Page 4

4

Andre

F ifty minutes later, Creed and I pull up to the Rovina’s estate with only a few minutes to spare. The majestic brownstone mansion on the corner is imposing enough to make anyone think twice before striding up to the front steps where sentries await.

We leave our phones and weapons in the SUV with Aldo as is the usual requirement for any of these meetings. Or at least that was the protocol when Emilio Rovina was still alive…

I’ll never forget how it felt to carve that knife into his veins and open them, then watch as his blood poured out.

While the suicide setup may have been Emilio’s choice, given the two fatal options Creed offered, I’m certain the Rovinas would still blame me if they knew the truth. That’s why Saint and Stella can never find out.

The additional guards inside the foyer of the eerily quiet residence wave their wands over us from head to toe, ensuring we’re not hiding any weapons. For a moment, my guilty conscience wonders if Creed and I are walking into a trap. Then, Saint Rovina strolls out in a navy blue three-piece suit to meet us, and it’s too late to worry about that now.

“Thanks for coming over.” He nods for us to follow him down the hall to what used to be his father’s office.

Built-in bookshelves line one wall, filled with leather-bound volumes, personal knickknacks, and framed family photos. At the center of the room sits a large, antique mahogany desk. Its surface, which was once meticulously organized, is now covered in papers and files that make my eye twitch. A green-shaded banker’s lamp casts a soft glow in the room, and a leather desk pad lies beneath an array of pens, notepads, and an open laptop.

On one corner of the desk, there’s a crystal decanter of whiskey with matching tumblers. Saint offers us a glass, which Creed and I both decline, before he pours a generous serving and guzzles it, as if he’s more nervous about this meeting than I am. He then takes a seat in the high-back, brown leather chair. Creed and I claim the two smaller, matching visitor chairs.

Rather than accuse us of murdering his father, Saint says the words I’ve been dying to hear. “Stella’s agreed to the marriage.”

“That’s great news,” Creed says since I’m unable to speak just yet. “I’m sure your family is excited to have something…good happen after such a horrible year.”

“We are, and I know it’s what my father wanted,” Saint replies as his eyes dart around the room to his old man’s possessions, the office where the man spent most of his time before I made him slit his own wrists.

“My father wanted this alliance as well,” Creed agrees. “I’m sure Stella will be well cared for by Andre.”

“Of course.” Saint gives me a nod. “But this alliance isn’t just a symbol of our support for each other’s families. I’m going to need your help in the coming months.”

And here come the conditions.

“What sort of help?” Creed crosses his ankle over his knee casually as if he’s not willing to give the Rovinas the moon if it means they don’t figure out we’re responsible for the deaths of the two men at the head of their family.

“My father, apparently, spent the past few years balancing the finances of our construction business on a shaking Jenga tower of loans to keep it from all falling apart after the pandemic crashed the real estate market and my mom got sick. He secured all the loans he could to pay off older ones, and now those are coming due. Basically, we’re going to need a large influx of money to keep things afloat. I can’t tell my mother we have to sell the house when she’s barely holding on…”

“How much money do you need?” Creed asks since he’s more than willing to provide it without the pity thrown in.

Saint winces, signaling it’s going to be an astronomical amount before he says, “Two hundred million.”

“No.”

One word brings all my hopes crashing down on my head like a bucket of ice water.

Saint sweeps his wavy black hair behind an ear as if the strands caused him to mishear Creed’s response. “No?”

“There’s no fucking way I’m giving you two hundred million when all my family gets out of it is a union to a vicious little viper.”

“It’s just a loan,” Saint grumbles.

“One there’s no guarantee you can repay,” Creed huffs as he gets to his feet.

Fuck. This shit is going sideways faster than I expected.

“All I need is a year to pay it back,” Saint says through gritted teeth as he stands as well, realizing Creed’s about to walk out. “Hell, draw up a contract, and I’ll sign it.”

“With what collateral?” Glancing around the office, Creed says, “This house isn’t worth even a tenth of that amount. And again, there’s nothing in this deal for me.”

Saint’s gaze swings toward me, and I can see the desperation in his deep blue eyes. Sure, Stella’s sexy as hell, and I’ve wanted her forever, but is she worth all this fucking trouble? Yes, yes, she is, at least for me. While there may be plenty of other beautiful women who’d marry me and not cut off my balls while I’m asleep, I want Stella.

