Page 4
Domenico
As we walk back down the aisle, my hand squeezes Kira’s. She’s trembling—just enough that I can feel it through her fingers.
My men clear a path without being told. I nod at two of my enforcers positioned near the doors. Outside, the air carries the first hint of fall, crisp enough to cut through the cloying heat of the packed church.
The car waits at the curb, my driver already holding the door open. “Mr. DeLuca,” he says, bowing his head. “Mrs. DeLuca,” he says, proving he already knows what went down inside the church.
When he reaches for her hand, I quickly slap him away. “Don’t touch my wife,” I growl, ignoring the amusement curling his lips upward. Nudging Kira forward, I tell her to get in.
As she climbs inside the vehicle, her fingers clutch the bouquet like it’s the only solid thing in the world. She crushes the red roses against the bodice of that dress—the one I chose. I knew it would be stunning on her curvy body. But now the word doesn’t feel accurate.
Lethal might be a better descriptor. Absolutely fucking lethal.
The white is a stark contrast to her long dark brown hair, which makes it pop even more where her strands fall around her shoulders and down her back. Not to mention how much the tight fit is playing with my self-control.
This woman, who couldn’t meet my gaze when I first met her, has been on my mind more than I care to admit. A part of me wanted to make her mine instead of giving her to Paolo.
But the age-gap made her more appropriate for my son, and he needed the opportunity to show me he was a man, one ready to take on responsibilities. Turns out he wasn’t ready, and as a result, I got her.
Back Bay crawls with traffic at this hour, but my driver knows the shortcuts. Kira sits opposite me, her shoulders squared, her gaze fixed on the window. The silence between us is thick enough to choke on. But I don’t shatter it.
She needs time to process what just happened. I can be patient, for now at least. It might even do both of us some good, if I’m honest.
As we reach the venue for the reception and walk through the double doors, I gesture her ahead of me. I don’t mind admitting it’s partly so I can stare at her phenomenal ass.
Fuck!
The lace panels across her back catch the light as she walks, sheer enough that the curve of her spine is visible beneath the fabric. Below, the skirt sweeps behind her, catching the air with each step. The heels put a sexy as fuck sway in her hips, and my cock hardens so fast it’s almost painful.
My son’s an idiot. Not for not wanting her—arranged marriages are what they are—but for rejecting her the way he did. Public humiliation like that is a weak man’s game. Definitely not worthy of someone who thinks he has what it takes to become the next Don.
A man who can’t control his impulses in front of his own men is a man who doesn’t deserve to lead them.
Even though I suspected he’d do something like this, I can’t claim I was completely sure. Not even when I walked in on some bitch bouncing on his dick this morning. But here we are, and his loss is my fucking gain.
I reach forward and catch Kira’s wrist, pulling her back to my side. Her eyes flick up to mine, wide and questioning.
“You walk with me,” I state.
She nods, and I tuck her hand into the crook of my arm, my palm covering her fingers. The men at the door dip their chins as we pass. Inside, the room is already half-full with the necessary faces.
A server appears with champagne flutes on a tray. I take two and hand one to my wife. “To us,” I murmur, clinking my flute to hers.
“Y-yes,” she stammers. “To us.”
I don’t let go of her as we make the rounds. Congratulations are delivered with varying degrees of sincerity, some even with amusement. I keep my responses short. Kira handles it better than I expected—soft-spoken, polite, her smile never quite reaching her eyes but convincing enough.
She looks around as much as she can between conversations. I try to look at the room through her eyes. But I have no idea if she’s disappointed there’s no food arranged, well, apart from the hors d’oeuvre the servers carry.
Sit-down meals have never been Paolo’s idea of a good time. That boy is all about the booze and then getting out of here as fast as possible. Which is also why there was no traditional announcement when we arrived, and there’ll be no first dance.
As the hours tick by and the light outside turns to darkness, I’m feeling restless. I’ve had enough, and I just want to leave.
Speaking of which, I look around for Kira. She went to the bathroom almost twenty minutes ago. Ignoring the man who is trying to get my attention, I go to find her. Reaching the women’s bathroom, I pause when I hear soft cries coming from inside.
Slowly, I open the door to see Kira standing by the sink. Tears stream down her face as she hiccups into her hand. It’s the most beautiful and breathtaking sight I’ve ever seen.
Even though I want to march over there and kiss the tears from her lips, I decide against it. She’ll need time to get her head around her new reality. But she better not be fucking crying because Paolo left her.
