Page 37 of Dirty Game (Broken Blood #1)

Varrick

Villa Serenita, a private villa on Lake Como, looks like something from a billionaire’s murder mystery—white stone, terraced gardens, cypress trees standing at attention, every window squared and gleaming.

I picked it for the security. Rosa picked it for the view.

She hasn’t seen the outside yet.

She’s sequestered herself in the north suite, door locked, curtains drawn, as she gets ready for the day.

Our wedding.

They say it’s bad luck to see the bride before the ceremony.

I say fuck luck, but I respect tradition when it serves a purpose.

I stand by the balcony, watching the boats crawl past, watching the guards reposition every hour on the hour, watching the distant hills for anything that moves.

My suit is black, cut like a second skin, shoulders armored with just enough Kevlar to slow a 9mm at close range.

The tie is burgundy, knotted perfectly, the shirt white enough to show every drop of blood if it comes to that. I hope it doesn’t.

We intentionally only invited thirty people. Keep things small.

My bride deserves the day of her dreams, one without bloodshed and old vendettas and that’s exactly what I’ll fucking give her.

In the next room, Dante sits on the bed, legs dangling, shoes too new and stiff for his feet.

He holds the ring bearer’s pillow like it’s a bomb he’s been told not to touch.

The rings are platinum, double thick, one for me, one for Rosalynn, neither engraved, neither soft.

He stares at them with the same intense curiosity he brings to everything, like he’s waiting for them to explode.

He’s close to six now, but most days he feels older.

He calls me “Papa” now. Not “King.” Not “Varrick.”

That’s her influence.

I’m still not used to it but I thank her everyday for being the soft woman she is.

He also deserves the world. One I will gladly die for.

I walk over, kneel until my head is level with his. “You know your job?” I ask.

He nods, solemn. “Give you the rings. Don’t drop them. Stand still for the pictures.”

“Good,” I say. “You remember what happens after?”

He smiles. “We go to the party. Eat cake. Then… then Rosa becomes my mom.”

The words hit hard and I almost forget to breathe. I ruffle his hair, which he hates, but he endures it. He’d endure anything, this boy.

“You like her?” I ask.

He thinks about it, then shrugs. “She’s nice. She knows how to do math in her head. I like when she reads to me at night. Sometimes she lets me sleep in the fort.”

“She’s a good mom,” I say, and even as I say it, I believe it.

He nods. “I know.”

I stand, straighten his jacket, fix the tie that’s already gone crooked.

He looks like a miniature assassin, all black and white, not a trace of childhood in his face.

He’s my son. God help him.

“Wait here,” I say. “Don’t open the door for anyone but me or Cyrus.”

He nods and patiently waits.

I step into the hallway, corridor lined with original oil paintings and furniture so expensive it looks uncomfortable.

Moving through the villa, every step mapped and measured, every corner covered by security cams and men I trust to bleed for me.

Korrin stands at the top of the stairs, arms folded, eyes scanning the courtyard. He looks like he wants to say something, but doesn’t.

He’s come around to Rosalynn and I appreciate his trust in me.

Downstairs, the main hall is being transformed—red roses, white lilies, glass vases taller than most men, every surface scrubbed and polished.

I check my watch and there’s less than three hours until the ceremony.

Walking towards the north wing, past the kitchen where the caterers work like ants, past the server room where two of my men monitor encrypted radio traffic and drone feeds over the lake.

We are well insulated here, protected.

The door to the suite is closed. I knock, soft enough not to startle. No answer.

I open it anyway.

Rosalynn stands at the window, wearing a white slip, arms wrapped around herself, staring down at the terrace where the chairs are being set up.

She hears the door, turns, and for a second I see the girl I rescued months ago—shy, brittle, afraid to take up space.

Then she sees it’s me, and the fear drops away, replaced by something softer.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she says.

“I don’t care,” I reply. “I wanted to see you.”

She blinks, eyes wet but unashamed. “Is everything ready?”

“Almost.” I watch her. She trembles, just a little, hands folded under her chin. “You’re not nervous.”

It’s not a question, but she answers anyway. “I’m always nervous.”

I cross the room, stand behind her. She leans back, letting my hands rest on her arms. I feel every shiver.

