Page 28 of Precious Hazard (Perfectly Imperfect #11)

Murmurs trail behind me from both sides of the aisle, whispered tsk-tsks dog me from the right.

The groom’s side, where the Cosa Nostra members are seated.

None of that makes the fine hairs on my nape rise as does the look in the devil’s eyes.

I’ve come to recognize the carefully hidden hatred lingering in his chocolate-colored depths whenever his gaze turns to me.

That wrathful stare has been my constant companion over the past two weeks.

Ever since that staged kiss Arturo laid on me at Slava .

The kiss that, for me, didn’t feel fake at all.

Up to that point, things between us were moving in a cordial direction.

We even managed to have fun at times. But then, everything changed.

Since that day, DeVille has reverted to being Satan.

He’s been acting annoyed, and occasionally, outright mean.

We went out five more times to keep up appearances, and each of our interactions got progressively worse.

His recent animosity rivals his behavior on the night he tried to pin Stavros’s murder on me.

I’ve asked myself, what the hell happened?

What pushed him over the edge? I’m drawing a blank trying to rationalize his altered attitude, and frankly, the fact that I care is pissing me off.

He wants to be an asshole, he can be my guest. All it’s doing is making me feel less guilty over my choice of wedding dress.

With every step I take toward my groom, I see his fury. And a vow of retaliation. I want to look away, but can’t. It’s as if he’s somehow ensnared me, forcing my eyes to lock with his. It’s the same hypnotic feeling as when he kissed me. What is this power that DeVille wields?

His kisses have burrowed into my consciousness, dug so deep that I can’t erase the memories or the sensations they stirred.

And now he holds me captive, trapping me within his bottomless gaze.

Why can’t I tear myself away from that dangerous glint in his dark depths that burn like the fires of hell are raging within them?

Maybe he really is Satan personified.

“DeVille,” Drago says beside me as we close the distance to the altar. “Don’t make me kill you.”

“Tara will never be the reason you try.” DeVille’s smile lights up his face.

Drago kisses my cheek and turns away, taking a seat in the first row on the bride’s side. Leaving me standing next to my soon-to-be husband. A man who’s barely holding it together, narrowly restraining his urge to wipe me off this earth.

“Well played.” The velvety timbre of his voice makes me shudder. A menacing smirk pulls at his lips as he reaches out and grasps my hand in his. “But you’ll soon realize that not all victories are sweet, gattina nera .”

My throat feels so dry, it’s as if I’ve swallowed a wad of cotton balls. I force myself to look away, to focus on the wedding officiant. Luckily, he doesn’t appear to have heard my groom’s words. Those were for me only. Was it a threat? It didn’t actually sound like one. More like… like a promise.

Oh God, what have I done? I allowed a few crooked smiles and two shattering kisses to make me forget who he really is.

Went too far in a game I’m not sure I can win.

Did I truly believe I could fuck with the second-in-command of the New York Italian Mafia?

Did I expect to get away with it? Based on his steel grip on my hand, running is no longer an option.

My damn anxiety spikes to another level. Nothing I try seems to shake it off. It crawls up my spine like some multilegged creature, making me shudder and break out in a cold sweat.

I should have confided in my brother. If I had told Drago the truth, he would have found a way to get me out of this disaster, and we might have managed to resolve it without bloodshed.

But I was too stubborn to ask him for help.

Too proud to admit that I fucked up yet again.

And too terrified of the possibility that my latest screwup would lead to his death.

And now, it’s too late. With so many Cosa Nostra members present, calling everything off would be akin to a slap in the face. A blatant and very public sign of disrespect. And a potential cause for an open war between our two organizations.

The officiant has started speaking, but his words just wash over me, without any of their meaning penetrating. I stare at his moving lips as panic builds and builds within me. It’s getting harder and harder to draw a breath.

“I do.” Arturo’s voice thunders next to me, nearly making me flinch. Everything inside me tenses. This is real. I am getting married. To Arturo DeVille.

Switching his attention to me, the officiant slashes me with his reproachful gaze, as if I’ve committed an unspeakable crime. He speaks, but his words continue to elude me. Everything sounds muffled, like it’s coming from deep beneath the sea.

