Page 17 of Precious Hazard (Perfectly Imperfect #11)

“I want you to stay away from my sister, DeVille,” Drago barks, getting in my face.

“It’s a good thing I don’t give a fuck what you want, then,” I grumble. “Should I remind you that just a handful of months ago, we were in a similar situation? Only then, my sister was set to marry a demented asshole. You!”

“My point exactly. And you”—Drago shoves his finger into my chest, snarling—“her dear brother, whose duty it was to protect her, did nothing.”

He’s got some gall, insinuating that I don’t care about my sister as much as he does for his. As if I wouldn’t give my life for Sienna, or for Asya. I would, without blinking an eye.

My fingers curl into a fist, but I force myself to stay focused. I need this dick to believe our goddamned lie. Romance. Love. Wedding. That’s the ball game. The rules are murky, but I can’t get called on an offside.

“Sienna is a grown woman, capable of making her own decisions. Just as Tara is. Based on what I’ve seen from her so far, she can hold her own,” I say.

“Really? Well, let me tell you a few things about her that you may not have noticed. My sister is the most bullheaded creature on this earth. She’s stubborn, loudmouthed, and convinced she can accomplish anything she sets her mind to.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“Of course you did. But here’s the rub. Most of the things she tackles on her own end up a fucking disaster.

” A tick works in his jaw, and he draws a deep breath before continuing.

“Tara is a beautiful mess. But there’s nothing she won’t do for someone she loves.

If they needed a lung transplant, she wouldn’t hesitate to ravage half the world to locate a suitable donor.

She’d maim, mangle, or kill if she had to, and she’d do it without remorse.

Using her bare hands, she’d rip that organ out and present it to a surgeon atop her still blood-soaked palms. Except, she’d be holding a goddamned liver. Not a lung.”

I burst out laughing. Yup, I can fucking believe it. Can totally picture her doing that.

“Mm-hmm. That. That condescending guffaw is exactly what I mean,” Drago sneers.

“The only thing you got out of that story is that Tara would royally screw something up. The rest didn’t even register.

The fact that she’d be willing to murder in broad daylight for the sake of someone she loves.

You get that?” His lip curls as he glares at me.

“My sister deserves a man who will love and cherish her. Just as she is. A man who will not diminish the things she excels at simply because she makes a mistake or two along the way. And you… You are not that man, DeVille.”

The grin dies on my face as the meaning of his words hits me.

“So go on your little date or whatever,” he continues. “God knows, Tara doesn’t react well to being ordered around, so I won’t bother trying to strong-arm her into dumping your ass. Soon enough, she’ll realize it herself. She’ll see that you’re not worthy of her.”

As Popov strides away, heading across the entry hall toward the interior of the house, my fist itches to connect with his self-assured face.

While I’m trying to quell the urge to chase him down and ram his accusations into his ugly mug, a joyful giggle rings out on the upper level.

I glance upward, spotting Sienna skipping down the wooden stairway.

She’s in her blinding red-and-yellow onesie thingy that sparkles in the blazing sunlight.

The glow on the sequins rivals the twinkle in her eyes as she leaps off the second stair straight into Popov’s open arms. As if she doesn’t need oxygen to breathe, she bursts into nonstop chatter about matching raincoats for the dogs. That’s my Sienna.

A tightness grips my chest as I look at my sister with her husband.

They are so… happy. Carefree. In love. I can’t deny it.

This asshole really does love my sister.

They have… something that isn’t in the cards for me.

That all-consuming desire and devotion. A marriage filled with passion, with love.

I loathe to admit it, even to myself, but Ajello was right.

I have been keeping busy just to escape the sudden emptiness in the house.

But that’s not the main reason for my lack of a social life.

I fuck. Here and there. Like every other red-blooded guy, I need an occasional release.

Hell, sex is sex, but what it isn’t, what I won’t ever allow it to become, is an excuse to form an emotional attachment.

I’ve gone to great lengths not to catch feelings for any of my partners.

I simply don’t have the capacity to let myself care for anyone else anymore.

After fifteen years of being the sole parent to my sisters, worrying and obsessing over all the possible ways they could get hurt because of me, my line of work…

After living in constant fear that I’ll somehow fuck up…

I can’t. I can’t allow myself to feel that much.

Especially not since Asya was kidnapped and missing for months.

And then Sienna tried to kill herself. I lost my fucking mind then.

Never again.

Thank God both Asya and Sienna are now happy with men who would willingly lay down their lives for them.

They are safe. I’ll always love them, will always be there if they ever need anything from me, but I’m not looking to replace taking care of my sisters with caring for anyone else.

In particular, a wife. I don’t need a relationship that would bring on that crippling fear again.

But knowing how hell-bent the Family is on upholding traditions, I always knew an arranged marriage was a possibility.

If it came to that, I assumed it would involve a woman who was raised aware of what would be expected of her.

Someone meek and obedient, someone suited to be the spouse of a Cosa Nostra underboss.

Someone I’d be able to keep at arm’s length.

Despite outward appearances, most arranged marriages in Cosa Nostra are loveless matches.

Oh, the couples put on a good show to convince everyone otherwise, but the unions are nothing more than business transactions.

And that kind of setup is right up my alley because love isn’t for me.

Never will be. But knowing that… it doesn’t diminish the bitter burn scorching my throat.

Swallowing down the acid, I turn on my heel and step out of Popov’s home.

My car is parked on the other side of the driveway, with an awed-looking Riggo behind the wheel, staring straight ahead.

As I figured, Tara isn’t inside. With her arms crossed over her chest, still gripping the tattered bouquet of roses, Drago’s sister is perched on the hood of the car, scowling in my direction.

This woman seems to be suffering from a compulsion of not doing as she’s told.

It’s one of the many things we’ll need to address before she can be presented to the Family as my chosen bride.

Pressed into the marriage or not, Mrs. DeVille will need to behave as is expected of her standing.

“You appear to be unharmed,” she mumbles as I approach.

“And you seem unhappy about it.”

“I guess. I hoped Drago would rough you up, even if just a bit.”

“That’s a rather cocksure attitude you have there. Did it never occur to you that it might be your brother who ended up worse for wear?” I open the car door for her and nod. “Get in.”

Graceful as a gazelle, she leaps to the ground. Then, she makes a show of sweeping her eyes from the top of my head to my feet, and back up again until our gazes collide.

“Oh please. What would you have done? Threatened to smack him with your award for the Most Uptight Man of the Year ? Or maybe smear your hair gel in his face?”

“I don’t use fucking hair gel,” I snap.

The corners of her lips lift into a smirk. “Hmm, could have fooled me.”

I grip the door handle so hard that I nearly rip it off. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. Madonna Santa, please have mercy and give me the strength not to choke this woman to death before our wedding day.