Page 1 of His Bride

ONE

DORIAN O’SHAUGHNESSY

I wantto scream at my little brother, Diarmuid, also called Derry by those closest to him, but I can’t. He’s just doing what I asked him to do, but fuck, get on with it already. He’s twenty-two and eager to please. Since our father, Graham, died six months ago and I took over the family, both of my brothers have been eager to make a name for themselves, something our father never allowed. My mother, Trina, divorced my father years ago. His second wife died under rather mysterious circumstances. As the head of the family, I find myself the protector of my sister, Cashel, who is seventeen, my youngest brother, Declan, who is thirteen; and three younger sisters, Aislinn, Ashlynn, and Aubrianna. They are eight. The product of my father’s relationship with his third wife. My mother lives in the house with us, as does Fiona, my remaining stepmother. Mom was staying with her parents across town, but I brought her home as soon as Dad died. Thankfully she and Fiona get along. I can’t send Fiona away because she’d take my sisters, and I can’t let that happen.

“More to the point, if we can get in good with the Vitali’s and their allies, we will be set to take over Boston from those fucking Donahue’s,” he says, finally taking a breath. The short, hour-long flight on my private jet feels like it’s been going on for days. Diarmuid is just giving me the rundown of the Vitali’s and their allies, but he sounds like the worst professor in the world. “Now, The Valladares, DeSantis, O’Brien, and Lassiter crime families are always looking for people to get into bed with. I managed to get you a face-to-face meeting with Alberto Senior and his brothers Fabrizio and Nico at their compound in Queens.”

“Great, thanks, brother. We should be touching down shortly. You can go back to your seat,” I say, and he immediately leaves. It’s good to be in charge sometimes.

After arriving at the Flushing Airport, the car I hired drives us to the Vitali compound ten minutes west.

At the V-embossed iron gate, I talk into a speaker box announcing myself. The gates swing open, and we drive through, ending up in front of the largest of the houses I’ve seen on the compound, and there are many of them. On the porch, three older men and three older ladies wait. I get out of the car and climb the stairs. The oldest of the men comes forward.

“Hello, Dorian. I haven’t seen you since you were a little boy. Alberto Vitali,” he says, shaking my hand.

“Hello, sir. I remember you.” He just nods and steps aside.

“My wife, Maria. Fabrizio and his Dawn, Nico and his Gina.” I shake all of their hands.

“It’s nice to meet you. My brother, Diarmuid.” I introduce him around as well.

“Come inside. I’m sure you’re hungry,” Maria says, gesturing for us to follow. “I know you men have some business to discuss, but I made too much pasta. Say you’ll have some.”

“Of course. We’d love some,” I say, answering for my brother. Who doesn’t love pasta?

“We’re just sitting down to dinner,” she says, leading us into what has to be the largest dining room I’ve ever seen. The table belongs in a castle and could probably seat a hundred people. The room is chaotic. People are everywhere, just taking their seats, and children are running wild everywhere. It seems… fun. My father would never have allowed this. We would have been belted so fast.

“Don’t mind them. They are just boisterous,” Gina says, smiling.

“Have a seat,” Maria says, gesturing to two empty seats near the middle of the table. We take them, and a heaping plate of pasta and bread is set before us.

“Thank you. This looks amazing,” I say because it does. It also smells heavenly.

“Yes, thank you,” Derry says.

I place my napkin in my lap and pray with the family before eating. Eventually, the bottle of red wine is passed around, and I pour myself a glass before passing it along. The conversation around the table is lively. It ranges from politics and pop culture to what Santino, one of the older children, is learning in school.

I am about to take another bite of the pasta when all the conversation in the room suddenly dies down, or did it? A little girl whose name I didn’t catch jumps up from the table and right into the arms of the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my entire life. I watched her enter the room, and my fork stopped mid-air. I force myself to set the damn thing down. Hopefully, no one noticed that stupid shit. I can’t stop staring at her petite and curvy body, if not a little chubby. My mouth is actually watering. She’s wearing a tight black shirt, tight jeans, and little red heels. Her big tits are barely contained in the shirt. I want to suck her nipples through the goddamned cotton covering her. There is no fucking way she’s wearing a bra. Her brown hair is loose and curly but pushed back from her head with a bow like she’s a motherfucking gift. I want nothing more than to run my fingers through it, fucking it up, before I wrap it around my wrist and use it as reins as I fuck her hard and fast.

“Matty!” the little girl shouts, wrapping her little arms around the woman’s neck. Matty?

“Delia!” the woman says, kissing the little girl’s cheeks. She props her on her hip. Her child-bearing hips. Fuck. My cock stiffens at the thought of seeding and breeding that woman. Matty.

“Uncle Alberto, Aunt Maria, I’m sorry I’m late,” she says, kissing each of their cheeks. “Uncle Fabrizio, Aunt Dawn, Mama, Daddy.” She kisses each of their cheeks while still holding the child.

“No worries, child. How was work?” Maria asks, getting another plate from the sideboard.

“It sucked.”

“I don’t know how many times I’ve told you. You don’t have to work at that God-awful club, Matty,” Nico says as she sits down directly across from me. Delia is still in her lap.

“I know, Daddy, but I like working. I can’t sit around and wait for whatever comes next for me,” she says. She feeds her from her own plate before taking any for herself. She was made to be a mother. The mother of my children. “Who are they?” she asks, finally noticing Diarmuid and me. Her gaze landed on my brother first, but it didn’t linger, not like it is lingering on me.

“This is Dorian and Diarmuid O’Shaughnessy. Up from Boston to discuss business,” Alberto says.

“The family business, pew, pew,” Delia says, making finger guns and then blowing on them. Everyone, me included, burst out laughing.

“I’m Matilde. Everyone calls me Matty. It’s nice to meet you,” she says.

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