“Tara.” A whispered rumble on my right, followed by a squeeze of my hand. “Say it.”

Say what? Oh. Right. I gulp a lungful of air.

Just like when I was a kid, about to do or say something I damn well knew I shouldn’t, I cross my fingers. I’m lucky one of my hands is hidden in the folds of my skirt, which allows me this little bit of superstition. An act of atavistic defiance from deep in my foggy brain.

“I do.” That didn’t sound like my voice, but I know I said it.

DeVille slipping the wedding ring on my finger barely registers with me. It’s a thick band of yellow gold that weighs a ton. Or at least it feels like it does. Like a shackle. Gleaming bright right next to the engagement ring.

Feeling all kinds of anxious and confused, I look up to find him scowling at me, his brows furrowed.

“Your turn,” he says without moving his lips, gesturing discreetly with his eyes and a slight incline of his head to the little girl standing beside us.

She’s cute in a ruffly princess dress, holding a white velvet cushion.

Upon the tiny pillow rests a larger wedding band.

How did I not notice the girl in the first place?

Trembling, I pick up the ring. As if in slow motion, I lift DeVille’s left hand and start sliding the band onto his finger.

The damn thing gets stuck around his knuckle.

Shit. I feel the scrutiny of hundreds of eyes staring at me and my inability to slip the ring on my groom. The silence around us is deafening.

“Do not drop it,” Arturo whispers so only I can hear. “It’s bad luck.”

“Can’t get worse than this,” I say under my breath, biting my lip as I push the gold band as hard as I can. It finally slides into place. Thank fuck.

My ears suddenly feel like they’re plugged, so I try to swallow. Is the room beginning to spin? The only thing that seems to be keeping me steady at this point is the heat from Arturo’s hand spreading into mine. No. Not Arturo. Satan. Satan DeVille. I need to remember that.

I look around, spotting the ornate pen and documents on the signing table, and automatically take a step toward it.

The pressure on my hand makes me stop. Only for a fraction of a second, because my groom is quick to lead me there himself.

He picks up the pen and adds his signature to the wedding license.

My turn is next, and I almost drop the pen.

Why do I feel kind of lightheaded? I concentrate on the dotted line at the bottom of the page and somehow manage to sign my name.

The surname looks a bit askew. Likely because my fingers are shaking.

It hit me while I was signing. I’m not a Popov anymore. I had to write DeVille.

I’m Tara DeVille now.

Mrs. Arturo DeVille.

I am officially the devil’s bride.

We return to the altar after our witnesses sign, too, and stand before the officiant. I close my eyes, unwilling to face the truth.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

Did he say something else after that? I’m not certain.

Thunderous applause descends on the room, threatening to suffocate me like the nightmare I often had as a child.

One where I was stuck alone in a dark room, and a cacophony of voices suddenly erupted around me.

From deep beneath my feet, from behind the hidden walls…

all calling out to me, urging me to join them.

I never knew where they wanted me to go, and no matter how hard I pressed my hands to my ears, I could not drown out the voices.

Back then, the only escape was the bright light of day.

Now, unfortunately, there’s no way to awake from this nightmare.

My eyes pop open, and I blink, trying to clear the blur that has taken over my vision.

Turning, I face my groom, while my heart pounds against my ribcage, and a pulsating whoosh echoes in my ears.

It’s loud enough to block out the roaring cheers in the room.

I shiver as icy chills crash like wave upon wave upon me.

Am I getting sick? It’s so cold in here.

Why is it so fucking cold all of a sudden?

And why is my husband’s face starting to sway in front of mine?

His thick arm suddenly wraps around my waist. My feet leave the ground as he lifts me against him.

“Don’t you dare faint on me, Tara.” I feel his words vibrate through his chest, pressed flush with my own. “The entire Family is here, watching.”

“Both you and your Family can go to hell, Satan,” I pant. There doesn’t seem to be enough oxygen in this room. “I need to get out of here. Now.”

His hold on my waist tightens. He grasps my chin with his free hand and tilts my face up, scrutinizing me with narrowed eyes. I see the exact moment he realizes what’s happening.

I should have noticed it sooner.