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For some reason, my nerves are getting the best of me; it’s been over a week since I made plans to meet Caroline at this courthouse, and part of me worries she won’t show. If she doesn’t, I’ll have to chase her father down and shake him for a return, which I know he won’t give easily.
I’m not sure she’d forgive me for putting a bullet in his head.
And it wouldn’t even solve her problems—as if Kieran wouldn’t come after her anyway, demanding payment in whatever form she’d give it. Even if she didn’tgiveit; he’d rip it from her the way a dairy farmer rips a newborn calf from its mother. She wouldn’t even see it coming.
I don’t know why, but there’s this strong urge inside of me to keep that from happening, which is what has me signing my life over today, abandoning bachelorhood and choosing duty over freedom.
Nothing good can come from having your choices taken away.
My heart races at the memory of her words, her determination to not let others rule her life—at least, anyone who isn’t her father. I need to find out what the fuck he has on her to make the girl so subservient to his every whim.
Phoebe pokes my wrist with the Montalto family cufflink, drawing my attention back to her. She forces an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I’m not feeling all that well.”
“Relax, Pheebs, it’s a dull cufflink, not a knife.” I take my hand from hers, step down off the makeshift platform we’ve been using—an overturned milk crate—and look at myself in the mirror she dragged down from the dressing room upstairs. “Well, what do you think? Do I look like a groom?”
Her big doe eyes stay focused on the stage above us. “You look great, Elia.”
“Phoebe.”
“Like James Bond, even. Or Michael inThe Godfather.”
I glance again at my Armani suit; all black, because anything more is just false advertisement, and obviously more expensive than the one he wore in that fucking movie. “Phoebe,” I repeat. “You’re not even looking at me.”
Blushing, she tears her eyes from Marco and Siena dry humping in a booth.What the fuck is that about?
“Sorry, sir.” She gulps, then takes me in for real, a slow, shy smile spreading across her face. If not for her demure nature—and the fact that my soldier is hopelessly in love with her, but clearly a dumbass—I’d probably have had a taste of her delicate flesh, but we work better as colleagues. Friends, even.
And my mind is stuck on a feisty blonde, who, after tonight, will legally bemine.
Phoebe’s jaw drops as her gaze reconnects with the scene upstairs, watching as Siena crawls on her knees to Marco’s lap, head disappearing as her red locks drape over him. I reach down and close her mouth with the tip of my index finger, offering her a sympathetic smile. “Why don’t you head home?”
Her eyes snap to mine, and she straightens her back. “I don’t need—”
I shake my head, cutting her off. “Look, this place will probably be packed tonight for the reception. You don’t want to be here for a Montalto celebration. They’re notoriously raucous and always getting shut down by police.”
“I thought the police were on your payroll.”
“They are, but they’ve still got to keep up appearances from time to time.” She tries to steal another glance upstairs, but I grip her chin firmly, keeping her head straight. “Go, kid. Trust me when I say you don’t need to see that shit.”
Her chin jerks in my hand, resisting, but after a minute of me not relenting, she finally sags beneath my touch and nods. I release her, adjusting the collar of my shirt as she walks back over to the bar, scoops up her coat and purse, and walks out the front entrance without another thought.
I should probably go tell Marco to get it on somewhere less public, but I don’t exactly have time. One glance at the thick, gold watch on my wrist tells me I’m somehow running behind, and there isn’t a chance in hell I want to miss this.
NAUSEA BUBBLES UP inside my stomach as I tilt my head, peering up at the King’s Trace courthouse. It’s an ancient building nestled in the heart of downtown, with tall, beige stone walls and stained-glass windows—as close to a church as we have in town—across from the public library and a couple of local businesses.
And because this isn’t a normal wedding or a normal town, Main Street is lined with dozens of cars and folks dressed in their Sunday best, as though they’ll actually get to be a part of the ceremony at all.
Juliet’s hand clasps mine as we make our way up the front steps, sans our parents, who thought it best to come separately. Something about taking advantage of the large crowd and spinning my marriage to my father’s benefit.
I gather the skirt of my dress—a simple white, floor-length sheath with a plunging neckline, covered by a sheer fabric wrapped strategically around my neck. It hugs my curves and draws attention as we move into the building, causing heat to stain my cheeks.
My sister squeezes my palm, giggling as the tall, metal doors fall closed behind us. “This is the wildest thing you’veeverdone.”
The unease in my stomach spreads, knotting my intestines. “Please stop reminding me.”
“Why? You’re not thinking of backing out, are you? Wouldn’t that crush your fiancé?”
Crushed is not how I imagine Elia would feel if I called off this sham. I’ve considered showing up at his club several different times this week to falter on my end of the deal, but my father’s rage holds me back.