“I’ll guarantee the money,” I declare. “Well, at least a hundred mil. Between the businesses and house, he should be able to cover the rest if he defaults, right?” I ask my cousin who is frowning at me.

“You’re willing to risk every penny you’ve earned on him?” Creed points at Saint.

“Yes. I’ll draw up the paperwork,” I assure him. “But I have a few requirements.”

“I’ll end up in a homeless shelter before I make my sister fuck you,” Saint mutters.

“Jesus Christ! I’m not buying your sister! Well, I am, but I’m not paying for sex.” I rub my forehead where a giant throbbing ache starts. “Fuck, I meant I want her to agree to a minimum of one year of marriage, living with me in my apartment until you pay Creed back the money.” Or I go to prison. I leave out that part but will add in a clause in the agreement that gives her an out if I’m incarcerated.

“So, you’ll offer up a hundred million as collateral to just live with my sister for a year?” Saint asks.

“Yes.”

“As someone who has lived with her for thirty-three years, I commend your…bravery. Her fangs are sharp.”

“Do you want the goddamn money or not?” Creed asks. “Because it sounds like you’re trying to talk Dre out of this idiotic idea of his.”

“No, that’s not…yes, Stella and I will both sign whatever you draw up,” he huffs with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Then we have a deal,” Creed agrees.

And just like that, I bought myself a wife that may end up costing me everything if her brother fucks me over.

Two hundred million dollars.

Jesus. I had no idea the Rovinas were in such deep shit, or that Saint would offer up his sister for that much cash.

No wonder they finally agreed to this damn marriage.

It makes me feel a little bit guilty I still want to marry the woman, even knowing she’s only agreeing to it to save her family’s business and reputation.

Glancing between me and Creed, Saint says, “I assume you’ll want to wait until after the wedding before loaning us the money?”

My cousin eyes me with a single arched eyebrow and I shrug, leaving it up to him.

“As a show of good faith, if you’ll provide me with the account numbers, then I’ll try to send the money to you by the end of the day tomorrow,” he offers.

Saint’s shoulders sag in relief. “I appreciate the trust you’re putting in me and your willingness to expedite the funds.”

“That’s one of the many benefits of this alliance — trust.”

“Right.” Saint clears his throat. “There’s one other thing I need to ask you for as part of this alliance.”

“Are you shitting me?” Creed mutters, sounding so putout I can’t tell if he’s just playing the part of not looking too eager or if he’s seriously getting fed up with the kid. “You can ask, and we’ll consider it, but I think two hundred million is more than enough for this union, considering what my family will get in return.”

A difficult woman who is going to, no doubt, make my life hell and a debt hanging over my head is what he doesn’t need to say.

“I understand, but this is just as important to me and my family as the money.” Saint grips the armrests on the chair tightly.

“Then by all means, let’s hear it.”

Nodding, Saint says, “When the time comes, I want you to back me up when I go after the Sannas.”

Oh, fucking hell.

“You know the rules,” Creed says, carefully walking the line Saint is trying to draw. “You can’t go after Aiden Sanna unless you have proof he’s responsible for Izaiah’s disappearance or your father’s death, which the police have already ruled as a suicide.”

“I’ll find proof,” Saint says as he stubbornly crosses his arms. “Even though I’d think my brother’s car being found not only in their fucking borough but within spitting distance to one of the Sanna’s taxi companies would be more than enough to place blame on them.”

“The police are still investigating Izaiah’s case as a missing person. If or when he shows up, then you may finally get your evidence. Until then…we can’t start a war based on a few assumptions.”

The fact Creed can lie so easily is no surprise to me, even if he’s doing it to cover his own ass. At least Creed had Izaiah’s admission of guilt for his brother, Carmine’s, death before he killed him. Not that anyone will ever know about that…

Well, not unless Bowen Bertelli runs his mouth. That’s a loose end I’ll need to discuss with Creed later.

“But if I get the proof…” Saint trails off.

“If you get the proof, we’ll help you take out Aiden Sanna,” Creed agrees. “Do we have a deal?” He holds his palm out across the desk.

Saint nods and shakes his hand, sealing their alliance with my financial backing, and basically selling us his sister for two hundred million dollars.

“I thought Stella was going to join our meeting,” I say once our business seems to be concluded.

