Page 25 of Desperate Crimes (Mergers & Acquisitions #6)

N ico.

My Nico.

Dressed in black from head to toe.

Those unholy, glowing blue eyes locked on me like I’m a target.

He is exactly as I imagined.

A storm wrapped in tailored linen and purpose.

He moves like violence waiting to happen.

Like sin carved into flesh.

And he’s furious .

Just like his name.

“Uh-oh,” Clementine mutters under her breath. “That’s not a casual boyfriend look.”

The whole table watches as he stalks toward me.

Like he owns the place.

Like he owns me .

I stand. Or maybe I just rise because I have no choice.

He stops in front of me, breathing hard, jaw clenched.

“Hi Junior!” Aella says cheerfully.

Like it’s any other Monday night.

Traitor.

“Aella. Ladies. Hope you’re all having a nice evening.”

He greets them, but his gaze is locked on mine.

“Yup.”

“Thanks, Junior.”

“Um, you know what? I think Sammy is here. Yep. And looks like Connor is on his way too, Clementine,” Aella says, filling the air with nonsense.

The girls clear their throats.

Sammy walks in and joins us.

“You good, Lee-Lee?” My cousin looks at me, but I don’t do anything more than nod.

“Junior, you got this?” Sammy asks Nico.

He is my cousin, yes . But also, he’s Nico’s best friend since whenever.

“I fucking got this,” Nico growls.

Sammy pauses a beat. Then, he takes Aella’s hand, draws her into his embrace, and they leave.

The others go too. They all just slip away one by one, and the rest of the bar seems to go back to its own business.

He feels big. Heavy. The weight of his hurt, of his disappointment in me? It’s so heavy, I feel like I’m gonna collapse.

Finally, he speaks, and even though his words are short, it’s like forgiveness.

“You left .”

“I went home.”

He glances at the table where I’d been sitting with my girls, then back at me.

“And now you’re out. Laughing. Drinking.”

“Is that a crime?”

“No,” he says, low and lethal. “But leaving me is.”

I blink. Glance to the side. I see them. Still there.

They didn’t leave like I thought.

Clementine is with Connor now. Aella’s with Sammy. And Cora and Jade complete their circle.

The girls are frozen in place, watching us from afar like we’re a soap opera come to life.

I think I hear Jade mutter something like, “Is it weird that I’m turned on?” and Clementine shushes her.

“I told you,” I say, stepping close enough that only he can hear me. “I have a life, Nico. You don’t get to just take that from me.”

He grits his teeth, nostrils flaring.

“Take from you? I gave you everything.”

“How? When? You didn’t say a word.”

“You weren’t listening, Princess. But you will now.”

His hand circles my wrist. I pull against it to no avail.

“I won’t go with you.”

“Yes, you will. I will drag you back if I have to,” he whispers, deadly quiet.

The bar is loud—too loud for a weekday.

Montclair’s always a little too cool for its own good, and this trendy spot, with its Edison bulbs and overpriced cocktails, is no exception.

The air smells like citrus zest, gin, and too much perfume. Laughter rings out from a bachelorette party to our left. A group of businessmen snort and jest loudly, making obscene jokes.

But none of that registers.

Because Nico Fury Jr. is standing in front of me like something I dreamed of once upon a time. The perfect antihero. A villain in tailored black and inked forearms, his sapphire gaze pinning me to the floor.

“Don’t test me.”

His voice is low and dangerous, the kind that makes your stomach drop and your thighs clench.

I swallow. Hard.

But instead of fear?

A dangerous thrill zips through my bloodstream like a lit fuse.

Because God help me— I want him to. I want him to snap. To claim. To take.

How else will I know if he really means it? If he really wants me?

The heat between us is unbearable, thrumming like a third heartbeat in the space where we stand.

Every inch of me is hyperaware of him—his broad chest rising and falling, the cut of his jaw, the tension vibrating off him like a live wire about to snap.

Then, because Fate is a funny motherfucker, someone bumps into his shoulder.

A drunk guy, too loose-limbed and unaware of the fuse he’s just lit.

Nico doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even blink.

The man turns around, swaying a little, and claps a friendly hand to Nico’s shoulder like they’re old college buddies.

“Hey there, pal. Sorry about that. Whoa, look at you two. Say, I don’t think she wants to go with you, pal. Why don’t you?—”

That’s all he gets out.

In a blink, Nico drives his elbow back and up— precision perfect —into the guy’s throat.

The man doubles over, choking, gasping, eyes bulging.

No one notices yet. They don’t get the chance.

Because Sammy, ever efficient, materializes behind him and guides the sputtering guy gently into a chair.

“Just breathe, pal . Nice and slow,” he says, calm as ever.

But Nico?

He never even looks away from me.

Not once.

I’m trembling. And not from fear.

My thighs press together, helpless against the throb building between them.

Holy. Fuck.

I’m just as crazy as he is.

And maybe that’s why— when Nico squeezes where he’s holding onto my wrist and tugs —I don’t run. I don’t argue.

I go.

Docile as a lamb.

Or maybe something darker.

He leads me out of the bar, one possessive hand at the small of my back, guiding me like I’m already his.

The late summer air hits my skin like a slap— cool and sobering —but not enough to break the spell.

A sleek black limo waits by the curb.

The door opens before we reach it, and Nico nudges me inside. I don’t resist.

But the surprise waiting inside stops me short.

We’re not alone.

Seated in the back of the limo is an older man, white hair, beard, and he’s wearing— what the hell —is that a priest’s collar?

Nico’s voice is a command. Sharp. Cold.

“Leanna, this is Preacher. Here.” He tosses my purse at the man, who catches it without flinching. “Her ID is inside. Use the portable scanner. You got the license?”

“Yes, Mr. Fury,” the man says with a reverence that has my heart hammering against my ribs.

He digs into my purse, pulls out my license.

Then, he takes a small scanner off the seat beside him, flips open the case and begins the process of copying my ID with all the speed and ease that tells me he’s done this before.

Nico doesn’t look at me.

He’s busy signing a stapled document Preacher hands him.

Then Nico holds it out to me with a pen.

“Sign it. Right there, Princess.”

I stare.

“I—what is this?”

“It’s a license,” he says, like it’s nothing.

“What kind of license?”

“A marriage License.”

Like it’s a casual Tuesday arrangement and not a declaration of lifelong possession.

My hand moves before my brain can catch up, pen trembling as I scrawl my name where he pointed.

Nico glances at Preacher.

“Now marry us.”

And just like that— the insane weekend we shared, my leaving, him chasing, the world outside, my doubts —they all fall away.

Because I am no longer just Leanna Volkov.

I’m his.

And he’s mine.

Whether the world is ready for us or not.