Page 17 of Brutal Vows

But a blind date? It’s more than I expected. At least he isn’t hauling me over his shoulder and carrying me off caveman style to rape me behind some garden shed.

The thought is like a sudden speed bump because I already know Luca Scalera isn’t the sort to lower himself to that level. He doesn’t need to and has way too much finesse. No, women probably throw themselves at him and he indulges as if he’s eating from a buffet. A man is, after all, just a man, whichever way you turn him. But he’ll have his expectations: I’m his wife.

I’m going to squash them dead like a cigarette in an ash tray. Not because of this stupid dumb physical reaction, but because I can’t afford distractions. I can’t afford to do anything that would bind me tighter to this man.

I do the rounds quickly, and as Gabriella pulls me close, I cling a little tighter.

“It’s going to be okay,” she whispers.

“Yes.” Of course it is. Everything is fine once you’re dead. “Thank you for…everything. And good luck, malysh,” I murmur back. “He’ll love you right.”

We break apart, and when I pull the girls to me, first Irisha, then Katya, I bite my lip to stave off my tears. They will never know how much I love them. Hopefully, they’ll never learn the reason why I left them.

“You’ll see them again,” Luca says as I straighten, realizing he was watching my exchange, reading my emotions as if they’re a neon sign. “Soon. I promise.”

God, he irks me. Never mind that I’ll have to hide what he does to my body in mere seconds, I’m never going to stop watching my back, am I?

Ivan’s hand is on my elbow, drawing my attention, and the soft squeeze that follows says what words can’t. “I’ll message you about Papa.”

“Thank you.” I step in for a quick hug, and he seems to sigh into it. It’s been such a crazy year, with Ivan bearing the brunt of it on the home front. “Don’t worry about me, please⁠—”

“How can I not worry about you, Milana?” he whispers, his voice thick. We hug tighter, and I wish he wouldn’t let go, but we’re not children anymore. His hold on me loosens. “You’re strong. Stay strong.”

He has no idea. I survived and outwitted him, so what’s another man in the equation? Now if we can leave, I can start figuring out how to do the same to Luca Scalera.

“Off we go.”

My husband has one hand on my back, and with the other, flips his brother off with a surreptitious middle finger. It makes Matteo smirk with a shake of his head.

Our introduction was brief earlier, but now he gives me and my black dress an approving nod.

“You’ll be a good match. I already sense it. Don’t try to tame him,” he says in passing. “We’ve given up. Go with the flow is the best advice I can give you now.”

Tame him? I’m not sticking around to tame anybody. But Matteo’s advice rings deeper. Don’t fight the cage, make the cage work for you. Papa’s advice, and it’s as if he is talking to me through Matteo.

I nod and we walk off, out of the front door and into the sunlight. There isn’t a single car waiting outside for us. What the fuck... Center-stage, a few steps from the front door, stands a massive black motorcycle. The color of the day.

To the side, three men in suits, wearing avatar glasses, wait idly with their hands in their pockets. Mafia security.

“You’ve ridden a motorcycle before?” Luca asks, reaching for my hand.

“What? That thing? No.” I shrug loose from his tentative hold to sweep my hair away from my face and over my shoulders. He needs to stop touching me already. I’m kindling begging for the strike of a match. And why am I even surprised at a motorcycle? Hot-as-fuck and biker-boy basically go hand in hand. “Is that yours?”

“Yep.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I huff in frustration. This black rebellion dress isn’t made for helicopters and motorcycles. “Could somebody just choose normal transportation for today? Like in a car?”

“Not a normal day, princess. Not a normal man you married, either. Best you get with the program.”

You can say that again. He is the last thing I expected today.

He propels me toward the motorcycle, hand on my lower back, and I brake against the push with my heels. I don’t like fast-moving things. Least of all when I’m exposed like I’d be on a bike. “This dress…I can’t⁠—”

“Your choice to arrive at your wedding dressed as Morticia and not as a Disney princess.”

“Morticia!” Hell, I didn’t even think about that. It’s kinda funny and spot on, but why does it sting? Asshole. To get to me like this.

“Yeah, so much for my vision of us riding off into the sunset with your white skirts billowing in the wind.”