“You’re welcome to go look for her while we finish up here,” Saint says, apparently trying to get rid of me while the two bosses talk more business.

Still, I don’t have to be told twice before I get to my feet and leave the office in search of my bride to be.

* * *

Stella

Hearing masculine voices from my room on the second floor, I check my reflection in the mirror one last time. My cream cropped sweater is casual and warm enough, matching my newly purchased cashew-colored sueded ankle boots. But the leather, caramel leggings appear poured on, making my ass look fantastic.

Running my fingers through my long hair that’s so black it’s nearly blue, I stride out of the room and down the stairs confident in my look and plan I came up with while I was getting ready thanks to Annie’s advice.

My step still nearly falters when a gruff voice says, “There’s my beautiful bride.”

Andre Ferraro is at the bottom of the stairs gawking up at me, or more specifically, the bottom of my gaping cropped sweater. As I slowly strut down the rest of the stairs, I can’t help but notice his thick frame strains nearly every inch of the material of his dark grey suit but especially along his broad shoulders and around his thick thighs.

The top buttons of his white dress shirt are open, revealing a thick, dark patch of chest hair that’s the same chocolate brown color as the carefully styled locks on his head and tidy beard.

It should be a crime for enemies to look so damn good.

When my gaze finally settles on his unique amber eyes, I find them heavy-lidded. They rake down my outfit, as if thoughts of fucking me already dance in his head.

I warn the bastard, “There are conditions to my acceptance in addition to the ones my brother may have mentioned to you.”

During the hour I showered, did my hair and makeup, and dressed, I thought about how I could set the terms of this arrangement to get something out of it for myself. To take back some control in a situation I was guilted into agreeing to.

Here’s hoping the mobster attorney will go along with them.

Andre blinks and some of the lust disperses from his dark eyes as he watches my every step down toward him until we’re close enough to touch. Close enough for me to smell the whiskey on his breath, making me long for a drink myself. Finally, his eyes find mine. “You have your own conditions?”

“Yes.”

He slips his hands into his pants pockets and shrugs as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. “Okay. Let me have them.”

“My first condition is that married or not, you don’t get to touch me without my explicit permission. There’s not going to be any implied consent either. If I don’t say the words, you don’t lay a finger on me.”

“Agreed,” he says way too easily. I guess time will tell whether he’ll actually keep his word once we say our vows. “What else?” he asks, his words brisk either because he wants me to hurry up and spit my conditions out or because he’s already annoyed by them.

“Secondly, earning my explicit permission requires an adequate amount of begging.”

“Begging?” Andre repeats, arching one heavy eyebrow.

“That’s right. On your knees showing complete supplication while saying the word ‘please.’”

“If you want me to kneel before you, I’ll kneel and say please every damn day and twice on Sunday. You have no idea the lengths I’ll go to just to be close enough for a sniff of your pussy. I’d kill for a single lick.”

Well…that wasn’t the response I expected from him. I thought the arrogant mobster would scoff and tell me he doesn’t have to beg for anything.

And I hate that the handsome asshole’s words are all it takes to make my panties wet.

I should’ve come up with more conditions, because I don’t know how long I can resist this man if he actually puts his money where his mouth is, literally.

“Do you want me to get on my knees right here?”

Before I can answer the bastard goes down on one knee before me. “Stella Rovina, will you pretty please marry me?” Smirking, his right hand slips inside his suit jacket to pull out a baby blue jewelry box. He then holds it out, offering it to me.

I snatch it from him and pry open the top, telling myself I’m just curious to see what sort of ring the mob attorney picked out. Right, that’s why my heart is thumping about a thousand beats a minute.

I nearly gasp when I see the princess cut solitaire on a platinum and diamond band. It’s breathtakingly beautiful. The diamond is so clear it doesn’t look real.

“How many carats?” I ask as I study the way the hallway light makes the diamond glisten.

“Ten,” Andre replies while still on his knee.

Wow. “How much?”

“Does it matter?” he scoffs. When I just stare down at him in expectation, he eventually clears his throat and caves. “Four hundred.”

“Not bad,” I say even though I’m thoroughly impressed. For an arranged marriage to a man who only sees me as someone he wants to fuck, I expected between three and five carats at most, no more than fifty thousand.

