Page 9 of The Wrong Mafia Bride
“I would be a great husband, Gabriel,” Luca huffs, sitting back in his chair. “Don’t act like I wouldn’t be better than this grumpy fuck.”
I shift in my seat. “You should be grateful it’s this grumpy fuck, and not you.”
“I am,” Luca says, leaning closer, voice dropping a notch, “you’re the right choice. I mean would I make her cum more? Yes. Would I romance her better? Yes. Am I the hotter brother? Absolutely.”
I glance back at him.
“But you are the kindest out of the three of us,” Luca continues, matter-of-fact now. “You’ll treat her with kid gloves. Respect her every wish. That’s what Mafia dons want for their daughters.” He shrugs, leaning back in the car. “If she was with me I’d ruin that sparkling good girl image so bad, her father would send SWAT after me.”
My reputation in the streets of New York tell a different story, but Luca and Gabriel know better. Who I am with enemies is not who I am with a lover. Women deserve more than what most men bother to give, and if I ever loved someone, I would spend every waking moment trying to live up to the man she believes me to be. It’s what my mother deserved from my father. It’s what she raised me to understand, even when he failed her.
Now, if my wife wanted chaos—wanted to be paraded through this city, wanted to be fucked in every corner of it by me and the boys—I wouldn’t pretend I’d hate the idea. I’d be a lucky man. But luck has never favored me, and women like Erin O’Connor are never raised for that kind of life anyway.
“Irish Princess may not be as good as we think,” Gabriel hums, leaning back against his seat and switching to driving with one hand.
“What makes you say that?” I deadpan, my head lolling over to look at him lazily.
“Because she sent a spy,” he says easily. “A cute little one. To check if you were attractive.”
I let out a quiet breath through my nose and look back to the windshield as the lights of New York bleed back into view, the familiar press of the city settling into my bones. “Rosalina Carter,” I say. “The girl joining her?”
“Yup,” Gabriel replies, smiling to himself. “And she’s feisty. Curly brunette. Curvy. Didn’t hesitate to put her hands on me.”
I don’t respond immediately.
Just my type. Fuck.
In the back seat, Luca perks up instantly, leaning forward until his chin nearly clears the headrest. “I like her already,” he says, eyes lighting up. “She’s mine.”
“No,” I say flatly.
He ignores me. “You marry the daughter and Gabriel and I fuck the spy. ”
I turn slowly, fixing him with a look. “We are not adding her to the marriage contract to be your fuck buddy. If she wants to fuck you, she can, freely.”
Luca lifts his hands in mock surrender, still smiling. “I’m just saying?—”
“I know exactly what you’re saying,” I cut in. “And the answer is no. I’m not marrying one woman while the other becomes some kind of accessory. This isn’t a fucking auction.”
Gabriel snorts. “Relax. He means well.”
“No he doesn’t,” I reply. “He means whatever his dick says.”
Luca reclines back into his seat, unfazed. “You’re no fun anymore.”
“I was never fun,” I dead pan, just as the car phone rings.
The sharp, mechanical trill cuts through the car, loud enough to make Luca lean back in his seat and Gabriel flick his eyes to the console. I look down at the car phone mounted into the dash.
I reach forward and lift the heavy handset from its cradle, the coiled cord stretching as I bring it to my ear. “Hello?”
I don’t need the voice on the other end to tell me who it is. I know the cadence before the words finish forming.
“Arrangements have been adjusted,” my father says.
I sit straighter in the seat. Gabriel glances at me once, then looks back to the road.
“The Irish agreed,” my father continues. “You’ll be married this Saturday.”
