllables come from my new father-in-law Vincent Rossi. The most formidable man in the room, and also a handsome one. I can see the resemblance to his sons and feel his power in them too.
The older patriarch twitches his head, and all six men disappear into another room. When they close the door, I feel the vibration down to my soul.
I stand there staring at the rich wood barring us ladies from the others. I don’t know what to do or how to act around these people. Hell, I hardly know who I am.
For the longest time I was a Gallo, my father a kingpin, my mother a junkie. I’m a protector to my younger sister and was a refugee that night someone beat me to murdering my father.
I’m a business owner, and now I’m a daughter-in-law, sister-in-law…wife.
One of the women with warm bronzed skin and dark curls drifts to a sofa and sits down. Crossing her legs in the elegant red dress reveals the line of her shapely thigh through a slit. She takes out a cigarette and lights it.
She looks up at me and holds out the pack. “You want one?”
“No thanks.” I don’t know what to do with myself, so I sink to a plush white chair and run my sweaty palms down my lace-covered thighs.
I catch a whiff of cigar smoke coming from the other room and turn my head.
“They smoke after dinner. It’s some old Victorian tradition, but that’s Vincent Rossi for you.” The woman offers me a smile and blows out an elegant plume of smoke. “I’m Luna, Gabriel’s wife.”
Remembering what Warrick said to me when we were alone, I lift my jaw at a defiant angle and look Luna in the eyes. “Your husband was rude to me.”
A soft smile touches her lips, not exactly apologetic but close enough. “That’s Gabriel on a good day. He doesn’t agree with Warrick’s decision to defy their father and marry you.”
My heart thumps faster. Do they also know how much money he dropped to get me? A million dollars is a lot of money, even in the underworld. The Rossis are clearly rolling in it, judging by the diamonds and thousand-dollar-a-bottle wedding champagne they’re sipping, but they aren’t going to approve of Warrick tossing that much money on a bride.
Were any of these other women boughten brides?
“Don’t pay any attention to the men,” the gorgeous blonde with blue eyes says from her position at the end of the long sofa. “They’re not peaceful men. Just remember that and it explains pretty much everything.”
I nod as if I understand, but I’m far from believing I’ve agreed to this life. Yet, I did. Willingly and eagerly, I gave myself to Warrick Rossi because after Nick came into my bakery those three days in a row…well, it wore me down. Scared me.
Suddenly, it hits me fully in the face.
I staunch a cry. I don’t know why I didn’t realize it sooner.
Warrick paid a higher price for me than Nick was willing to. They were in a bidding war over me.
I might just as easily be Mrs. Nick Moretti right now.
“Here, sweetie.” Another beautiful sister hands me a champagne flute.
I accept it with a stuttered whisper of thanks. When I bring it to my lips for a sip, the bubbles tickle my nose. Again, I’m slapped with the surreal sense that I’m not me, this isn’t my life and I’m trapped in a movie.
Even the scent of cigar smoke takes me back to a time that I never lived in, an era of mobsters and dark, shiny cars. This is far from the mob life I grew up in. Getting used to it will take some time.
Learning my place in it even more.
Long minutes pass. The ladies discuss how the one named Zoey plans to buy a puppy soon. I can’t imagine a dog being allowed to roam free here in the mansion, left to chew up the legs of expensive furniture and pee on the Turkish rugs. But I pretend to listen even as the scary prospect of the wedding night looms closer and closer.
After my childhood trauma, I’m not sure if I can be a real wife—in that way—to Warrick.
I like him stroking my cheek. I like the way he looks at me.
But can I tolerate his hands on me—any man’s hands on me—after what happened?
The study door opens, and my husband picks me out all the way across the room.
I drag in a shaky breath.
I’m about to find out.
Chapter V
Warrick
My virgin bride is terrified.
Of me? Or of the deed I have every right to demand from her?
She’s taking forever in the bathroom. First, I heard the water running into the deep soaker tub and know she’s pouring herself a bath.
But long after the water shuts off, she’s still not out here, naked curves bared to me.
And fuck, I want her. I love beautiful things, just like my father does. Only instead of art and statues, I prefer women.
It’s no secret that I’m a man whore. I love the sway of hips, the gasp of plump lips.
I love spreading round thighs. Most of all, I love getting a woman drenched for me.
Soaking wet until she’s begging for my tongue, my fingers…my cock.
I have no doubt in my mind that Everly will soon be on her hands and knees, ass thrust in the air and her soaking folds beckoning me.
Only this time, I get to pop a cherry too.
I stub out my cigarette and look at the bathroom door. What if she’s avoiding me for another reason? Maybe she lied about her virginity to get that creep from raping her, not that it would ever stop a man like that. Guys like him are far from chivalrous. Any pussy’s a conquest, and a virgin one tenfold.
That first night I decided to make Everly my wife, the thought of thrusting into unclaimed territory excited me. My cock’s stiff as a rod, shoving against my fly for her right this goddamn second.
But if she’s not a virgin?
I still fucking want her.
I’m about to reach for another cigarette when the bathroom door cracks open. Everly slips into the bedroom, a silky robe I know one of my sisters-in-law are responsible for drifting like a silk cloud around her shapely ankles.
Gaining my feet, I face her. Across the room, I can see her trembling. Her long dark hair twitching around her oval face. Her hands knotted in front of her as she tries not to show her fear.
My cock hardens at the idea of touching her, making her relax. Then warming her up to the frenzy of need I want her sitting on the edge on for hours.
But the cold, hard truth is that I don’t have it in me tonight to take my time with her and make her less afraid. I have too much Irish whiskey we toasted to in honor of our mother’s absence running through my veins.