Ten carats, four hundred thousand dollars’ worth of diamond means he’s trying very hard to win me over right out the gate. Too bad there’s no diamond big enough in the world to make me want to be with a Ferraro.

“We can take it back for something else if you don’t like it.”

“It’s fine,” I mumble when I pluck it out of the pillow, hand him back the empty box, and slide the diamond unceremoniously onto my ring finger.

While it looks amazing on my hand, I worry I’ll slam it into something and shatter it. The damn thing is worth more money than I’ve ever possessed personally. My mom is going to lose her mind over it, which actually makes me smile.

My mom is also a human lie detector. She’s always known when me or one of my siblings were full of shit or up to something. As soon as she sees me and Andre in a room together, she’ll take one look at my face and know I can barely stand to share oxygen with him, much less my body, heart, and soul.

I could practice smiling in the mirror until it looks authentic, but that won’t be enough.

I’m going to need Andre’s full participation if I want to convince my mom this is a real romance, and that I want to marry him.

Looking at the man still down on one knee, he’s eyeing the strip of my revealed stomach with a raw, hungry intensity, like he could get off just from that small tease of my skin.

“Get up,” I tell him before peering over at the guards at the front door who silently watch this whole exchange. Then, lowering my voice even though I know she won’t overhear us even if we’re screaming, I tell him, “I have another condition. Make that two.”

Andre blinks at me. “I just remembered you and your brother are twins.”

“What do you mean?” I ask in confusion.

“You’re both fucking relentless with your list of demands.” His words might be harsh, but I can tell by his soft tone that he’s teasing. In fact, I think I could stand here all night adding on conditions and he would agree to every single one just for the chance to try to fuck me once we’re married.

When he braces his hands on his hips, the movement causes his suit jacket to peel back revealing the obscenely large bulge in the front of his pants. Damn, he’s a big boy.

“Well? Give it to me, baby. The suspense is killing me,” he huffs while I ogle his package.

My stupid lips try to lift into a smile at his response before I bite my bottom lip to stop them. Clearing my throat, I give him my final conditions. Or at least the last ones I can think of tonight.

“Nobody else touches me. Ever.”

“Could you be more specific?”

“If your boss or any of your other…family members try to lay a finger on me, I’ll kill them.”

“Nobody will even think about touching you,” Andre growls. “I don’t fucking share. If they try, they deserve worse than death.”

“Right,” I reply, unsure if I believe his claim or not. Mob bosses are, well, bosses. They demand loyalty to the family first and foremost.

“I love these requirements of yours so far — proving my loyalty, begging, and killing are a few of my favorite things. So, what’s your final demand, mia dolce vipera ?”

His sweet viper? Oh, in his dreams.

“When we’re in my mother’s presence, you have to pretend you’re in love with me.”

“You want me to pretend I’m in love with you?” Andre repeats slowly.

“Yes.” Sniffing as I lower my eyes to pick a piece of lint off my sweater, I add, “And you shouldn’t act shocked if I pretend to do the same.”

“You expect me to pretend I’m in love with you, and I can’t show surprise if you pretend like you’re in love with me?”

“That’s right. My mom…she’s not doing well.”

“I’m sorry,” he says with what sounds like genuine sympathy. “And that condition should be easy enough for me to handle as long as you’ve figured out a way to explain why I haven’t come around before?”

“Yes, I have that part covered,” I huff in annoyance.

“Anything else?”

Okay, so that was easier than I expected. Either Andre is lying or he’s going to be a gigantic pushover.

“That’s it for now, but I may think of other conditions later on.”

“And what’s in this marriage for me?” he asks as he holds my gaze. “Your brother wants more money than I’ve ever seen from Creed and our support when he goes after Aiden Sanna. That seems like a huge risk to us, while all we get is a piece of paper that says the Rovinas and Ferraros are one big happy family. And…I don’t get to ever touch you unless I beg appropriately and obtain your permission.”

Well, honestly, I hadn’t thought about offering Andre anything. But between my conditions and my brother’s demands for hundreds of millions of dollars, I can’t expect him to go along with all of this while getting nothing in return.

Maybe it was his talk about the things he’d do on his knees, but the thought of being naked with Andre doesn’t make me want to toss my cookies. This way I’m still taking control, just as Annie suggested, and my family will get the money it desperately needs.