“You can back out,” I whisper. “No one would blame you.”

She turns, looks me dead in the eye. “Would you?”

I shake my head. “No. I don’t blame people for surviving.”

She tries to smile, fails. “You think that’s what this is? Survival?”

“It’s what you do best,” I say.

She laughs, a quiet thing. “You’re wrong. What I do best is be someone’s regret.”

I want to tell her that’s not true.

“I’ll see you down there,” I say, and step away. As I start to close the door, she calls after me.

“Varrick?”

I pause.

“I never thought I’d be worth this much,” she says. “I don’t know how to be… important to someone.”

“You don’t have to know,” I say. “Just don’t leave us.”

She nods, and I close the door behind me.

Before I know it, I’m in the courtyard and my nerves are hitting me, hard.

Everything is perfect. Beautiful… almost as beautiful as my Rosa.

My soon to be wife.

Wife.

Korrin stands behind me, clearing his throat before putting his hand on my shoulder. Cyrus is with Rosalynn.

“You ready?” he asks.

I nod. “As I’ll ever be.”

He glances at the sky. “Rain’s holding off. Good omen.”

“Don’t believe in omens,” I say.

He smiles, the rare one that reaches his eyes. “You’re about to get married. You better start believing in something.”

The guests file in, taking their seats. Friends. Trusted allies. My closest circle.

The music starts, low and slow, some old Italian thing picked by the event planner.

The doors to the north wing open, and Rosalynn steps out, arm hooked through Cyrus’.

I asked my brother to give her away so she wouldn’t feel so alone. He accepted, said something like how her family didn’t deserve the honor.

She walks slow, every step careful, her eyes never leaving mine.

A deep burgundy dress that shows off her curves, her skin, as imperfect as it is.

Beautiful. Perfect.

Mine.

I see the scars, the bruises that haven’t quite faded. She is radiant despite them all.

Perhaps even because of them.

Living art that shows what she’s endured and what she’s become.

My Queen.

At the front, Cyrus hands her off to me, but not before whispering in her ear, “You’re one of us now.” She blinks hard, but doesn’t cry.

The priest looks to me, then to Rosalynn, and says, “You may now repeat after me.”

She’s trembling

I give her my hand in case she needs something solid.

She takes it, fingers cold and slim but steady enough.

He begins, “I, Varrick, take you, Rosalynn, to be my lawfully wedded wife. To keep secret your secrets, to shelter you from every storm, to be your sword and shield when the world demands tribute. I will not ask you to change. I will only ask you to stay alive with me, and to fight for each other in all things, from this hour until the last hour.”

I repeat it, word for word. The weight of it surprises me.

He turns to her. “Rosalynn, repeat after me. I, Rosalynn, take you, Varrick, to be my lawfully wedded husband. To trust you when I am afraid, to be your peace when you are at war, to hold your anger and your joy with equal hands. I promise to let you see every part of me, even the broken pieces, even the history I am ashamed of. I will not run from you, or from us. From now until forever, you are my home.”

She repeats it, voice just above a murmur, but it carries. The guests lean in, breathless, as if she’s reciting high poetry instead of just the truth.

When she says “you are my home,” her chin wobbles but she does not break.

The priest nods, satisfied.

We skip the rings, at first.

Instead, I pull a small blade from my pocket, thumb the edge, and hold it out to her.

She knows what to do.

She takes the knife, draws it across her palm, shallow but enough to bleed.

I do the same.

We press our hands together, blood mixing, our souls binding in eternity. The priest doesn’t react, but I see a few of the guests shift in their seats, unsure if this is tradition or insanity.

“Blood of my blood,” I say.

She smiles, “Heart of my heart.”

“Son.”

Dante steps forward, his face beaming as he looks between us, doing such a perfect job holding out the pillow.

Rosalynn leans down and kisses the top of his head.

I slip the ring on her finger, the metal sticky with blood as it slides down.

She does the same. Our hands shake, but we don’t let go.

The priest declares us husband and wife, but I don’t hear it.

I’m watching Rosalynn, watching the way her shoulders drop, the way her mouth twitches like she’s trying not to smile.

I lean in, kiss her—hard, no performance, just the raw need to mark her as mine.

She kisses me back, and for a moment, the world stops.

***