Chapter 1: Kira - Marrying the Mafia Daddy

The stems of the red roses dig into my palms hard enough to leave marks as I walk down the aisle in a white dress I didn’t choose, toward a man I barely know—though I do know he doesn’t want me any more than I want him.

Yet he’s to be my husband.

In just a short amount of time, I’ll be Mrs. DeLuca, married to Paolo, the Don’s only son.

Saint Benedict’s Church is packed with DeLuca soldiers in dark suits. Some of them have a woman on their arm, each of them dressed in beautiful dresses with flawless hair and makeup. I want to roll my eyes at the thought that they probably got to pick their own outfits.

If I’d had a choice of my wedding attire, I definitely wouldn’t be walking in five-inch heels, in a dress that was designed to put every part of my body on display.

The bodice molds to my torso so perfectly you would think it was sewn on, cinching my waist before hugging my hips and flaring into a sweeping skirt that trails behind me. Intricate lace winds across sheer panels, leaving just enough hidden to preserve my dignity while making me feel as though everyone can see straight through me.

It’s beautiful. It’s exquisite. And I’d give anything to trade it for something that let me disappear. But when the dress arrived two days ago with a note from the Don telling me to wear it, I knew I didn’t have a choice.

And as I glance toward the altar where Paolo’s waiting with his dad, I note the way Don DeLuca’s gaze burns into me. The intensity in his blue eyes makes my breath hitch, causing me to almost falter.

I have to do this. The words beat in time with my steps. I have to do this.

As if hearing my thoughts, my dad’s hand tightens on my elbow as he guides me forward through the nave of Saint Benedict’s like I’m livestock he’s presenting for slaughter.

“Remember what I told you, Kira.” Dad’s breath is hot against my ear. “This marriage isn’t worth shit until you take him to bed. The DeLuca boy wanted a virgin. Play it up so he can fulfill any sick fantasies when he breaks you in. Once that’s happened, our deal will be complete.”

The congregation rustles as we pass. I don’t look at them. I know who they are—DeLuca soldiers, the dangerous men who make up the network of power and violence that runs Boston.

Nodding, I do my best to fight the tears stinging my eyes. I won’t cry. “And you promise you’ll take care of Mom?” I whisper back, daring to glance at him. My voice barely carries over the organ playing the same processional I’ve heard countless times before.

Dad’s jaw works like he’s chewing on something bitter. “As long as you hold up your end of our agreement, I’ll hold up mine.” He says it like he’s doing me a favor, which I guess he is.

To him, the choice was ending all of Mom’s care and cashing in her life insurance when she dies, or selling me to the DeLuca family. I chose the latter. Even though he made a big show of acting indifferent as to which choice I picked, I think my pick secretly pleased him.

My dad isn’t important or powerful. He has a small accounting firm which is made up of two people. Their biggest and only client is the DeLuca family. But now he gets to boast they’re family instead of just doing business.

None of that matters to me. But I’ll grin and bear it as long as it means he’ll keep Mom alive. She’s always sacrificed everything for me, so it’s only right I do this in return.

Paolo stands at the altar in a fitted charcoal suit. He’s clean-shaven, sharp cheekbones, his dark hair swept back from his forehead. His smile is easy, practiced, and his blue eyes track me.

As I reach the front, I’m proud that my knees don’t shake. I peer up at my husband-to-be as he takes me from my dad. At least Paolo’s being forced as well. I know I shouldn’t be happy about that, but I can’t help it.

I guess it’s true what they say: misery loves company.

When the deal came about almost three months ago, he made it clear he had no intention of marrying me. He never said he didn’t want to marry in general. Nope, he made it very clear that I was the problem.

But just as I had no choice, neither did he.

Father Joseph clears his throat. In all my years working at the church, I’ve never heard his voice shake before. He’s nervous, sweating despite the cool September breeze that seeps through the church’s stone walls.

“Dearly beloved,” he begins.

As he continues, I can’t take my eyes off Paolo. The more Father Joseph speaks, the smaller Paolo’s smile becomes. I see it happen—not a gradual shift but rather a sudden collapse, like someone reached inside his face and turned off a switch.

He looks at me—really looks at me, like he’s seeing me for the first time. Turning, his eyes sweep across the assembled room of dangerous men watching him, judging him, waiting for him to claim his bride and secure his place in the family succession.

Paolo looks at his dad. “Fuck this,” he scoffs. “I’m not marrying her. Do whatever the fuck you want to me, but it isn’t happening.”

