Page 31 of Ruthless Lord

Chapter 9

Stefano

Anarrow little man with a skinny mustache presents me with a folder packed with papers. “You’ll find everything in order,” he says, placing them down on the table in front of me, along with a golden pen. “I’ve already marked where you must initial, date, and sign. You’ll see that Ms. Westbrook’s already taken the liberty of filling out her sections.”

I scowl at him and slowly place my glass of whiskey down on the middle of the packet. Water seeps around the edges, getting the paper damp. “What is this?”

The lawyer squirms. He’s probably not used to men like me. This man’s war room is the law office, while mine is a blood-soaked ring.

“The prenup. Surely you discussed it with your, ah—” He looks around as if he might find help. But Enzo and Luca aren’t exactly jumping to his aid. Both stare back, seeming amused. “Your associates.”

“Hear that, Stefano? He thinks we’re your associates,” Enzo cracks, sounding amused. “I wonder what he thinks we associate for?”

“Leave the poor lawyer alone,” Luca says, grinning. “You’re going to make him piss himself.”

I lean forward and stare into the small man’s face. He visibly swallows like in some old cartoon. It’d be funny, except nobody told me about a prenup, and right now I’m not in the laughing mood.

“I’m supposed to say my vows in two hours.” I speak very slowly so he understands that I am not fucking around right now. “Sum this whole thing up to me as simply as possible.”

“And use small words,” Enzo adds. “He’s not very patient.”

I flip him off, but I keep glaring at the lawyer.

“Well, ah, it’s a standard prenup. Ms. Westbrook will retain her own money, and you will keep your own. If the pair of you, uh, divorce, Ms. Westbrook’s current assets will remain her own. There are provisions for child support?—”

“You think I need a contract to take care of my own fucking children?” I lean into his face, gritting my teeth. “You think I’m that much of an animal?”

The man pales. I’m just fucking with him now, and it’s probably not nice, but I am genuinely annoyed. “No, no, nothing like that. This is all standard, I promise you, Mr. Bianchi, all very standard. If you like, you can speak with your own representation?—”

“He means we can summon our own mob lawyer,” Enzo supplies.

“Just sign the papers and get on with it,” Luca says tiredly. “We’re not getting any lawyers involved.”

I lift my glass and take a long drink before snatching the folder up into my hand. The bastard Westbrooks waited until the last second to drop this prenup bomb on purpose. They want to back me into a corner. Make me sign without reading. They probably have lots of very good provisions in here.

“I need to have a conversation with my wife,” I say grimly, stomping to the door.

“You’re not married to her yet!” Enzo calls after me, but I’m already shoving my way from the bachelor suite and into the hallway.

Damned Charlie. Damned bastard Westbrooks. I thought taking on a pretty wife would be fun, but this is already frustrating.

I hate signing documents. Contracts drive me insane. Nothing makes me itch more than knowing there’s some piece of fucking paper that thinks it can tell me what to do. If it weren’t for my Don’s direct orders, I might say to hell with this whole wedding.

Instead, I push my way up to the bridal section of the venue. Nobody’s standing guard outside her door, and nobody tries to stop me when I knock twice before barging inside.

The room smells like hairspray and perfume.

It’s actually kind of nice.

“What are you doing in here?!” A young girl screeches in my face as she hurries over, waving her hands around in the air, trying to distract me. The room’s simply furnished with some couches on the right, a bed at the far end, and a dressing area to the left.

A woman’s sitting in front of a brightly lit mirror. An incredible woman. One of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen in my life.

Except some little gnat’s getting in my face.

“You can’t be here!” the gnat says, her big blue eyes wide with horror. She buzzes around me, hands fluttering in the air. “Please, Mr. Bianchi, it’s bad luck?—”

“Leave him be, Emily,” the goddess at the mirror says.