Page 4 of The Mafia Marriage Contract

My eyes betray me by sliding down the slope of her spine, the back of her wedding gown so low, I can almost see the top of her ass crack.

Not that I’m complaining about the view. The dress clings to every inch of her curves like Saran Wrap and her luscious tits try to pop out of the thing every time she moves.

She looks like a porn star bride.

Myporn star bride. For better or fucking worse.

But the snarl on her face when she turns her head the slightest bit makes me remember why I hate her so much.

And why this sham of a wedding between me and Olivia O’Callaghan is tipping in the direction of “fucking worse.”

“Get your fucking eyes off me or I’ll poke them out with my steak knife,” she says in a sing-song voice that drips withdisdain, her shiny pink lips curling upward into what any observer would take for a happy and loving smile.

They don’t know the truth. They all think we’re madly in love or whatever the hell stories our families have concocted. Nobody suspects that we’re unwilling victims in a power play that only keeps our families in control as long as we play nice and create the illusion of unity.

Our families have been rivals for years, but money trumps disgust and distrust. And the only way to take advantage of a lucrative opportunity to control a new drug pipeline into Manhattan is for our families to create an alliance against a new cartel that just started encroaching on our territories.

So tonight, we’re playing our parts as newlyweds to convince the world that the Viacava-O’Callaghan family is now a united front that will command New York City and protect our interests from enemies.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say, pausing to take a long gulp of my drink. “I was just looking at the drop of red wine that spilled onto your dress last time you slammed the glass on the table.” I force my lips into a grin and nod toward her lap. “Stains fast. You should probably get your wedding bitch to get some club soda on it or whatever.”

Olivia’s sparkling Irish green eyes pop open wide, the grimace melts off her face, and she jumps up from the table… only to find that there’s no stain.

I swallow a laugh.

She grits her teeth and sinks back into the chair, her back stiff. “I fucking hate you,” she hisses through a tight smile as a photographer stops in front of our private table overlooking the restof the expansive dining room.

“Can I get a few pictures of the happy couple?” he says in a heavy Italian accent. With a wide grin, he holds up his long lens camera and points it at us. “Just get a little closer. You guys are in love, yeah?”

I sling an arm around her and pull her close, tugging her a little harder than necessary. She mutters something under her breath about death that I’m sure she wants me to hear.

The scent of her perfume clouds the air. I try not to breathe it in. Everything about this girl is toxic, so who the fuck cares how good she smells? It’s just to cover up the putrid stink of the devil I’m convinced she is.

I know this girl’s bite. I’ve learned it well over the past six months while we were thrown into this bullshit arrangement. She may look like a Victoria’s Secret model, but underneath that shiny facade is a black fucking soul.

Ironic. I never thought I’d find one darker than mine.

But fate had other plans and dumped Satan into my lap.

“Smile, wifey,” I mutter.

“Don’t call me that,” she says, digging her long, sharp fingernails into my leg so deep, I swear they broke skin through the fabric.

I blink fast at the flashes of light, temporarily blinded. “Thanks, we’re good,” I say to the photographer, who gives me a wave in return.

Olivia twists around and flips her long brown hair over her shoulder to hide the demonic grimace on her face. Leaning her elbow on the table, she leans toward me, and I drop my eyes to her cleavage because I’m a guy and shit, they’re fucking fantastic tits.

She reaches toward me, slipping a hand around the back of my neck, the tips of her nails dragging through my hair.

For a second, my brain short-circuits, my cock jerking from the tingles that shoot across my skin.

Fuck, that feels good.

I’m a sucker for a good head scratch.

But the moment doesn’t last long. She pinches the skin with the sharp edges of her nails, and I suck in a breath, my cock immediately limp again.

“You don’t get to touch me. Understand?Sweetheart?”