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The irrational side of me wanted to show the motherfucker why they called me the punisher.
Everything about him triggered me—his easy charm and golden looks. Our stark differences were a reminder that he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, and I was born from the grit in alleyways and raised in the kind of home where food was scarce but the beatings were bountiful.
I rolled my shoulders back, downing my whiskey in one swig.
Donovan hid a smirk against his own glass.
Romero St. Clair, my childhood best friend, provoked me in a blasé manner. “You’re transparent.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I dropped the glass with a decisivethunkon the bar countertop.
Jealousy was a foreign emotion that made the bowtie around my neck feel like a noose and my knuckles tight with the need to crack.
Little angel fluttered her wings and entered my kingdom, and I would not be bested by her charisma and haughty glances. Before the clock struck three, I’d claw her feathers, collar her throat, and show her the only position in which she could get atonement.
On her fucking knees with her lips stretched around my cock.
“It’s your wedding. Go be with your wife instead of brooding with us,” Romero said.
I ignored him.
He raised an eyebrow.
Romero and I met on the streets when we were eight. My father had just finished taking a belt to my back and kicked me out, saying there wasn’t enough money to feed an extra mouth. It was the same routine every day: take his anger out on me and leave me to fend for myself. That particular night, I wasn’t feeling like begging or dumpster diving. I crouched down in an alleyway, freezing cold, and wanted the nightmare to end once and for all. That’s how Romero found me. With his bloodied eye and broken tooth, he offered me his half-eaten croissant. We came from complicated households and struck a camaraderie that evening. We were inseparable until I got adopted years later by the De la Croixes and crossed oceans. Despite the circumstances and time difference, we stayed in touch.
And today I could proudly say that my friend had done wonderful for himself.
Romero St. Clair was one of the most feared and revered names in the underworld.
Even with the ribbing, I appreciated him flying out to attend my wedding.
“Why don’t you go talk to the pretty blonde in the red dress you’ve been staring at for the last half hour?” Donovan teased Romero.
That caused me to whirl around.
There was only one blonde in a red dress tonight.
I knew I hit the mark when I caught the drug lord eye-fucking the lawyer.
Dacia Hill.
I smothered my laugh with a hand and scraped my jaw. “That’s Darla’s older sister, Ro. Rumour has it she likes to whip men into little bitches as a pastime.”
Romero snaked a hand into his hair, grey eyes twinkling with a challenge. “Is she single?”
“Did you not hear a word I said? She’s a lawyer who moonlights as a dominatrix. She’ll have your cock in a fucking cage before you can sayplease.”
“Sounds like a match made in heaven.” Donovan shook his head with a light grin, glancing at his phone. “Gentlemen, my wife keeps texting me. I’ll catch up with you later.”
He clapped our backs and walked over to a table where his wife, Heidi, sat.
“I’m warning you, Ro. Stay away from Dacia.” The last thing I needed was my best friend fucking my wife’s sister and making shit complicated. Romero wasn’t the sticking around kind. He had a love ’em and leave ’em mentality. His profession rarely allowed him to form attachments to anyone.
“Je ne fais aucune promesse,” Romero said, buttoning his suit jacket. I knew a flurry of knives lay hidden in his chest holster. He’d always preferred the sharp edge of a knife versus the rounded barrel of a gun. “Wish me luck.”
“You have a death wish.” This wouldn’t end well. “Good luck.”
Left alone to my musings, my gaze roamed around the room right before it landed on Darla, talking with Céline and Éva.
