Page 26 of Brutal Devil

It’s the same expression I imagine he might wear if he looked down at his shoe and found that he’d stepped in dog poo.

“Yes, poetry.”

I’m not sure why I’m telling this to a mobster. Why I’m making the distinction. He kills people and breaks the law for a living.

“So, like Shakespeare shit?” He wants to know.

Maybe he paid a bit of attention in high-school English.

“Kind of,” I tell him, “except vastly different forms than Shakespearean sonnets.”

“Fuck.” He shakes his head, grinning.

I don’t know how to take his sudden ease of the Mafia-killing-machine persona. This entire exchange has been…weird. Saint Andriani is being nice to me, which makes me feel the same way it would if I were in a cage with a docile lion.

“Um, where is Priest?” I ask hesitantly.

“It’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding,” Saint explains seriously.

“Oh.”

He takes a few steps toward me and offers the shoes. They’re silver and strappy with a high heel, open back, and chain, and I must admit—inwardly only—that I kind of love them. “Don’t forget the shoes. Shit. You got a bra and…stuff?”

I bite my lip to contain my amusement as I grasp the shoes. Andrianis are notoriously unpredictable and hotheaded. This one strikes me as just the sort of psycho who is even-tempered one minute and raging the next. I don’t want to trigger him. Literally or figuratively.

“I have everything I need, thanks.” Besides the cozy pjs, there was also a sheer lacy bra and a pair of panties.

Also the right sizes. But I’m not going to think about that now or what it means. Maybe Maria is good at guessing. Because the alternative is a place my brain doesn’t want to go.

“Well, do your thing then, Charlotte Eyre,” Saint says with a dismissive wave in my direction.

“Brontë,” I correct.

His eyebrows hike up his high forehead.

“CharlotteBrontë,” I elaborate. “You were confusing the author with the title of one of her books,Jane Eyre.”

“Jesus,” he mutters and then turns on his heel. “Just get dressed, sweets. You got fifteen minutes. Hurry it the fuck up.”

“Got it,” I tell his back just before the door slams closed.

At least he didn’t shoot me? At this point, it feels like a win.

I stare at the garment bag and the shoes, reality settling in like a fist to the face.

This is myweddingdress. These are myweddingshoes. Wedding, as in getting married. As in marrying a crazy mobster whose family was responsible for my brother’s death. The same crazy mobster who kidnapped me yesterday.

But maybe I’m crazy too by now. Because what do I do next?

I inspect the strappy heels.

Gucci. Made in Italy.

No wonder I like them. Not going to try them on, though, even if they look like they’re the perfect fit.

My resolve lasts less than a minute, and then I’m slipping my bare feet into them, wishing I bothered with pedicures when I see how boring my toes look. The shoes fit. Of course they do. More of Maria’s magic at work? I’m afraid to ask.

Now I’m wearing fluffy pajamas and Gucci, walking to the bed where I lay out the garment bag. My trembling fingers find the zipper and open it, and just…this dress. It’s everything.