Page 8 of The Mafia Bachelor

“I’m a good listener,” the next girl says earnestly. “And I love Killian for his sense of justice and the way he’s improved the Archway mafia.”

Love? As though she could be in love with me after one look? Absurd. And yet, even as I dismiss the girl for naivety, Avery’s face flashes into my mind. Her dancing. It’s not possible to instantly fall in love, though.

“I bring an alliance with my father’s mafia, and I’ll be a good and dutiful wife,” says a blonde.

My mother likes that one, and I see why I should too. But I don’t. I nod blandly. A dutiful wife is what I thought I wanted, but apparently things change.

I have an unfamiliar feeling as I’m waiting for Avery to emerge from the doorway all the women are coming from. It takes me a moment to identify it, given it’s not something I’ve felt for years.

I’m worried.

I’m invested in this woman, and I don’t like that she wasn’t at the front of the queue. What if she changed her mind, and decided job hunting was better than being involved with this farce?

“I have a seven-figure trust fund, and a special talent I know you’ll appreciate!” The next candidate smiles at me with what I suppose is an implication that should make my cock twitch with interest.

My cock is not bothered.

A few more are entirely forgettable. They’re all dressed in slinky, revealing dresses that leave nothing to either the wallet or the imagination. A couple are more modestly attired, but they’re here for a cocktail party and an unsubtle opportunity to show off all the skin I’d get to touch if I chose them. The girls—and mostly they are girls, far too young for me—keep arriving in an endlessly tedious wave that has something unique with every different pitch, and yet somehow all manage to sound identical.

I’m not tempted. I don’t want to marry any of them. There’s no spark.

I’m only waiting for the girl who unexpectedly set my interest on fire. Smouldering at the very least.

Avery.

And I’ve seen what feels like at least a hundred women before she appears. For a second, I don’t recognise her. She’s replaced the sensible workwear with a dress that’s far simpler than any of the women preceding her. It’s a plain green, and where every woman so far has been shiny, her dress is matte. Maybe even cotton? It suits her perfectly, though, setting off her shiny brown hair.

She walks in without any of the swagger and confidence the other women have.

My mother looks Avery up and down with a combination of interest and hostility. Although my protective instincts yell at me to take over, I sit back. I think Avery can deal with my mother.

“What’s your name?” she demands.

Avery’s chin comes up. She’s obviously terrified—who wouldn’t be in the circumstances?—but she holds it together. “Avery Morgan.”

“I don’t recognise you. You’re not part of the competition. What are you doing here?”

“To marry Kill,” she replies simply.

Hearing my nickname in her voice sends a pleasant shiver down my spine, like recognition. Not Killian, or Mr Farrell, or Archway. Not even the Devil of Archway. But Kill. It might be a grim sort of nickname, but it’s mine, and aside from my men, most people are too scared to say it.

Not Avery though.

My mam puckers her lips like a labrador’s arse. “I don’t think you’re⁠—”

“She can stay,” I cut her off.

She turns to glare at me, and I quirk an eyebrow up.

Her voice goes to ice. “You have all these beautiful, hand-selected women, with perfect pedigrees⁠—”

“I’m not a dog,” I reply smoothly.

“How do we know she’s not from the Essex Cartel?” My mother clearly doesn’t believe that, because if she did, she knows I would have already disposed of Avery. My mother might not acknowledge my nicknames—either Kill or the Devil of Archway—but she’s seen me murder too many men in order to protect our mafia to be under any illusions.

“She could be from Camden,” my father growls. “Sent to murder you in a moment of vulnerability.”

“Exactly.” Mam nods, even though she’s well aware Camden haven’t been a threat for years.