Page 10

Chapter 10

DANTE

I’ve never bothered to imagine what my wedding might look like. Mostly because I never planned to get married. I assumed marrying someone would have to mean I had lost my goddamn mind enough to trust someone. I shudder at the thought. I guess I just wasn’t thinking creatively enough since I hadn’t considered this possibility. A chapel with a waiting room, a gun tucked into the back of my white silk pants, and a ‘fiancé’ who’s clearly even less mentally stable than I am because I keep seeing him smile when he thinks I’m not looking.

Insane or not, Salvatore is wearing the hell out of the black three-piece suit and burgundy shirt. He puts his hand between my shoulder blades, the warmth of his touch spreading through me instantly thanks to the weightless lacy fabric of my top, which does nothing to blunt the feeling of his fingers tracing down my spine. Another shiver runs through me. I keep my eyes trained on the chapel doors, waiting for them to swing open to signal that it’s our turn. Obnoxiously romantic songs like Etta James’s “At Last” keep playing through the overhead speakers and I swear all the creepy, smiling people in the photos hanging on the walls are staring at me. I tap my foot and smooth my hands needlessly over my unwrinkled pants.

“I hope you’re not getting cold feet, Angioletto.” Salvatore slides his hand up to the back of my neck. His touch stays light, but the way his fingers rest around my nape feels unmistakably possessive. “Having second thoughts about marrying a man with so much blood on his hands?”

I huff out a laugh, the sound laced with all the darkness that tainted my soul years ago.

“There are worse places for bloodstains than a man’s hands, believe me,” I mutter.

His hand tightens around the back of my neck. He tugs me to face him, his expression full of thunder and rage that should probably confirm my worst thoughts about him and everyone else, but instead it just makes me feel… safe .

“Tell me who hurt you, Angioletto, and the last thing he’ll ever feel is the cold metal of my gun barrel gagging him as he tries to choke out his last words,” he growls, and all the nervous energy that was building up inside me a minute ago evaporates.

I put my hand on his cheek, dragging my fingertips along the roughness of his two days’ worth of stubble.

“If having your last name isn’t enough to scare him off, I’ll take you up on that.” I press my lips to his other cheek, leaving a faint imprint with my lipstick. Salvatore managed to order the perfect shade to match the shoes he picked out for me. Say what you will about the man, but he has an eye for style.

The doors swing open, and a happy couple comes bursting out, a bubble machine creating iridescent bubbles that surround them and stick to their clothes while the wedding march plays loudly. Once they’re gone, a short, stocky man in a white suit—thankfully not attempting any kind of Elvis cosplay—waves us in with a smile.

“After you.” Sal gestures for me to go ahead and I eye him skeptically.

“You’re not about to make a last-minute run for it, are you?”

His lips twitch with a smile. “Of course not. You still have the gun. I always assumed I would die in a hail of bullets, but not fleeing from my own wedding.”

I snort a laugh and then head into the chapel with Salvatore right behind me.

The man—minister? Officiant?—tells us to call him Larry then starts to explain the process with the rapid efficiency of someone who’s done this a hundred times and knows how to keep things moving.

“Here’s the marriage license for you to sign.” He sets the paperwork on the small wooden table just inside the doors to the chapel. “I’ll need to make a copy of your ID to send into the state. And finally, an affidavit stating that neither of you are already legally married and that this marriage is not being done under duress. No shotgun weddings allowed.” He laughs at his own joke. “And that you aren’t biologically related.”

I shift uncomfortably. No shotgun weddings, but what about a pistol wedding? Sal doesn’t hesitate though, picking up the pen and signing in the proper spot on each form before handing it over to me. My fingers tremble and I clench the pen tighter to keep it from visibly shaking. It’s fine, this is temporary. He’s calm because he knows this doesn’t mean anything.

I jot my signature on each line.

“Perfect.” Larry gathers up the paperwork and takes our IDs, then disappears for a minute to make copies. When he returns, he leads us to the flowered arch at the front of the small chapel. “Do you want traditional vows, a particular religion, or did you write your own?”

I try not to laugh. Imagine if we’d written our own.

Do you, Dante, take this mafioso to be your wedded murder deterrent, to argue and to fight for dominance, from this day forward until the threat has passed and it’s safe to divorce, for better or worse, in violence and rage, until death or a prison sentence parts you?

I do, I really, and truly do. Cue the tears for such a lovely ceremony.

“Traditional is fine,” Salvatore answers.

Larry nods. “Face each other and join hands.”

His hands are larger than mine, warm and surprisingly soft. He looks into my eyes, and I try not to squirm under the intensity in his gaze.

“Salvatore first. Repeat after me,” Larry instructs. “I, Salvatore Moretti, take you, Dante Torres, to be my wedded spouse.”

His eyes stay locked on mine as he repeats the words, his voice steady and certain, just like it always is.

“To have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health,” Larry goes on.

Salvatore’s grip on my hands tightens as he echoes the vows, like he’s afraid I’m the one who’s going to run out of here if given half a chance.

