Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 77998 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77998 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Apparently all that was missing to make her look like an angel was a faint flush of color across her cheeks. Now, she’s perfection.
“Say thank you,” Romeo reminds her.
“Thank you,” she says in a barely audible whisper. Romeo nods, his stoic face carved from stone as he faces me. If he has an emotional reaction to this moment, he hides it well.
I reach for her arm. He doesn’t let her go.
“It’s time, Rossi,” I say in a low voice.
Still, he won’t release her, as if she’s glued to him and some invisible force of nature keeps her attached to him.
I sense Cristiano stiffen behind me.
“Rossi.”
Marialena gently extricates her arm from Romeo’s, leans over and kisses his cheek. Bending his cheek to hers, he closes his eyes and whispers something in her ear that makes her face go soft and her eyes water, before he releases her hands and turns to me.
“Take good care of her,” he says in a husky whisper. “Promise me, Capo. You’ll take good care of her. I’ll remind you it’s part of our contract.”
I take her arm as he lets her go, and nod. “I will,” is all I tell him. It’s all he gets from me. Taking care of people I’m sworn to protect is the only thing that keeps me from being a totally unforgivable asshole.
The priest behind me clears his throat just as the unmistakable sound of a gun goes off.
CHAPTER TEN
Marialena
If we were a normal couple, or if this was a normal wedding, I suppose there would be screaming, running, fainting. But we aren’t normal people, and this isn’t a normal wedding.
So when a gunshot blasts on my wedding day just as Romeo hands me off to Salvatore, the two men devoted to my protection spring into action. Salvatore shoves me to the ground as Romeo reaches for me, but Salvatore’s already got me in his grip and Romeo’s a fraction of a second too late. I lift my skirts and take out the small pistol I have in a thigh holster. Thanks to my brothers, I can shoot as well as any man here, and my low vantage point will come in handy.
I half expect my almost husband to growl at me and tell me to put it away, but he doesn’t. He takes one look at me and gives me a proud smirk. “Cover my back,” he orders, his own weapon poised. His guard rushes to find the source of the shot.
No one’s fallen to the ground. No one’s bleeding. There’s no evidence that anyone here at the wedding has been shot. I glance quickly at the priest, who’s pale but otherwise unharmed. I’m disappointed to see Salvatore’s mother also unscathed.
A few murmurs go up from the crowd. “Sit, all of you,” Salvatore barks, his voice like a sledgehammer. The entire crowd, every man, woman, and child, does what he says and hardly breathes, as if the entire group of them fears Salvatore’s wrath more than being shot.
Interesting.
“Scan the front entrance. Secure the gate.” I watch as he barks out orders and speaks into a mouthpiece. Men in suits run to obey, guns drawn. Still, everyone else sits, all eyes on Salvatore.
“You see anything by the ocean front?” he mutters. It takes me a second to realize he’s talking to me. From where I am, I can see several boats just beyond the waterfront, but nothing out of place. “No, I don’t think that—no, wait. There are two men on a sailboat maybe ten yards from shore. They’re in some kind of a fight. I wonder if one pulled a gun on the other.”
“For fuck’s sake,” he growls, turning to look at the ocean. “What the fuck kind of vision do you have?”
“Perfect,” I mutter. He gets grumpy over the oddest things.
I hazard a glance up at my scowling brother who isn’t amused there’s shenanigans at my wedding.
“I’ve got a team at the beach,” he says. “I can have them investigate.”
“Do it,” Salvatore agrees.
Romeo pulls out his phone and issues a few short commands in Italian. Wordlessly, Salvatore reaches for my hand and lifts me to my feet. “Sit and put your gun away.” He pulls over a vacant white chair and yanks me onto it.
I mutter under my breath but don’t make eye contact with him. Why does he get to keep his gun out? I freeze when he leans down toward me, one hand on the back of my seat. The scent of his cologne wafts over me. I’m struck by the way his body moves with fluid grace, the stark blue of his eyes that pierce straight through me, the masculine scent of him that’s fucking erotic.
“I know you’re an excellent shot,” he says quietly. “And I trust you know when and how to make the call to shoot. But I don’t need everyone here to know that about you. Sometimes, a wild-card shooter comes in very, very handy.”