Page 5 of The Kingpin’s Bride

“I know.” I kissed the top of her head. “Say it again while I touch you.”

My hand moved lower. She was still slick from earlier, still sensitive. The second my fingers found her clit she jerked, a broken little moan escaping before she could stop it.

“Hey!”

“That’s it.” I stroked her slowly, deliberately, not enough to push her over, just enough to keep her on the edge. “You can hate me. You can plan every way you’re going to run. But your body already gave itself to me on that stage, and it’s going to keep giving itself every time I touch it. Tell me I’m wrong.”

She didn’t. She turned her face into my chest and came with a quiet, wrecked sound, hips rolling against my hand like she couldn’t help it. I worked her through it, murmuring low praise against her hair, telling her she was perfect, that she was mine, that no one else would ever get to see her like this.

When she finally went limp I pulled my hand free, licked my fingers clean, and settled her more firmly against me.

“Sleep,” I said. “Tomorrow we start the rest of your life. Tonight you just stay exactly where I put you.”

Chapter One

Morena

Eight years ago

Iwas sitting at the big table when the waiter came. The restaurant was the fancy kind Papa always bragged about. Soft yellow lights. Thick white tablecloths that felt cold under my fingers. Crystal glasses that made little rainbows when I tilted them. Mama had made me wear my best dress, the blue one with the itchy lace collar, because it was a “special dinner for papa.”

Papa sat at the head of the table. My two older brothers sat on either side of him, both trying to look important. Mama sat next to me, her hand resting on my knee under the tablecloth. She kept smiling too wide, the way she did when she was nervous.

The waiter who came to our table was tall. He wore the same white gloves and black vest as the others, but something about him felt different. He didn’t look at the floor like the rest of the staff. He looked right at Papa when he spoke. “Wine?”

Papa barely glanced up. He lifted his glass the way he always did, like the world owed him things. The waiter poured carefully. The red wine looked almost black in the low light. Then he set the bottle down and stepped back, standing near another table like he was polishing a fork. I watched him for a second longer than I should have. His white gloves looked too clean.

Papa kept talking to my brothers about “work”. I didn’t understand the words. I was more interested in the way the candlelight made the silverware sparkle. Mama squeezed my knee once, a quiet warning to sit up straight. Then Papa stopped talking.

It was sudden. One moment he was mid-sentence, the next his face changed. He touched his throat. His eyes went wide and confused, like someone had told him a joke he didn’t understand. “What in the fucking…”

His chair scraped hard against the floor as he stood. The wineglass tipped over. Red liquid soaked into the perfect white tablecloth, spreading fast. The tall waiter set down the fork he had been polishing.

“No need to shout,” he said. His voice was calm. Almost polite.

Papa looked at him then. Recognition hit his face at the same time his legs gave out. He hit the floor hard. The sound made my stomach drop. Mama’s hand clamped down on my leg so tightly it hurt. Around us, men I hadn’t noticed before moved in. They grabbed my brothers by the shoulders and forced them back into their chairs. Other men stood behind Mama and me, close enough that I could feel them breathing.

Papa was on the floor, clawing at his throat. Strange wet sounds came out of him. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and dripped onto the polished hardwood. The tall man crouched beside him. He was still wearing the white gloves.

“Don’t worry,” he said softly. “It won’t take too long. But it will hurt. And your family will watch.”

Mama made a broken noise. One of the men behind us put a hand on her shoulder, keeping her in the chair. I couldn’t look away from Papa. His eyes were huge and terrified. He was looking right at me when another wave of pain hit him and his whole body arched. The tall man pressed a gloved hand to Papa’s chest, holding him down.

“Were your sons in on it?” he asked. “Did you teach them to be traitors, just like you?”

Papa tried to speak. Only blood and choking sounds came out. Tears ran from the corners of his eyes into his hair.

“I’m going to need some names if you want me to spare your lovely daughter and wife,” the man continued, so calm. “You know why you’re here, don’t you?”

Papa’s gaze flicked to my brothers, then to Mama, then back to the man. His lips moved. I couldn’t hear the words, but the tall man could.

“My sons,” Papa finally managed, the words wet and broken. “My sons worked with me… please… spare my wife… my daughter…”

One of my brothers shouted something. A hand clamped over his mouth almost immediately. The tall man stayed crouched over Papa for a long time, watching. Sometimes he pressed harder on Papa’s chest. Sometimes he just waited. Papa’s struggles got weaker. The blood on the floor spread in a dark, shiny pool. His fingers scraped weakly against the wood, leaving faint marks.

I don’t remember when Papa stopped moving. Only that the restaurant went very quiet except for Mama’s soft, continuous sobs and the sound of my own heartbeat in my ears. The tall man stood up. He looked at Mama and me for the first time since he had started talking to Papa. His eyes were dark and empty of anything soft.

“You and the girl live,” he said to Mama carelessly. “That is the only mercy you get.”