When I take a step toward my new bride, she gasps. Bald terror strikes like lightning in the depths of her eyes.
I clamp my hand into a fist at my side.
This is more than wedding night jitters or the look of a virgin about to get her cherry popped.
When I move toward her, she braces her bare feet on the floor. The effort not to run has her toes curling.
I measure my paces and in a slow glide stop in front of her. I search her eyes for a heavy heartbeat before lifting my finger to trace her cheekbone.
“Who hurt you, Everly?”
Her eyes flutter and she sucks in a gasp. “N-no one,” she stammers out.
I delve into her eyes again. “You can’t lie to me. Learn that now. I will find out who hurt you…and I will kill him.”
If it’s Moretti, I’m kicking myself for not stomping on his neck and suffocating him right there on the bakery floor. Violence roars through me, stronger and headier than the alcohol I’ve imbibed too much of tonight.
She’s shaking. I stare at her for a moment. Downcast eyes with long lashes sweeping her high cheekbones. Her breasts heaving on gasping breaths.
When I cup her face, her gaze jerks to mine.
And she leans into my touch.
I can’t hold back.
I latch onto her rounded hip and sway her against me. Her soft curves mold to me, and I lay claim to her lips.
Those sweet, plump lips are cold and hard. She’s not giving up a single thing to me.
Holding completely still, I wait for her to adjust to me. Our lips are unmoving, but her scent is doing things to my cock that she feels through the thin barrier of my tux pants and her silken robe.
She issues a soft gasp, and I deepen the kiss. Angling my lips across hers, both sealed, but it’s the biggest fucking turn-on I never saw coming.
She’s been hurt, damaged. She’s not the perfect bride I believed she was when I laid down a million dollars to have her.
No, she’s not perfect, but I have no doubt that she will be in time.
I’m a Rossi. I don’t run from a challenge. I get what I want, and that’s for my wife to get on her knees and beg for me to take her.
It just won’t be tonight.
I break the kiss and release her.
She drops back, head bowed, her dark waves cascading over her shoulders and breasts.
“I’ve had a little too much to drink. I’m going to sleep on the couch in the library.”
Her gaze flashes to mine. Surprise and total relief flood her face.
I twist away from the sight and walk out of the room. Is it the right thing to leave her be on our first night? Probably.
Is it what I want? Fuck no.
I’m aching, my cock rigid and throbbing. I head downstairs to the first bathroom I reach and lock myself inside. Leaning over the sink, I drag my fingers through my hair.
I wasn’t lying when I vowed to kill whoever laid inappropriate hands on her and scared her for any other man to come. Right after the haze of whiskey wears off, I plan to find out who the fuck it was.
Closing my eyes, I feel her trembling against me. Her lips locked to mine. I wanted to run my hands over every silky inch of her body and do all the dirty things I’ve been dreaming about since that day I first saw her at the party.
I don’t believe in love at first sight—love has no place in my life. But wanting her is enough.
A lot of women would kill for the last unattached Rossi to desire her. And I did feel my bride softening as I stood there holding her.
Maybe I should go back and claim what’s mine.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror over the sink and know that’s not happening. Not tonight.
When I drop my hands to my belt, my hard cock gives a heavy pulse.
In seconds, I have my tux pants and boxers in a puddle at my ankles and my cock in my fist. I stroke my length from the thick base to the purple mushroomed tip.
What Everly doesn’t know yet is that I love to watch. Ever since my teen years, I recognized this kink in me, and since there’s no harm in giving in to it, I do. I watch my fist squeeze precum from the tip and imagine it hitting Everly’s sweet, pink, wet tongue.
I groan an
d toss my head back, drowning in images of her sucking me into her mouth, of me bumping the back of her throat—then entering her throat—as I fuck my cock through my fist.
Over and over I jack myself. Electric need hits the base of my spine far too quick when I think of what my bride must look like naked, spread wide on the bed for me, her slick pussy folds begging for me to enter her.
To pound her deep.
In quick jerks, I stroke my cock to visions of watching my length slide into her pussy.
And watching her eyes widen with the first wave of release.
I stifle a roar, my back bowed and my head bowed, watching my own cum jet from my dick. It creams over my fingers and hits the floor.
Rocking my hips, I slow the rhythm, dragging out the only pleasure I’ll get tonight.
My bride should be catching every drop of my cum—on her tongue, her pretty nipples, her pussy.
Her reprieve won’t last long. I will have her, and I have no doubt that she will turn to me again and again to satisfy her after that.
Why does that idea please me almost as much as taking her virginity?
Fucking hell. I’m just as weak as my fucking brothers, aren’t I?
Warrick
I kick back in my chair at the breakfast table, listening to my brothers discuss the usual bullshit. Power, money, weapons, power, whose neck we can step on next to climb even higher.
It’s boring as fuck, but I nod and add to the conversation when addressed. My coffee mug’s empty, so I reach for the pot, and find it’s empty too.
Before I can raise a hand to summon the servant, he comes forward and places a new pot at my elbow. I nod in thanks and he takes the empty one away.
“Minions.” My statement interrupts the flow of talk, and Anders and my father both look at me.
I pour a new cup. “That’s what we breed as a family. People who do anything we ask them to, either because they’re being compensated or they’re afraid not to.”
Anders arches a brow. “And?”
“And whatever deal you’re working up to get drugs through Canadian borders can be achieved by either one of those means. You either pay the mules more money—or you threaten to break their wives’ kneecaps if they don’t deliver on time. Easy.” I sit back in my seat.
