Page 3

Apparently, Domenico doesn’t like repeating himself. Because instead of doing just that, he pulls out a gun and points it at Father Joseph. I gasp with shock as the metal catches the light from the stained glass, throwing red and blue across his knuckles.

“A DeLuca wedding will still happen today,” he announces smugly. “Let’s skip the formalities and just get to the only part that matters.”

An icy shiver slips down my spine and my stomach twists.

It’s known that Domenico DeLuca killed his former wife, Paolo’s mom. I can’t… Oh my God. I can’t marry him. I look around, hoping that someone will step up and stop this madness. But… no one does.

“But I…” Father Joseph swallows audibly. “We need witnesses, sir.”

Sighing, Domenico looks over his shoulder and says something in rapid Italian. Whatever he says has two people, a man and a woman, join us. The woman stands next to me while the guy positions himself next to Domenico.

“Carly and Gio will be our witnesses,” he barks to Father Joseph, who’s sweating profusely.

I watch the man who’s helped me countless times, listened to my confessions and offered unlimited support, decide to survive.

To perform his function for the man with a weapon rather than the God with the commandments. He straightens his robes and finds his place in the book he’s holding.

“Do you, Domenico DeLuca, take Kira Adams to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do.” Domenico’s blue eyes never leave my face.

“And do you, Kira Adams, take this man—”

“Kira DeLuca,” Domenico interrupts. “I’ve already said I’ll take her, so you should use her married name.”

Father Joseph swallows. “Do you, Kira DeLuca, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“I do.” I whisper it first, then force myself louder, force myself to meet those blue eyes that watch me like I’m the only thing in this church that matters.

Domenico gives me an approving nod as he tucks his gun away. Then he extends his left hand to me. I place my trembling fingers in his palm, and his hand closes around mine. He produces a simple silver or white-gold ring from his pocket, which he slides onto my finger.

I probably shouldn’t be surprised by the perfect fit. But I am.

“By the power vested in me,” Father Joseph rushes, “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may…”

Domenico doesn’t wait for the rest. His hand releases mine to cup my jaw. Then he tilts my face up to meet his descending mouth. His fingers curl around the side of my face, thumb resting just below my cheekbone. The grip is firm, yet not painful.

When he tilts my face up, I have no choice but to meet his eyes, and the hunger I see there makes something low in my stomach tighten.

The kiss is not the polite peck I imagined would happen in front of all these people. His mouth is open before it touches mine. His tongue pushes past my lips, hot and demanding, and I feel it everywhere—from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.

My spine arches under his hand, my fingers find his lapel and grip hard enough to wrinkle the immaculate fabric. I’m mortified, absolutely mortified, when a sound escapes my throat, a moan, it feels like a betrayal of everything I should be feeling.

This is nothing like the chaste press of lips I exchanged with Paolo during our brief courtship, the dry, closed-mouth kisses that left me wondering if I was broken, if I was incapable of wanting what I was supposed to want.

Domenico tastes like toothpaste and something darker. His stubble scratches my chin. His hand at my jaw holds me exactly where he wants me, and I let him. I let him, because fighting would be pointless and because some traitorous part of me doesn’t want to fight.

When he pulls back, I’m breathing hard. My lips feel swollen. My face is hot, and I know I’m blushing. That last part makes me hate myself a little bit because I don’t want anyone else to see my reaction.

Domenico’s thumb drags across my lower lip, slow, deliberate, feeling where his mouth was. “Mine,” he says. Not to me. To the room, to the witnesses, to the world that might try to deny it. “Mrs. DeLuca.”

The congregation remains silent as Father Joseph looks like he might faint. I stand at the altar of Saint Benedict’s Church, now as a married woman.

I am twenty-one years old.

I am Mrs. DeLuca, now married to the forty-five-year-old Mafia Don who killed his previous wife.

2