Marrying the Mob Prince

Evie

I'm grateful that my fiancé has good hygiene.

I'm grateful that my fiancé is tall.

I'm grateful that my fiancé is handsome.

The ink bled through the paper as I wracked my brain for a fourth virtue for my gratitude journal. Every day, I wrote five things for which I was grateful. The simple reason for this was that when the darkness inside me lightened so did the world outside.

Not today.

No amount of pretty thinking made this situation better because I was giving up on love. I'd said my goodbyes to the man I'd never meet or marry, the romance we wouldn't share, the butterflies that'd never flutter, the passion that'd never ignite, and the children we'd never have.

What I liked about my fiancé, Tony Costa, was vanishingly small and mostly superficial. There wasn't a single-fucking-quality about his character that I admired. My soon-to-be husband did not inspire people.

He put the fear of God into them.

The hotel suite's door opened, admitting an older guy with an easygoing vibe. I liked his smile. It was warm without being too friendly.

"This came for you, Miss Craine. Tony sent it." He appeared at my elbow, sliding a tall glass filled with a golden liquid into my hands. "Prosecco from Italy." How thoughtful.

I had no clue about wines. The club gravitated toward beer and whiskey, and anything more than twenty dollars was considered a waste.

My throat pounded as I swiped the drink. I tipped it into my mouth, the bubbles snapping my tongue. I drank, unimpressed by the warmth fluttering my chest. It lacked the punch of straight vodka, my go-to this week when reality got too close for comfort.

"He'll be along shortly to check on you."

"Great."

Christian stood behind me, brows furrowed. Perhaps the tone in my voice concerned him. "You have nothing to worry about, hon. Tony's a standup guy."

"Really?" I murmured, playing with my new phone. "Is that why he's forcing me to marry him?"

"He's not as bad as you think."

"Again, not very comforting."

Christian grabbed the empty flute. He studied the glass, a deep frown wrinkling his brow. His sympathy was wasted on me. I didn't trust Christian.

I didn't trust any of them.

A combination of emotional blackmail and threats had forced me to accept Tony's proposal. Dad stole my life's work and would've sold it for a pittance if I hadn't said yes, which was how I ended up in front of a vanity wearing couture. A designer bag sat in my lap, the pillowed leather gliding over me like silk. The finest accessory I owned, apart from my jewelry. The pre-wedding gift held my phone programmed with one contact:

T My thumb traced his number.

I hadn't worked up the nerve to call him. I'd treated the last week as a vacation, relishing the pampering I never could've afforded on my own. My future husband's people had extensively prepped me. They'd waxed every inch of me. They'd thrust my hands into hot baths and trimmed my cuticles. They'd conditioned my hair, exfoliated my skin, and painted my nails.

I'm grateful my fiancé takes care of me.

He'd spared no expense to make me his possession. My engagement ring was a gaudy diamond solitaire on a platinum setting. I'd studied it with my jeweler's loupe and appraised it at ninety thousand dollars. I hated the damned thing. It looked ridiculous on my petite hand, but Tony hadn't asked for feedback. He hadn't even proposed. His bodyguard had awkwardly shoved the velvet box in my direction.

Tony seemed to be all about status, like all wealthy egomaniacs. The ring, the Vera Wang dress, and the spa treatments belonged to someone else, a trophy wife, not me. I still clipped coupons. I lived in a mobile home and probably couldn't name half the designers in his closet.

Why the hell did he want me?

Christian's pocket buzzed. He answered his phone, murmuring in Italian. He always switched to the language when Tony called. He wheeled toward the door, closing his cell.

I clenched my jaw tighter.

The door opened to Tony's powerful, Viking-like frame. His broad shoulders strained his suit. Normally, his hair was as untamed as the rest of him, but for the wedding he'd slicked it back. Salt and pepper marked his ebony mane. Everything about him was bold, the deep tan, the boyish lips built for sin. The media had dubbed him Mob Prince for a reason.

