Page 3 of The Mafia Marriage Contract

The wild one. The younger brother with a devil’s grin and a reputation that keeps the FBI busy. Wearing a black tux, he stands and slaps Kingston on the arm, his bow tie undone like he couldn’t even pretend to care.

He leans in just enough for his voice to carry over the bustle of guests. “She’s gonna eat you alive, bro.”

I don’t turn to give him the satisfaction of a glare.

The man holding my hand has no clue whom he just tied himself to.

Kingston doesn’t miss a beat as he deadpans back, “I’ll enjoy watching her choke.”

Bronx lets out a low laugh, clearly delighted.

Kingston squeezes my hand a little tighter and guides me down the front steps as if he’s done this a hundred times. The perfect suave gentleman who’d put a knife to my throat if we met in different circumstances.

The car ride is quiet. Neither of us speaks our mind even though we're alone. There’s no point hashing out the facts. We’re married now. And we both understand our wedding was orchestrated by powerful men who move pieces in the dark and call it legacy.

Outside, Manhattan whizzes past in a blur of lights and shadows. Inside the chauffeur-driven car, the atmosphere is suffocating while we refuseto look at each other.

Kingston sits beside me, composed as ever. One arm resting across his thigh, the other draped over the leather armrest like he owns the whole damn city. And he does. New York is the playground for the notorious Viacava men and their puppets.

Despite his silence, I catch the flick of his gaze, how it slides across my bare shoulder, lingers at the curve of my collarbone, then drifts back to the window like it never happened.

He’s trying to look unaffected. Like the ring on his finger doesn’t weigh a damn thing or the vows we exchanged—spoken with invisible guns to our heads—aren’t carved in stone and the contract sealed with the Red Tribunal’s wax crest.

His jaw ticks when I shift, the silk of my gown whispering across the leather upholstery. I adjust one of the diamanté straps to test if his attention returns again.

Still, he doesn’t speak.

Not until the looming silhouette of the Waldorf appears ahead, its rooftop glowing, the entire hotel glittering like it’s dressed for royalty. Which, tonight, it is.

Only then does he finally turn to me.

“You know what’s waiting inside,” he says.

I hum, tilting my head. “An open bar and at least two dozen people I’d rather throat punch?”

“Eyes. Are. On. Us,” he says, each word heavier than the last. “We smile at each other. We dance together. We act like we wanted to stand at the altar. Because if anyone suspects this truce is unstable, everything our families have built will come crashing down.”

I let the silence stretch, knowing he’s right.

“Yeah, I get it. You want me to parade around as a happy, obedient bride,” I mutter. “What a dream.”

His gaze sharpens, but he doesn’t rise to the bait.

“You’re not my bride now, Livvie,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “You’re my wife. Try not to start a war before dessert.”

I arch a brow, lips curling. “No promises.”

He exhales a light chuckle, then glances back out the window, his reflection lit by the city’s glow.

They’ll want a picture-perfect couple tonight—an image of unity between two blood-soaked dynasties.

Instead, we’re a fuse and a spark. And if they’re not careful, we might blow the whole thing up before the cake’s cut.

2

KINGSTON

I clutch the highball glass of bourbon in my hand, sloshing the amber-colored liquid around. Ice clinks against the side of the crystal, the tips of my fingers turning white at my viselike grip.