Page 3 of His Virgin Queen

Nick

She sits with her head down, the gauzy veil still covering her dark hair.

I holster my pistol and adjust my suit coat.

She doesn’t look up.

Not when I walked into the room.

Not when I fired the shot that killed her new husband.

Not even when he fell face-first into his salad course.

She still sits there now as I walk around the table to her.

Her wedding was beautiful. No one could argue that. I sat in the back row and watched as the young, dark-haired bride walked uncertainly down the aisle. The cathedral was full, every higher-up in the seven families in attendance.

She did as all good mafia daughters do--gave her word to love and cherish the piece of shit whose blood now stains the carpet.

But I digress. The wedding. It was smaller than usual, but still an overdone affair. As the head of the Davinci family, I was expected to attend. So I did.

What I didn’t expect was the double-cross that happened.

But now it’s taken care of. I glance at Antonio’s shattered skull and smirk. Now, there are only six families.

I will take all of Antonio Tuscani’s men as my own, execute the disloyal ones, and continue on with business as usual. If the other families take issue with my actions, they are welcome to address it at the next meeting.

Until then, I am the god of the Tuscani family, and, as an extension, of the young bride whose husband I just murdered.

“Just do it.” Her voice is so still, like the surface of a cold, dark lake.

I stand behind her, my gaze straying down the perfect cascade of her rich hair, the slope of her pale shoulders, the row of buttons down the back of her dress. I could rip them off with ease. I could. But as her departed husband learned, just because you could do something doesn’t mean you should. He shouldn’t have tried to take my primary cocaine provider from me. He shouldn’t have pressed the families to grant him my share of the underground fighting ring. But he could do those things. And he did. And now he’s dead, and his blushing bride is a spoil of war.

“I said go ahead and do it.” That voice again, the sweet tones so sad they’re haunting.

I reach out and trail my fingers down her veil. “And what would you have me do?”

She doesn’t move.

“Afraid, cara mia?”

“Ready.”

“Ready for …” I bury my fingers in the thin fabric and pull the veil free, the comb falling to the floor and her hair flowing dark and wavy.

“Just go ahead.” She turns to look at me, the caramel brown of her eyes like a dagger that goes straight to where my heart should be.

But, as many of my enemies have learned, there is nothing there. No heart. No mercy.

But there is need. And desire. She sparks it with her petulant lips and big eyes.

This beauty is mine. As a final insult to the Tuscani family, I will own this innocent creature, bend her and break her until she is something new. She was never meant for the weakling her father shackled her to at that wedding. Antonio didn’t deserve this bride. Not this ethereal creature that sits before me and asks for me to end her.

None of this fits her. Not the groom. Not this house. Not her dress—the heavy satin, the overdone veil, the huge skirt—I hate it. In fact, it disgusts me.

I grip the back and rip it, the buttons popping just as I’d surmised, and the fabric parting with a rough sound that is pleasant on my ears.

She leans forward, trying to get away from me, but I yank again, splitting it all the way down past her waist.

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