Tall, dark, and handsome didn't begin to describe his level of gorgeous.

Heat stole into my face as my gaze raked over his devastating appeal. I drank in the lazy seduction of his big eyes, the cutting jawline. He was in his late thirties, and it showed in how he carried himself. He stood as though steel made his spine. A short mustache and beard clung to his upper lip and jaw. Dark wisps peeked from the V neck of his shirt.

Hot. Very masculine.

It was like he'd just left a vacation in the Amazon. I'd lived in Boston my whole life, and I'd never seen anyone like Tony.

"Looking good, T." Christian slapped his back, exploding with enthusiasm. "Ready to get married?"

A cloud settled over Tony's features. "I need a moment alone with my bride."

"Of course, buddy."

Tony glowered at Christian until the door swung behind him. Then his lightning rod stare landed on me.

I fisted my clutch.

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It was very strange. He glared at me as though I'd condemned him to hell. As he crossed the room, my muscles tensed.

He held out his hand.

I took it, and a jolt passed from his skin to mine.

My body stiffened as he boldly assessed me, his gaze traveling down my face, neck, and breasts.

"I'm Tony Costa, and you belong to me now." He beckoned me with a wave-a gesture for servants, not his fiancée. "Let's see the rest of you."

I stayed put. "Tony, I don't want to be your wife."

"You pick an odd time to complain."

"I assumed you'd back out." I lifted my chin, whispering with desperate firmness. "I've tried to meet you for days. You weren't at the negotiation meetings. You didn't come to the engagement supper." "I'm not a fan of chaperoned visits. My number is on your phone."

"I only got it recently."

His flat gaze held me still. "And?"

"Why the fuck do you want this?"

"I don't," he said, stunning me. "I rank marrying into your family slightly higher than blowing out my brains, which is the only reason I'm here."

My chest tightened. "You're not my first choice either."

"No doubt, but nothing you say will stop this wedding." His deep-timbred voice rose somewhat. "Are we clear?"

"Not one bit."

My mind reeled. If he didn't want to marry me, why were we doing this?

He squinted at me. "You are of age, right?"

I frowned. "I'm twenty-two."

Relief smoothed his brows.

Weird.

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He acted like he loathed me and had no idea of my age. I'd spent hours researching him. I'd read op-eds and articles. I'd scoured the comment sections for insight.

Tony literally didn't know me.

"Didn't you ask questions about me?"

He shook his head. "I didn't care about the details, considering you were all the same. They lined up photos of women and told me to pick. Yours happened to be the one that made my dick hard." I stared at him, tongue-tied and frozen.

Tony brushed lint off his jacket. "Were you expecting something romantic?"

My face heated at his mocking drawl. "I had my blood drawn for fertility tests."

"So?"

A flicker of adrenaline surged through me. "You could've asked me. I would've told you to go with someone else."

His mouth twisted into a cruel slant. "Should I have picked from the club sluts with more STDs between them than Paris Hilton? I chose you, the virgin, knowing at least I wouldn't get the clap." This man couldn't be serious.

"You're lucky you got a choice," I snarled, abandoning all attempts at civility. "I'm stuck with Public Enemy Number One for my old man."

"Don't call me that," he growled, the loudness piercing my ears. "I'm not one of you, thank God. Once you have my name, you'll drop the biker crap. I won't have it in my house or anywhere around me." That settled it.

I'd stab my husband before the night ended.

"I'll wear ripped jeans and leather to all your family barbecues. And guess what's going on the wall? A giant Harley-Davidson poster."

Tony's dark eyes sparkled with the love of a challenge. "I'll gag you with your panties. Force you to taste your pussy for hours. I'll drag you over my lap and do things. Maybe in front of an audience." An unwelcome flush burned my cheeks.

He lightly fingered my chin, and the air vanished from my lungs. "You have no idea what I'm capable of."

No, I don't.

My heart hammered.

"And you don't know it yet, but you chose the wrong girl."