That’s why I reluctantly decide to offer Andre what I know he’s wanted for years. What I haven’t been willing to give to any man in over a decade but will concede for this instance since it’ll still be my decision on the how and when.

After a moment, I tell Andre, “ If you succeed in convincing my mom that we’re happy and in love then I’ll give you one night, our wedding night.” I guess it’s time to break my sobriety as well. There will be plenty of alcohol for me to consume at the reception so I hopefully won’t even remember the rest of the night.

“One night for what exactly?” Andre asks softly. His chest rises and falls more rapidly, and I swear the bulge in the front of his tight pants somehow gets significantly larger.

“One night for you to finally get all of that ” — I wave my hand toward his dick — “out of your system.”

“An entire night to fuck you?” he asks as if he needs clarification. His voice sounds a little terse for some reason.

“All night? No. That will depend entirely on how the first round goes.” When he doesn’t respond, I cross my arms, drawing his eye to the low cut of my top and the cleavage I know it reveals. “Well? Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted from me?”

“Hell yes.”

I shouldn’t enjoy hearing his adamant declaration of desire for me, but I do.

“Then you’ll get it, if you’re convincing enough that my mom doesn’t suspect this marriage was my father’s idea and Saint’s urging. After our wedding night, any physical intimacy will be my decision alone.”

Andre’s brow furrows in thought while he frowns. Now that I think about it, I’ve hardly ever seen his handsome face scowl without the crease between his eyebrows, as if he’s always worried or plotting some mobster shit. I expect him to counter with another offer, like a week or one night a month during the length of our entire marriage instead of just one night. Instead, he says, “Can I touch you when we’re in front of your mother without your explicit permission and begging?”

I scoff. “No, you can’t grope me in front of my dying mother!”

He winces, either at my refusal or the reminder that my mom’s days are numbered. “I didn’t say grope. I said touch you, like two people who are in love would do. You know, holding hands. That sort of thing. If I have to ask, then it won’t look very real…”

Is the mobster seriously asking about holding my hand? And why can’t I come up with a reason to deny that odd request?

“I guess subtle, appropriate touching would be tolerable. As long as you keep your hands above my waist,” I tack on even if it may be unnecessary.

“Can I kiss you?”

“What?” I grit out between my clenched teeth.

“When we’re playing the happy couple, can I kiss you without the groveling or prior consent? It’s not going to be very convincing if you don’t allow me a peck on the cheek here or there or if you cringe away from me at the end of our wedding ceremony.” Before I can respond to his request, he adds, “It’ll be like practice for when we have to kiss in front of hundreds of people that day, including your mother who will be sitting in the front row.”

“If she’s able to get out of bed that day,” I mutter.

“She’s that bad off?” Andre asks with a deepening frown as if the talk about my mother’s cancer is killing his libido. In fact, a quick glance confirms he’s visibly less aroused than he was just seconds ago. Good to know for future reference.

“Yes, she’s that bad off. She’s dying. Her doctors think it’ll be a miracle if she makes it to the end of the year,” I tell him. “And if I’m going to be the only one who gets married before that happens, then I don’t want her to worry about me or know I’m miserable in an arranged marriage that the ghost of my father convinced Saint to go along with.”

“Why are you so confident you’ll be miserable? You won’t even give me the benefit of the doubt before you decide?”

“This marriage is nothing but a business arrangement my brother thinks our family needs,” I remind him. “Other than in front of my mom and our wedding night, I don’t want anything to do with you.”

“Understood,” he grumbles before he turns and walks toward the front door as if to leave.

His broad shoulders are slightly slumped underneath his suit jacket, making me feel just a tiny bit bad for my honesty.

Only a tiny bit, though.

There’s nothing Andre Ferraro will be able to say or do to change my mind about him and this marriage of ours.

But since my mother’s days are limited, I find myself following him out into the cold winter night without a coat. “Wait,” I tell him.

Andre stops on the stairs to glance over his shoulder, brows raised, waiting for whatever I have to say. I ignore the guards listening to our every word.

“Tomorrow. You should come over and meet her. She’s already asleep tonight.”

He gives me a nod of agreement. “What time?”

“Six o’clock.”

“I’ll be here,” he agrees and then strides toward an SUV idling at the curb and climbs in the passenger seat.

When I head back inside the house, it occurs to me he may want something from me in exchange for meeting my mom tomorrow.

And that thought is going to keep me up tonight.