Not when the priest asked if he accepted me. Not when his gold signet ring pressed cold against my knuckle. Not even when his men cheered, glasses of whiskey raised to la nuova sposa — the new bride.
He pulls a folded piece of paper from his jacket and tosses it onto my bed.
He fills the doorway like a storm. Six foot four, shoulders carved from violence, jaw sharp enough to cut glass. His suit is charcoal, his tie loosened, a thin scar above his brow catching the lamplight. He is beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful — right before it draws blood. La Esposa Rechazada del Cruel Mafioso - Adri Lu...
"Why?" I breathe.
Four words. That's already more than his monthly average. Not when the priest asked if he accepted me
It's a photograph. Me. Leaving a bookstore in Milan last Tuesday. A red X drawn over my face.
"The Rosetti family made a move tonight," he says. "They killed three of my men. And they sent a message." He pulls a folded piece of paper from
Alessandro steps inside.