“Paolo,” Don DeLuca growls, grabbing his son’s arm. “You’ll do what I tell you to do.”

I open my mouth to say… something, anything. But nothing comes out. All I can do is stare at the man I’m supposed to marry. A part of me wants to tell him I’m not pleased with the match either. But I know that’s just my pride rearing its head, so I ignore it.

“No.” Paolo wrenches his arm free, and then he walks down the aisle I just crossed to get to him.

He has one hand shoved in his pocket, his shoulders loose like he’s heading out for a drink, not abandoning his bride at the altar of a Catholic church full of men who kill people for less.

I wordlessly watch him go, unable to fully process what I’m seeing. He’s leaving. He’s actually leaving. The groom is walking out of his own wedding, and I’m standing here with my bouquet raised like an idiot, like a statue of a bride someone abandoned mid-casting.

The doors of the church open and daylight cuts across the aisle, and then he’s gone. I’m still standing here with red roses in my hands and my heart hammering. What am I supposed to do now? God, I need this marriage to save Mom.

The silence is absolute. No one breathes. Father Joseph’s mouth hangs open, mid-word, his hand frozen in a gesture of blessing that he will never complete.

At a loss for what to do, I look at my dad. Though when I see the deep, mottled red that means rage color his face, I wish I hadn’t.

“This is your fault,” he hisses. His voice is low enough that the front row might not hear, but I feel every word like a slap. “You useless little… you couldn’t even keep him interested until the ceremony was over?”

“Dad, I…” I flinch as he raises his hand, already knowing what comes next.

“Useless fucking bitch,” he snarls. “I guess your mom’s life doesn’t matter to you.”

Unable to answer, I close my eyes as I wait for the hit I know is coming. Except… it never comes. When I open my eyes, Domenico DeLuca stands between us. His left hand is closed around my dad’s wrist, suspended in the air where the slap would have connected with my cheek.

He’s good looking. The thought comes unbidden, unwelcome. His jaw is strong, shadowed with permanent five o’clock stubble, and his cheekbones look like they could cut glass. His eyes are a dark and intense shade of blue.

“Mr. DeLuca,” my dad gasps. His wrist is still caught, still suspended. I can see Domenico’s fingers digging into the skin there, whitening with pressure. “I was just… she embarrassed us, she…”

“She’s done nothing.” Domenico’s voice hasn’t changed. Still low, still controlled, still carrying the weight of absolute authority. “You, however, just made a huge mistake. You don’t have permission to hit what’s mine,” he growls.

“She’s not yours—”

“I paid for her,” Domenico snarls. “That makes her mine.”

Dad laughs nervously, like it’s all just a big misunderstanding. “But she was supposed to marry into your family, and she didn’t… so I—”

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“I. Still. Fucking. Paid.” Domenico’s tone is icy, and I watch as he increases the pressure on Dad’s wrist. “Or are you going to offer to return my money and pretend you didn’t already gamble most of it away?”

“O-of course,” Dad stammers. “She’s yours to do with as you please.”

As soon as he stops speaking, Domenico twists his hand, breaking Dad’s wrist. The crack is sharp. Clean. My dad collapses to the floor, cradling his wrist, sobbing about mercy.

Domenico doesn’t look at Dad, he looks at me. Those blue eyes travel down my body, taking in the dress he chose, the heels he sent, the exposed skin, and my trembling hands. Suddenly, I feel ridiculous as I stand here dressed like a bride, but without a groom.

“It’s bad luck to kill the bride’s dad on her wedding day,” he says to my dad, without looking away from me. “That’s the only reason I’ll allow you thirty seconds to get out of here.”

“But, Mr. DeLuca—”

“Now!” he shouts, still not looking away from me. “If you’re still here in twenty seconds, I’ll allow my men to use you for target practice.”

My dad scrambles backward and clumsily gets to his feet. He doesn’t look back at me—doesn’t even say goodbye. He just disappears through the side door, and then he’s gone, too.

And I’m standing at the altar with a man who terrifies me more than my dad ever could.

“Let’s get on with it,” Domenico says, turning to Father Joseph.

He blinks. His mouth opens, closes, opens again. “But Mr. DeLuca left. The younger Mr. DeLuca, I mean. He… he abandoned the ceremony. There is no groom.”

Domenico laughs, the sound cold. “There’s another Mr. DeLuca right here.” He steps closer to me. “I said, get on with it.”

Father Joseph opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. And I’m just as confused as he is. None of this makes any sense.

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.