Arranged Mafia Marriage

Christian

I am not ready to be married, not ready at all. I slide my finger under the collar of my shirt and tug on it. “Did someone turn up the heat in here?” I mutter.

Seb laughs, “It’s freezing, brother.”

“Is it?” I wipe a bead of sweat that trickles down my temple. “I swear, it’s like a furnace in here.” At least, my shoulder doesn’t hurt anymore. The wound seems to be healing quickly, though I still have a bandage around my shoulder. Nothing that the suit can’t hide. Looking at me, you’d never guess that I had been shot at and bleeding a few days ago. I’m lucky Flower is a doctor; her quick action saved my life, agonizing though it had been when she stitched me up. Not that I had let on. I’d wanted her focused on the task at hand… Also, I hadn’t wanted to appear like a pussy in front of her.

“You nervous, Christian?” Luca smirks.

“Vaffancolo!” Fuck off, I growl.

“There’s still time to change your mind.” Michael taps me on the shoulder, “Say the word, and I’ll call this circus off.”

The circus being the fact that the pews are packed with people-because Nonna had, apparently, decided to invite every single person who is anyone in the city to attend. No, let me amend that. She had also invited our associates. JJ Kane, the head of the Kane Company, and Nikolai Solonik, the new Pakhan of the Bratva are here, as are the heads of the five families that constitute the Cosa Nostra.

She’s making up for the fact that Michael’s wedding had been so hurried that he had married in an empty church. There had been no time to invite guests. Lucky devil.

“Well?” He frowns at me. “What do you say? Time to end this charade?”

“You’d best not insult my bride by referring to our upcoming nuptials as that.”

“It must be love,” Adrian pipes up.

All of my brothers are dressed in tuxes, except Adrian, who hates formal wear. He’s wearing blue jeans, but at least, he has taken the time to pull on a jacket over his white button-down, his one concession to the formality of the occasion.

“The fuck you talking about, testa di cazzo?” I growl.

“That’s the first time I’ve seen you give enough of a fuck to come to someone’s defense,” he retorts. “As you should, fratello. After all, she is your soul mate, the love of your life, your wife-to-be.” He nods, “Get ready for when the kids come along, and the potty training begins. Are you going to be a hands-on husband? I’d hope so; it’s best for the children to bond if you are-”

I pale. “Shut the fuck up, you pezzo di merda.”

“Someone’s rather edgy,” Massimo drawls. “Having second thoughts, fratellino?”

“No,” I snap. And that much is true. Finally, my plan is bearing fruit. I simply need to go through with this wedding, then wait for a few weeks and announce to the famiglia that we have fallen out of love and are going to separate. See? Easy.

What’s not as easy to stomach is that my bride is probably a traitor. All the more reason to go through with this sham of a wedding so I can keep her close… Only until I find out what she’s up to, of course. That’s the only reason I am contemplating exactly how I plan to tie her up tonight, and bring her to the edge and keep her unfulfilled until she finally reveals exactly who it was that shot me.

The wound on my shoulder healed quickly. It really had looked worse than it was. The ball of emotion that I am carrying around in my chest, though, the one that insists she can’t be a traitor, even though all signs point to it… That continues to fester. I didn’t sleep the last two nights, and it’s not because I spent them in the hospital…

Fact is, I missed the scent of her, the taste of her, her quick wit, her rejoinders, her moans when I took her, her hitching breath when I tied her up, the marks my knots made on her skin, the feel of her soft pussy giving as I buried myself inside her. Somehow, she had grown on me in the days and nights that we had spent together, and that…is not something I had expected.

Is that why I am nervous about this ceremony? Because it feels real? It’s more real than anything I have faced in my life. As real as … Xander’s death. As visceral as the lack of him is. Am I trying to fill the hole in my heart with her presence? I ball my fists at my sides. No, I don’t think so. There’s more to it than that… I saw her, I was drawn to her, and somewhere along the way, I fell in love with her. But it doesn’t matter because I can’t have her. I don’t deserve to be happy, not when Xander is dead. Not when he’ll never experience the thrill of having a soul mate. I may love her, but so what? I’ll live if I don’t act on my feelings for her. All I have to do is stick to the plan, marry her, then leave her and-

“Dio mio, she’s beautiful.” Seb’s low whistle pulls me out of my thoughts. The music in the church begins to play the traditional song that marks the arrival of the bride. I turn, and it’s as if a massive hand has punched me in the gut. My heart stutters, my stomach twists itself in knots, and something hot stabs at my chest. I stare at a vision in cream lace and a champagne-colored dress standing poised at the entrance to the church.Content is property © NôvelDrama.Org.

Everyone turns at once in their pews to see the back of the church then a hush falls over the crowd. All eyes focus on the woman silhouetted just inside the doors. She stands motionless as her bridesmaids move forward. First Theresa, then Karma, followed by her younger sister Elena. They move to stand on the dais across from my groomsmen, and that’s when I really see her.

She’s opted to walk up the aisle on her own. With each step, she inches closer, her shapely ankles peeking out from under the skirt of her dress which flatters her figure while enhancing her voluptuousness. The silver-gold threads in her dress glimmer under the light that pours in through the stained-glass windows. The veil flows down to cover her face, and she holds her bouquet of yellow and blue flowers at her chest, framing that spectacular bosom of hers as she comes to a stop in front of me. I catch a glimpse of the bracelet I had made for her around her wrist. A fierce satisfaction courses through my veins.

She stares up at me through the veil, and my heart rate ratchets up. My pulse hammers at my temples, at my wrist, even in my fucking balls. Is this what people mean by being pussy-whipped? Perhaps it’s the fact that I want to reach down, push her skirts aside, and trace her luscious pussy lips through the lace of her soaked panties, even as another part of me wants to haul her into my arms and kiss her and cherish her, and give her anything she wants.

She swallows, and her hands tremble. The bouquet slips from her fingers. I step forward but before I can reach for it, she regains her grip on it. Then she hands it over to Theresa. As she lowers her arms to her sides, a trembling grips her body. I move toward her, pinch the edge of her veil, and raise it up and over her face. Those whiskey eyes stare back at me. Her features are pale, and that makes her eyes seem even larger than usual. Her chin trembles, her lips part, and it takes everything in me not to bend down and fit my tongue between them. I hold out my palm, and she places hers in it. I tug gently, and she moves closer.

“It’s going to be fine,” I whisper.”

She nods.

“I promise; it will all be okay.”

She peers into my features, then draws in a breath. “Okay,” she breathes.

“Okay.” I turn to face the priest.