Page 40 of Forged

“Mar-chetti,” she repeats, testing it. Then her eyebrows lift, eyes going sharp and amused. “Lars Marchetti.” She tries the name again, but this time adds, “Neomi Marchetti. Lars and Neomi Marchetti. We sound like a mob couple.”

I chuckle. “Not far from the truth.”

Her mouth opens, brow knotted in confusion, but before she can ask anything further, the car stops, and the driver puts the car in park, waiting for us to get out.

“Come on, Bella. We’re making this official.”

The chapel glows like every bad idea Las Vegas ever sold. Pink and blue neon lights. Plastic roses. Velvet curtains. An Elvis track playing in the background.

Neomi stumbles at the threshold, and I lock an arm around her waist, pulling her in close. She laughs into my chest.

An attendant looks up from the desk. “License?”

I hand it over.

He grins. “Right this way. Elvis is ready.”

We’re ushered into a small ceremony room draped in lace and fake foliage. A man in a white jumpsuit with glittered shoulders steps forward, pompadour wig standing three inches high.

“Well now,” he drawls, “you two look ready to make a questionable lifetime commitment in the city of sin.”

Neomi snorts. I can’t stop staring at her—the flush in her cheeks, the way she leans toward me like her body already knows it belongs to me.

We face each other, and the room falls away.

She whispers, barely audible, “Last chance to bolt, Lover Boy.”

I brush my knuckles along her jaw. “Not a chance, Bella.”

Elvis clears his throat. “Look into each other’s eyes and repeat after me.”

We do just that. Slurred vows about burning love, never folding, and riding our luck until it runs out are spoken. Tequila weaved into every syllable, fate into every breath.

The attendant hands us rings—cheap, gold-plated, less than what this woman deserves. I slide hers onto her finger. She slides one onto mine. Her hands are shaking. So are mine.

For a heartbeat, the world goes quiet. There are no guns, no intel, no enemies. Just this beautiful, intelligent woman with red lips and a promise that makes her mine.

When the vows are done, and Elvis tells us to kiss, Neomi doesn’t wait. She fists my shirt and drags me to her mouth. The chapel erupts in laughter and cheers. All I taste is her and something terrifyingly close to devotion.

“We’re married,” she breathes.

“Yeah.” I laugh, forehead to hers. “We are.”

“Congratulations,” Elvis says. “You’re officially married in the great state of Nevada. No refunds.”

We kiss again, slower, deeper and fuck, I think I could kiss her for the rest of my life and never tire of it.

I look down at our rings. “These are horrible, let’s go find some proper wedding bands.”

Outside, the desert air hits us as Neomi loops her arm through mine, eyes bright with danger and delight.

“Proof,” she says, waving the certificate. “We need pictures.”

A street photographer appears like a summoned demon. “Newlyweds—fifty bucks.”

“Sold,” Neomi says instantly.

She drags me into pose after pose: kissing beneath the Strip lights; me lifting her off the ground, both of us flipping off a billboard advertising divorce in thirty minutes.