Page 31 of Groom Gamble
“Right. Good. That’s good.” She takes a deep breath. “What if they don’t like me?”
“Then I’ll kill them.” Her hand is so small in mine.
“Dex!” she chides, but there’s laughter in her voice. “Gaining the approval of these people is the reason you married me. Murder isn’t going to achieve that.”
“If anyone disrespects you in the slightest, they’ll be fertilising the roses on Streatham Common,” I mutter, and I’m saved from responding to Sophia about what I mean by a deferential young man taking our coats. Bone meal and blood are excellent for roses, and Streatham has won best-kept part of London since my grandfather’s time. My father even contributedpersonally.
At the entrance to the private dining room, I pause and tighten my grip on Sophia’s hand. We’re only a few minutes late, but everyone is already sitting around a long table set with pristine white cloths and tableware.
Westminster notices us first, almost immediately, as he does nearly everything going on in the London Mafia Syndicate. He stands up, smirks, and claps. Within seconds they’re all on their feet, smiling and offering congratulations.
“Fuck’s sake, not another marriage,” grumbles Richmond. “It’s like bloody Vegas around here.”
The fury is fast and hot. Sophia is nothing so crass as a Vegas bride, and I’m about to put him right when there’s a tug from Sophia on my arm. When I look down at her, she has that “What are you doing?” expression. It’s cool water over my temper.
None of this matters. Only her.
“This is my wife, Sophia Streatham.” I love the ownership that has her name paired with mine. “Darling, this is the London Mafia Syndicate.”
There are nods and hellos, and a dizzying array of introductions and we take our seats between Westminster and Canary Wharf. I’ve never much cared for the way couples are seated beside each other with the men and women paired, but I see the sense of it now. It means there isn’t a man next to my wife, and I can relax a bit.
“I’m so glad you two have a love match!” The wife of the Canary Wharf kingpin, Adi Cavendish, beams at Sophia. I think only I would recognise that Sophia’s returned smile is underlaid with horror.
Because it’s not a love match, is it? Sophia thinks we’re fooling them all for my sake. When in fact, I’m pretending to love her, whilst pretending not to love her, and using them as an excuse.
A complete mess.
“Do you like to read?” Adi asks with a smile once the food is being served and the worst of the small talk is done. “You’re welcome to join the London Maths Club, also known as our little reading group?”
“Oh, there’s a book club?” Sophia pauses.
“Look, this is a problem,” Lina leans across the table, and says in a tone that suggests this is not the first time she’s made this point, “It’s the London Mafia Smut Club. No one will join if they think it has to do with maths.”
“Maths isn’t that bad,” Cassie, who is one of the Blackwood triplets’ wives, interjects from the other end of the table.
“Clearly we’re doing fine for recruitment, because Sophia is going to join,” Adi replies.
Lina rolls her eyes. “You’re just protecting your husband?—”
“So, there’s no maths club?” Sophia asks.
Westminster and Mayfair share a look.
Canary Wharf folds his arms. “I’m not taking responsibility for the continued shitshow about the maths club.”
“What is the London Maths Club?” Sophia asks quietly.
And honestly, I’m glad she’s asked, because I’ve never inquired why a mafia syndicate loves maths-themed jokes.
“It stands for Mobsters And Thugs Hate Spaghetti,” says Angel, straight-faced.
“Hey!” Marco Brent bangs the table. “I love spaghetti.”
Jessa smirks. “The Maths Club refers to the obsession of this lot with comparing the size of theirmagic numbers…”
“Nothing wrong with a large… Number of kills,” adds her husband, Grant Lambeth.
“One of the babies had a lisp,” says Anwyn, Westminster’s wife, blinking innocently. “Couldn’t say mafia and it caught on.”