Page 2 of The Wrong Mafia Bride
Then her pout deepens dramatically. “But all the protection in the world won’t help me if I’m marrying a troll.”
I blink. “We’re back to this?”
“Yes, Rosie, because it isimportant.” She flops back onto her elbows, feathered cape blooming around her like she’s drowning in couture. “I am marrying a man I have NEVER seen. Not even once. Not a glimpse. Not a shadow. Not a blurry photo someone took from across a gala. Nothing.”
“It’s tradition,” I remind her.
“It’s stupid,” she corrects. “Who arranges a marriage in 1971 and thinks ‘no peeking’ is a reasonable rule? Especially when he’s HERE. In this house. Right now. In the west wing. Breathing. Existing. Allegedly handsome. Possibly hideous. And I can’t see him until I walk down the aisle and to my doom.”
I roll my eyes, unclipping the pearl clip from her hair. “I didn’t know he was here.”
“They are renegotiating some part of the deal. I begged father to let me take a peak in the shadows, and he said no. No Rosie. Can you believe that?” She lets out a distressed groan that sounds borderline theatrical.
“I can,” I smirk, placing the clip on her nightstand.
“What if he looks like a potato?”
“He won’t look like a potato,” I say, trying to reassure her.
“You do not know that!”
“If it makes you feel any better, I have heard that the men in the Italian mob are praised for their charisma ,” I wink. “Their good tongues. Great fingers, you will at least be satisfied after putting a bag over his head, so you don’t have to see his hideous face.” Iwiggle my fingers at her, and she throws one of her satin pillows at me.
“This is not the time for your crudeness,” she snaps, sitting up suddenly and grabbing my wrist with both hands. “Rosie, please. I need you to go look at him. Just a peek. I need to know if I’m walking into this wedding blindandcursed.”
“Your father will kill me if he catches me,” I counter, pushing myself off of the bed and resume my duties folding her clothes, because someone has to pack this room before next weekend, and it definitely won’t be her.
“But you are more stealth than me. Didn’t father adopt you for your sneakiness?”
“And my intelligence,” I add, slipping to my knees in front of her suitcase.
“See you are sneaky. Smart. Amazingly equipped to go see if my future husband is a troll.”
“And if heis,” I huff, plucking a Chanel plaid skirt off the floor and shaking the wrinkles from it, “what exactly do you plan to do then?”
“I will demand not to marry him,” she declares, chin lifted like a queen issuing royal decree.
“Erin—”
“No, Rosalina, listen to me.” She points at her own heart with great gravity. “It will be on the grounds of having ugly grandchildren. I refuse to risk it.”
“You are a fool,” I sing, folding the skirt against my chest. “Can I have this?”
“Yes,” she smiles brilliantly. “If you go, take a peak at the Italian prince.”
“No,” I state firmly, tossing the skirt into the suitcase.
Before she can launch into her next argument—a speech that will undoubtedly include threats, tears, and Catholic guilt,the bedroom door swings open without a knock. It could only be Dolan, or Seamus, anyone else knows they would pay for that misdeed of entering the princess's room without permission with their life.
“Is everyone decent?” Dolan’s low timber voice echoes through the space, and I see him covering his eyes with his hand.
“Yes, Dolly,” Erin groans, before crawling over to the other side of her bed and sitting on her knees.
Dolan removes his hand, revealing his bright brown eyes that match his freckled face. He still looks every bit of the boy we grew up with, but in the last three years he has grown into a man, especially in the last six months after returning from training. He will soon be an official officer of the Irish mafia and even with learning all the cruelty of this family and their business, he still carries the softness of the boy who used to sneak us cigarettes behind the boathouse.
He takes in the sight of Erin in her feathered Dior dress, sprawled across the bed like an overwhelmed debutante, and me kneeling beside her with a suitcase and a headache.
His expression softens almost instantly. “Erin,” he says gently, “you look beautiful. Your groom won’t know what hit him.”