“To love and cherish, until death do us part,” Larry finishes.

“To love and cherish—” Salvatore’s voice is as firm as ever. “—until death do us part.” The low growl at the end almost sounds like a threat. Or maybe a promise.

I swallow hard and then take my turn, repeating the vows with a clumsy tongue and my pulse pounding so loudly in my ears I can barely hear myself.

“Do you have rings?” Larry asks once I’m done stumbling through the words.

“No.”

“Yes,” Sal contradicts, letting go of my hands and reaching into his pocket to pull out a small black velvet bag. He dumps two matching gold bands into his palm. “They’re nothing fancy, but I figured they would do on short notice.”

He flashes me an apologetic smile and I shake my head, stunned that he thought of all of this late last night while I was asleep. The outfits, the rings… I was just going to march him in here at gunpoint wearing UFO t-shirts.

There’s more parroting of Larry’s words as we slide the rings onto each other’s fingers.

“I now pronounce you married. You may kiss,” he declares gleefully, like any of this matters to him. Like somehow after performing a thousand marriages, eighty percent of which likely ended in divorce, he still believes this is a fairytale happily ever after for us.

Salvatore hooks his hand behind my neck and drags me forward to claim my lips. My mouth softens instinctively. Out of pure relief for having pulled this crazy plan off, I hum a happy sigh that he swallows down as he kisses me deeper, snaking his tongue into my mouth until Larry clears his throat and laughs.

“Congratulations and remember to tell your friends about Larry’s Chapel.” He pats us on the shoulders, then stuffs a business card into Sal’s hand and leads us back out to the lobby.

“So, I guess we should go back to the hotel to get our stuff and head back to Wildcliff. It’s a long drive,” I say once we’re on the sidewalk.

The sun is already starting to set, the city lights replacing the sunshine with an artificial glow. There’s music and chatter coming from all directions, reminding me that Los Vespar isn’t anything like Wildcliff. No one shouldering past us lives here; they’re all on vacation from their boring jobs and mundane existence, ready to shed their responsibility for a few days of debauchery.

A smile spreads slowly over Salvatore’s face and his hand finds its way onto the nape of my neck again. This time I can feel the brush of the smooth metal ring on his finger, reminding me of what we just did.

“One night in Sin City before we head home couldn’t hurt,” he says, and to my surprise, a flutter of excitement sparks in my chest.

“Okay. Show me how Salvatore Moretti lets loose.”

SALVATORE

Dante’s words from earlier play on a loop in the back of my mind.

There are worse places for bloodstains than a man’s hands.

I have no intention of waiting to see if whoever he’s afraid of backs off. I’m going to find him and I’m going to make him beg for death. And I’ll savor every second of it.

But I can’t do that tonight. So, for now, I’ll focus on celebrating with my new husband and save the vengeance for next week. I steer Dante into a dimly lit piano bar. There are several open tables near the stage, and people lingering near the bar with martini glasses, sharing murmured conversations. I zero in on a booth in a shadowy corner and slip my fingers between Dante’s.

“There are people sitting there,” he points out when he realizes where we’re headed.

“Very few problems in life can’t be solved, Angioletto. In fact, I haven’t met one yet that can’t be remedied with either money or violence.”

He huffs and tugs his hand, not hard enough to make me think he’s actually trying to break free from my grasp, just enough to let me know he’s protesting.

“You going to threaten to shoot them if they don’t give us the table?” he mutters.

I chuckle and reach up with my free hand to smooth out my tie. “Of course not. You still have my gun.”

We reach the table, and he yanks on our joined hands again. I let him go this time, putting my arm around him instead. He’s nearly my height in his red heels, but he still fits nicely under my arm, slender and delicate but not breakable. Never breakable.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but my new husband and I are celebrating tonight and I’m worried that the spotlight near the stage will set off one of his migraines. We’d be extremely grateful if you’d let us have your booth,” I say smoothly, giving the couple my most charming smile as I reach into my pocket to pull out my wallet and set a hundred-dollar bill on the table.

They exchange a brief look, then the woman snatches up the bill and they scramble out of their seats.

“Congratulations on your wedding,” the man calls over his shoulder as they make their way to a different table.

I nudge Dante and he rolls his eyes before sliding into the booth.

“You know, I’ve heard Orion arguing with Elio before, calling him a spoiled brat who’s never heard the word ‘no’ in his life. I think he might be right about you Morettis. You’re entitled.”

“That wasn’t arguing, that was foreplay.” I chuckle and slide in beside him, unbuttoning my suit jacket and loosening my tie.

“It doesn’t make it any less true.”

I put a hand on his thigh under the table and lean in close. “I think you’re looking for reasons to snarl and snap at me, Angel.” I nuzzle his earlobe, then nip at it gently, drawing a quiet gasp from his pretty, red lips. “That’s okay, I don’t mind. It’ll give me a chance to show you how I tame a brat, like I promised earlier.”

He inhales sharply again and then tries to cover it with an irritated grumble in the back of his throat.

