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“You were already getting my son, Sasha. You just didn’t know it at the time,” Dad chimes back, making me die laughing. I wasn’t home when Dad revealed he and the former pakhan made an arrangement for their children to marry in order to join our families.
It’s a good thing I wasn’t present. Had I been, I would have lost my shit on both men and Sasha’s mother. I can’t believe that’s something my mother would have agreed to. Arranged marriages shouldn’t be something that still takes place in today’s world. Although I understand the concept, it doesn’t make it right or even sane.
“Mr. Caputo?” The thick feminine Irish accent pulls my attention to the young woman, or teenager, if her doe eyes are any indication of her age. My eyes cut to my side the same time Sasha’s light-blue gaze meets mine. The question is obvious in both our stares. Who the fuck is this? Neither of our families like the slimy Irish trash that resides in the city.
Dad looks over his shoulder, the opposite side to where he’s holding Brooklyn. “Let me down, Papa T. I see Domino.”
Dad does as Brooklyn requests as he says, “Ciera, please stop calling me that. It’s Tony, or Antonio, but just Tony is fine.” He stands back up after Brooklyn runs off, his back straightening as his fingers motion her to come forward. “Come, Ciera. I want you to meet my daughters.”
My nose crinkles at his reference to my twin’s wife being one of his own now as irritation settles inside me. Sasha is the daughter-in-law. There is a big difference.
“This is Sienna, one of my twins. This is her wedding reception. And the one next to her is Sasha. She’s married to my other twin, Lorenzo. You’ll meet him later. Sienna and Sasha are the best of friends.”
“No, we are not.” Sasha shakes her head and I follow, backing her statement up. “In fact, we both agree that we dislike each other. However, one thing Sienna and I can both agree on more than we can’t stand the sight of each other is that we loathe the Irish even more.”
“Here, here!” I say in mock toast. “Lucky for you, those fuckers don’t actually have real Irish accents. They’re as American as we are.”
I’m about to quiz Dad more when I see Dom with his hand clutching Brooklyn’s smaller one as the two stalk our way, or more so that Domenico is stomping toward us while Brooklyn is walking as fast as her feet will go to keep up with him.
“You!” Dom says, his eyes narrowing on Ciera with something in his stare that resembles hate—or lust.
“Who exactly is she and why is she here, Dad?” I ask with caution in my tone, my eyes cutting back and forth between the redhead standing at my father’s side and Domenico as Krishna and Ren walk up behind him. My brother obviously knows her, but I don’t, and that is never a good sign.
“I’m Ciera Fitzgerald,” she announces, her emerald eyes locked with Domenico’s.
The shock doesn’t have time to fully sink in that she’s likely related to Cormac Fitzgerald—the leader of the Irish gang in New York City—before my father adds, “She’s Domenico’s bride.”
