Page 17 of Black Jack (Advantage Play 5)

“No, we can’t,” he reiterates. The muscles in his jaw flex before he explains, “Not when a very high up officer in the FBI is questioning the validity of our marriage.”

“Not my problem, is it?” I quip, weaving in and out of traffic like a seasoned pro.

“What the hell does that mean?”

Annoyed, I spell it out for him. “It means that it’s not my problem whether or not your precious little boss believes you.”

“Then what is your problem, Bianca?” Jack spits. Apparently, I’ve pushed him over the edge.

“I don’t have a problem.”

“Bullshit. Look, if we’re going to make this marriage work––”

I laugh. And it’s loud. And obnoxious. And obviously grates on my fiancé’s nerves since I can feel him glaring at the side of my face. But he doesn’t say anything. He stays quiet. Waiting for me to explain my outburst. But I don’t need to. Because it isn’t my job to make dear ol’ Jacky Boy happy.

Well, unless he wants to pay by the hour, anyway.

Reaching for the volume on the stereo system, I turn it up a few notches before Jack grabs my wrist and forces my hand back to the steering wheel. Then he turns down the sound of Demi Lovato singing what’s wrong with being confident?, and asks, “Did you know your brother was searching for a spouse for you?”

I purse my lips but don’t answer him.

“Did you?”

“My brother has been looking”––I raise my hands and do air quotes around the word––“for a spouse for me for years. It’s another one of the joys of being raised in the mob.”

“Then I assume you knew marriage to a stranger was a possibility.”

“Of course, I knew that.”

“Then why are you so against it? No offense, but this shitshow was kind of thrown on me, and––”

“Boo hoo. Cry me a river.”

“What the hell is your problem?” he repeats. “If you knew you were going to have an arranged marriage, why are you throwing a fit right now?”

“Maybe it’s because I assumed I’d be marrying someone from the mob. Ever think of that one, buddy boy?”

“Oh, so because I have a clean record, you’re not interested?”

I scoff. “If you had a clean record, you wouldn’t need my brother’s help, now would you?”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he exhales and tries a different tactic. “Look, we’re getting married, and I need my boss to attend. End of story.”

End of story.

I hate that term. Like I don’t have a say in my future. Like I don’t have any control over anything that happens in my life. I knew I was right. He’s just like the rest of them. Controlling. Brooding. And thinks women are beneath him. Just like my brother. Just like Burlone. And just like every other asshole I’ve ever known.

The bastard exhales beside me. Like I’m the problem in this scenario. Not him. The sound grates on my nerves.

“Listen,” he breathes. “I want to give you what you want. I really do. Maybe we can compromise. What did you always picture as a little girl? Your dream wedding. Isn’t that a thing girls plan way ahead of time?”

Again, I scoff. “And who exactly am I supposed to invite to this dream wedding? Huh? Everyone I know is connected to the freaking mob, Jack. What do you think will happen when your boss shows up and sees my side of the guest list?”

He pauses, then curses under his breath while staring out the passenger window.

“Told ya,” I seethe, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “And the fact that you think this marriage will last is laughable too.”

“Your brother––”