“Are we back on this? Just because brats make your dick hard, sweetheart, doesn’t make me one.” He squirms under my grasp, making my hand slip up his thigh.

I can feel the heat of his skin through the silk.

“Have you Dommed a brat before?” I ask conversationally, teasing my fingers along the inseam between his thighs, inches from the swell of his balls.

“A few times,” he says, squeezing his thighs together, clenching them around my hand, then relaxing again. Relaxing his body, anyway, but his eyes are full of an exciting challenge as he stares at me in the shadows.

“Tell me about brats, Angioletto,” I command.

His jaw ticks and his eyes darken another shade. “Do you practice being this irritating or does it come naturally?”

I ignore the barb and wait in patient silence. It only takes a minute before he squirms again, the hard shape of his cock bumping my fingertips.

“Brats want to submit, but they don’t want to make it easy. They want to end up on their knees, but they want to be forced there.” He swallows hard, his throat bobbing and his voice dropping lower. “They want to battle for dominance, but ultimately, they want to lose. They want the Dom to earn their submission.”

I hum in agreement, sliding my hand higher to cup his cock, stiff and swollen, probably throbbing even if he refuses to admit just how much this conversation is turning him on. I drag my thumb in slow circles around the head of his cock and his jaw ticks like he’s clinging to every last thread of control he has to keep from moaning for me like the pretty slut he’s afraid to be.

“Some brats are so committed to that battle for dominance that they don’t even want to admit that’s what they are.” I drag my nose along the shell of his ear again and inhale, imagining how good he’ll smell with the scent of my soaps and lotions on his skin instead of the generic hotel brand.

“Fuck you,” he murmurs quietly, more of a whimper really.

“Sorry to interrupt, but can I get you anything to drink?”

Dante startles and his cock jerks in my hand. He tries to scramble away, but I tighten my grip on him. Between the table and the shadows, for all the waitress knows, I have my hand on his knee. And what a perfect way to show Dante what it feels like to give in and trust me.

“Two martinis, please,” I say, one hand resting casually on the table, the other still around his cock, my thumb pressed up against the barbell through his frenulum.

Dante tries not to squirm, holding himself still and barely breathing as he nods in agreement with the order.

“Coming right up,” the waitress says before turning on her heel and walking away again.

Dante slumps and lets out a quiet whine, snapping his hips as soon as we’re alone to grind his piercing against the press of my thumb.

“You’re an ass.” His breathing is shaky; maybe that’s why he was holding it while the waitress was here.

“Do you want me to make you come, Angioletto?” I purr.

His eyes widen and he glances around at all of the people paying absolutely zero attention to us.

“What? No,” he hisses.

I drag my thumb up to his cockhead, feeling the dampness of his precum leaking through two layers of silk.

“Safeword then.”

Dante scoffs and grabs my wrist like he’s going to try to wrestle me off instead of doing the simple thing and muttering one single word. That’s all it would take. One word and my hands would be off of him instantly.

“You’re not going to jerk me off under the table at a fancy piano bar,” he whispers.

I arch an eyebrow. “That sounds like a challenge.”

“There’s something wrong with you.” His fingers dig into my wrist, but he doesn’t say the one word that would stop everything. And we both know that if he really didn’t want my hands on him, my fingers would already be broken. I’ve certainly seen him send men to the hospital for less.

Silk is a wonderful fabric for something like this, slick and soft as it slides over his shaft, soaking up the dribble of his precum and warming to match the heat of his body. He grips the edge of the table with his free hand, his cheeks darkening and his gaze hardening.

“Salvatore,” he says through gritted teeth, his breaths coming even faster as I work my hand up and down his hard shaft, feeling the throb of his veins through the thin barrier, the needy twitch as his balls pull tighter and his thighs start to tremble.

“Yes, Angel?” I ask in a growl, dragging my tongue along the edge of his jaw to taste the sweetness of his skin.

“You can’t…” He gasps and then snaps his hips to grind into my palm.

“It’s not wise to tell me things I can’t do, it just makes it that much more fun to do them anyway.” I squeeze his cock and it spasms in response. “Now, stop fighting me and come, baby girl ,” I murmur the pet name he tried to humiliate me with last night, and with a shudder and a choked gasp, I feel him start to pulse, flooding his pants with the wetness of his release as he swallows back whimpers and jerks his hips again and again.

Dante slumps in the booth, spent and breathless, the defiance momentarily gone from his features, replaced by a clouded, relaxed expression that fills me with a sense of accomplishment more satisfying than any orgasm could ever be. My own cock throbs in disagreement, but I ignore it. There will be time for that once we get back to the hotel.

I drag my momentarily compliant husband closer to me and put my arm around him again. He sighs and leans into me, resting his head on my shoulder in a way I’m sure he’ll deny later. The waitress returns with our drinks, and I pick them both up, handing one to Dante.

“To wedded bliss,” I toast.

He snorts and rolls his eyes but taps his glass against mine before taking a sip.