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Vincenzo
Names held power. In New York City, the name Luciano preceded me into every room. It was the reason for a gun trained on my back or a hundred grand stuffed into an envelope and passed under the table. It was why the people of my world watched me with fear and desire in their eyes. Men wanted to be me, and women wanted to be with me—all except one.
Next week, the name Luciano was the reason for a wedding.
Mywedding.
Next week, being Vincenzo Luciano, the dutiful heir to the Luciano family crown, meant marrying the daughter of a bitter rival. The one person in our dark underworld who wanted nothing to do with me. Suna Song.
My soon-to-be wife.
“Cheer up, Enzo. It’s a wedding, not a funeral,” Rafe, my brother, reminded me. He was lounging on a velvet sofa, cradling a whiskey, thoroughly amused by the preparations around us.
“Easy for you to say. You married the love of your life,” I pointed out coolly.
“I don’t know if I’d describe anything about marrying Elena as easy, but I take your point. With your fiancée, you won’t know if it’s a wedding or a funeral until it’s over.” Rafe chuckled darkly.
He was right, considering Suna Song was infamous for killing her previous fiancé in cold blood the night before the wedding. So rumor said. No one knew the truth, but her father had hushed the whole thing up to the point where no one knew if it had happened or not. Regardless, Suna Song didn’t marry the man she’d been promised to, and next week, barring further murder, she would become my wife.
“Hilarious. We’ll see how funny you find it when you have to fill my shoes,” I tossed at Antonio, the second eldest brother of the Luciano clan. His low chuckle grated on my nerves as he stood at the window in the penthouse suite.
Tonight, an engagement dinner from hell awaited us. Two of the top criminal empires of New York crammed into one exclusive ballroom for a dinner party I hoped would end without bloodshed. Fighting with the Song family wasn’t in our best interests. They controlled the ports and ships around the city, which were lucrative wheels to grease. We had the distribution. They were lords of supply. Together, we could be unstoppable.
However, for that to work, this marriage was necessary. Song Min-Ho, the patriarch of the New York-based Korean mafia, was very traditional, and he wanted a Luciano son for a Song daughter. This would assure him that no underhand dealings would mar the business between us. He didn’t know how little my father, Mauro Luciano, cared about such things. I thought working well together would be ultimately more prosperous. As my father loosened the reins to his empire, he handed them to me, bit by bit.
“Not a problem, brother dear. Some of us were born to rule,” Antonio said quietly, only heightening the tension in the room.
“I need some air. I’ll be outside,” I said curtly, slashing a hand down my pressed shirtfront and tie. The thing was strangling me. The air in the penthouse was too thin, and the walls were closing in.
“Enjoy that last taste of freedom!” Rafe called to me like the asshole he was.
The hotel was crawling with Lucianos and Songs. I avoided who I could and delivered setdowns to those who needed them. Too many men thought they could run their mouths about my bride and me. I hadn’t even met the woman, but if she were going to be my wife, they’d better start respecting her now. I’d accept nothing less.
* * *
Outside,the muggy summer air was hardly better than the penthouse, but at least the din of the city drowned out the voices of my brothers and the voices in my head. I lingered at the side of the building, watching cars drawing up, sitting distinctively close to the ground, denoting how heavy they were. Fortified, armored, bulletproof vehicles carrying the most dangerous people in New York City.
I fished a cigarette out of my pocket. I’d quit years ago, but today's tension had me craving the smoky curl of nicotine in my lungs.As I leaned against the building, quietly smoking and trying to ignore my tie, which felt like a noose, a scraping sound skidded across my nerves. It was something sharp on the gravel. The sound sent my nerves on high alert, and my gun had already left my hip holster before I finished jerking my head around, my cigarette forgotten on the ground.
My vision locked on the threat, and I blinked. A woman was sticking through the first-floor window above my head, inching her way—rather elegantly—down the wall like a damsel in distress escaping her tower. And I supposed she was.
It was Suna fucking Song, making a run for it from her engagement party. I knew how she felt and couldn’t exactly blame her. However, running was not an option. A contract had been signed, and if I had to tie and gag her, we were getting married.
My eyes skidded to a stop on her bare thigh. Her tight, sequined cocktail dress had ridden up, andfuck meif it wasn’t revealing the most alluring glimpse of toned, tanned leg I’d ever seen. Her heels were impractically high, and now they scrambled against the wall for purchase. I heard a curse that would rival a sailor. I shoved my gun back in its holster, compelled forward by that expanse of prime-A leg.
“Here. Allow me.” I stepped beneath her to grip her around the hips. I could pretend I didn’t want to see my bride fall and bruise her face up right before the engagement dinner, but the truth was I needed to get my hands on those legs. Would they feel as good as they looked?
She wriggled against me as I pulled her from the wall, forcing her to rely on my firm grip or risk falling. She put her hands on my shoulders and glared down at me, her protests dying on her lips as she realized who I was.
“Fuck,”she said succinctly.
Well, fuck, indeed. Her thighs felt better than I’d imagined, crushed in my tight grip.“Nice to see you too, Suna,” I said, slowly lowering her.
As her body dragged down my front, I realized that the sight of my reluctant bride, with her dress rucked up around her ass, had made me hard as hell. The weight of it dragged down her body as she slid to perch on her unsteady heels, and the sudden stillness of her supple form told me she’d felt it too. Good. She might as well. Soon we’d be married and have two sets of families watching out for an heir. She’d better get used to my body quickly.
As I drew back from placing her on her feet, my hands stayed near her waist. She was a tiny thing. I’d never met her in the flesh. The picture my father had shown me of her resembled a mugshot and had nothing on reality.
Fuck.Her beauty was like a sucker punch to the gut.
