Page 47 of The Mafia Enforcer's Temptation

“Absolutely. Taking the reins of the bratva won’t happen immediately. We’ll have to prove we’re married, live together, blah-blah,” I say. “But when it happens, I’ll be ready. We’ll move into my floors.”

“Fine. I’ll get everyone ready,” Cal says. “And Seamus?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t fuck it up.”

“I don’t plan to.”

Because I want her secrets. I want to help expand our powerbase, and the more I think about it, her bratva is key.

And if I’m completely honest, I don’t think there’s a world where we share the power, so I’m just going to have to take it. No matter what that costs her. Even if it’s her life.

“Where’s your witch of a bride?” Declan asks. I roll my eyes at the damn dog in a bow tie and the cat in a fancy carrying case.

Both are with us in the church, at my side.

I give him a withering look. “This isn’t a love match, Dec, so why are Clawzilla and Arnold here?”

“They’re good judges of character.”

I pet Arnold, and when Clawzilla meows, I nod, understanding his protest.

Torin and Harry sit in one corner, Lucie next to them. Her phone is in her hand, ready to take photos like this late-night wedding is totally normal.

Then again, I guess we need photos to make it look real.

Cal’s outside smoking, and Father Luigi’s skulking in the back, helping himself to what I suspect is some whiskey, but every time his gaze finds Harry, he lights up, like he matched her and Torin himself.

The church door opens and Callahan pokes his head in. “Seamus?”

I walk down the aisle and step out into the New York night.

And my heart slams. There, in a long white dress with burgundy boots and a long, gauzy white veil, is my bride-to-be.

For a woman who spits hate at me with her gaze, she’s beyond fucking gorgeous.

Her black hair’s up, tendrils cascading down around her face. Red full lips and long black lashes with cat eyeliner call to my libido. In the breast pocket of my suit is the prenup, but as I reach for it, I stop.

“Is there a problem, Cal?” I ask, eyes not leaving her.

She slams her red-nailed hands on her hips, the bruise still just barely visible on her grimacing face. Good. It reminds me she’s a fucking liar.

“Last chance to back out, Seamus,” he says, blowing smoke as he drops the butt of his cigarette and stamps it out with his shoe. “Your bride just got out of a cab. I’m not sure she’s Murphy material.”

For a moment I stare at him, and then I have to swallow my smile. “You could be right.”

Her eyes narrow. “We had a deal, Seamus.”

My name is jagged on her lips.

“We did make a deal,” I say. “But she hasn’t signed the prenup.”

“So you can back out. There’s a nice lass from a good family who’s looking to make ties with us,” Cal says, the oil of his words coiling in the air, and I can practically hear her blood start to bubble.

“Give me the damn prenup.” She holds out her hand and I slap it onto her palm. In the warm glow of the church’s outside lights, she goes through it on the top step, her finger tracing down vertically.

There are a few times she stops reading and fixes that wild, fiery glare on me, but then she reaches the end.