Page 4 of The Wrong Mafia Bride
I make my way through the corridors, leaving the quiet of Erin’s and my private wing behind and stepping into the main artery of the O’Connor estate. The moment I enter the central halls, the house comes alive—bustling with servants carrying fresh linens, guards trading jokes down the corridor, laughter spilling out of open doorways. It’s always busy, but with the wedding only days away, the energy has been turned up to full volume. For two straight months, not a single moment of silence has survived here.
I like it that way.
The polished floors gleam, the rich green carpets soften every step, and sunlight pours through the tall windows like gold. I almost bump into one of the chefs who kisses my cheeks, and apologizes in a thick Irish accent, and my heart warms at the gesture.
This is the only place I’ve ever known where power doesn’t smother joy. Before coming here, I didn’t think such a thing was possible.
When Seamus walked into the orphanage, I was ten—small, wary, rail-thin, my curly light-brown hair braided tight because, when left loose, it tangled into knots overnight. He only noticed me because I picked his wallet from his pocket and nearly escaped. Nearly. I made it halfway across the yard, injured one of his guards with the lid of a garbage can, and would’ve made it over the fence if another guard hadn’t been faster.
Seamus had laughed—actually laughed. Said I had spunk. Said leaving me in that place would be a waste. By that afternoon, he’d taken me with him and put me straight into training to guard his daughter.
It helped—more than helped—that Erin loved me on sight. She ran up, grabbed my hands, and called me her sister before anyone could explain who or what I was.
She meant it. And I’ve spent every year since making sure I deserved it, because homes like this aren’t normally meant for girls like me.
I weave through the familiar hallway, the old wallpaper smelling faintly of lemon polish and cigarette smoke. A servant rounds a corner carrying a bouquet of flowers, laughing under her breath about something the cook said; I sidestep her easily, mumbling a quick apology. One of Seamus’s guards leans against the wall by the staircase, and as I pass he reaches out and ruffles my hair like an older brother who still thinks I’m twelve.
“Don’t cause trouble, Rosie,” he teases.
“No promises,” I call back, smoothing my curls back into place.
I reach the balcony overlooking Seamus’s office, sink into a crouch, and press myself into the shadows between two columns. The wood railing creaks softly under my palms as I lean forward just enough to see the hallway below. A perfect spot to watch who comes and goes without being caught.
I watch as the office door swings open, and a man exits answering his phone.
I don’t know who he is, but it doesn’t matter—my first thought is simply,Oh, Erin is going to lose her shit.
He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with curly blonde hair pushed back, but fraying at the edges. Green eyes flash as he lifts a cigarette to his mouth, a phone tucked between shoulder and ear. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, revealing ink—two serpents coiling up his arms like they might slither right off his skin if he flexed. He laughs at whatever’s said on the other end of the line, and two dimples appear, deep and unfairly charming.
“Absolutely not a troll,” I whisper to myself.
“I bet Luca would take that as a compliment,” a low, hypnotic voice whispers in my ear, and I find myself shivering at the sound, before my instincts kick in.
My hand snaps back, grabbing a throat; my body twists, hooking a leg behind the intruder’s knee, sweeping it out from under him. He hits the floor with a grunt I feel more than hear.
“Well… hello to you too,” he chokes out, half-laughing.
My eyes dart over him—tall, maybe an inch or two over six feet, with a compact, athletic build that looks like it comes from relentless training. His hair is cut to a tight buzz, exposing the strong line of his jaw and the clean, sharp edges of his face. Hiseyes are a cool, steady grey, flicking over me like he’s taking inventory. Up close, I notice the faint scar at his temple, the tension in his forearms, and the bright, almost too-perfect shine of his teeth when he smiles up at me.
I shift, pinning him with my knee before he can recover, my grip tightening around his collarbone. “Name,” I snap. “Now. Before I break your neck.”
He coughs, wheezes, and then has the audacity to grin up at me—wide, amused, like getting tackled by a stranger is the highlight of his day. “Easy,Bella. I’m Gabriel. And you?”
“Gabriel who?” My fingers press harder.
“Salvatore,” he manages, raising his hands in surrender. “Dante’s cousin. Not an assassin. Not here to kill you. Though you’re doing a stellar job trying to kill me.”
I freeze for half a second—Salvatore?—before narrowing my eyes. “If you’re lying, I’ll put you through this balcony railing.”
He tilts his head, studying me like I’m a puzzle he wants to take apart piece by piece. “And if I’m telling the truth?”
“Then you should reconsider sneaking up on women with combat training.”
He laughs, breathless but absolutely delighted. “Combat training. That explains this position.”
Before I can snarl something back, he catches my wrist, rolls his weight, and flips us—my back hitting the railing with a sharp gasp as he cages me in. His hand braces beside my head, the other pinning my hip just enough to keep me still without hurting me.
“Now it’smyturn,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my throat. “Who are you… and why are you sneaking up on Dante?”
