Page 110 of The Mafia Marriage Contract

I realize the magnitude of the situation as it plays out before me. I’d already made my choice, sacrificing myself to save Kingston, but the stakes are higher than I ever imagined.

And there’s no backing out.

“What now?” I ask, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to stay calm.

I steel my spine and stand tall, even as panic claws at the edges of my thoughts.

The unmasked man looks at me with that smug glare, as if he already knows I have no other option.

“Did you tell your husband about the planned meeting here today?” he asks.

“No.” I shake my head.

“Then maybe we can have a little fun before my friend here blows a hole in your pretty Irish brain.”

My stomach twists with a sickening sense of finality. Even though I’m trapped, there’s still time. Whatever he’s planning might give me an opportunity to lash out. Shoot… or stab the fucker.

While my thoughts turn dark, the low rumble of engines carries in the breeze, coming nearer, until a fleet of blacked-out SUVs roar into the lot across from the pier.

I know who it is before they even stop.

The doors fling open in perfect synchrony, and men spill out, towering figures full of power. Their clothes are dark, bulletproof vests tight to their chests, and weapons drawn.

Their movements are professional, men who were trained from childhood to be violent.

The Viacavas have arrived with reinforcements.

Led by my husband.

My pulse spikes when they fan out, each man falling into position, guns at the ready, scanning the area for snipers.

At the forefront is Kingston, his broad shoulders filling out a black shirt under his vest. His thick hair tousles in the wind, and his eyes lock on me.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise in a tingled wave when our gazes clash.

That familiar look of his is harsher than I’ve ever seen it, destructive almost.

Behind him are the others, a wall of muscles and danger waiting for his order. The Viacavas aren’t just a mafia family; they’re a living, breathing empire in the flesh.

The sight of them coming to my rescue, a woman who used to be the enemy, sets something alight in me.

Their eyes seem to pierce straight through me, but there’s a strange mixture of ownership in their gazes, as if I’m a Viacava despite what their father thinks.

Bronx appears to our left, tall and imposing, his jawline cutting through inky stubble. His eyes flicker over me, reading the trouble I’ve gotten myself into.

Then there’s Reign who freakily resembles his brothers. A guy who’d tear the world apart with his bare hands.

He prowls closer, his charcoal shirt tight and hair long enough to sweep back off his forehead. His irises are the shade of soot and flames and part of me wonders if he’s just here to quench a blood lust.

They’re a pack of wolves, fierce and untouchable, and I can’t look away even though there's a gun digging into the side of my head.

Ripples of their threat move through the atmosphere, dark and lethal.

And when Kingston leaves the pack, his self-assured strides heading toward me, my muscles brace and my feet itch to run to him.

He holds up his gun, the barrel steady and unwavering, his finger poisedover the trigger.

Kingston’s gaze flicks from the two men to me. His expression is tight, eyes dark and ferocious with the ability to dominate and take control.