“I do.”
“By the power vested in me by the state of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife.” David closes his book with a snap. “You may kiss the bride.”
Alaric steps closer, his intention clear. But instead of lifting my face for a kiss, I extend my hand toward him.
For a handshake.
The room goes silent. Benedetto’s eyebrows rise slightly.
Alaric stares at my outstretched hand for a long moment, then takes it in his. His grip is firm, businesslike.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” I say sweetly.
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t let go of my hand. “Likewise.”
We shake once, twice. Then I pull away and turn toward the door.
“Mrs. Moretti,” David calls after me. “There are papers to sign.”
“Of course there are.”
Twenty minutes later, after signing documents that make me officially rich and officially trapped, we head to dinner.
The dining room has been set for eight people. Crystal glasses catch the light from an elaborate chandelier.
Steve Moretti stands when we enter, a man in his thirties with dark hair and an easy smile. Beside him, a blonde woman in a designer dress beams like she’s won the lottery.
“Congratulations,” Steve says, embracing Alaric. “Though I have to say, you missed one hell of a wedding last weekend.”
“Business kept me occupied,” Alaric replies dryly.
“Business named Kasimira, who decided to take a little vacation.” Steve grins at me. “You nearly drove my cousin insane, you know. He tore apart half the city looking for you.”
“Sorry I missed your party,” I say, not sorry at all.
The older man at the table stands with effort. He must be seventy, with liver spots and shaking hands. The woman beside him can’t be older than twenty-three, with blonde hair and a body that screams expensive surgery.
“Congratulations, Alaric,” the old man wheezes. “Beautiful bride. Reminds me of my Candy here.”
The blonde woman, apparently named Candy, giggles and clings to his arm. “Thank you, Mr. Torrino. You’re so sweet.”
Benedetto takes his seat without ceremony. Lionel positions himself against the wall with the other guards.
I sit in the chair Alaric pulls out for me and immediately reach for the bread basket. The roll is still warm from the oven, and I tear into it like I haven’t eaten in days.
“Hungry?” Steve’s wife asks politely.
“Starving,” I reply through a mouthful of bread. “Prison food isn’t exactly five-star cuisine.”
An uncomfortable silence falls over the table.
“Prison?” Candy’s voice pitches higher. “You were in prison?”
“More like house arrest,” I say, reaching for another roll. “Your new family member here has kept me locked up for two weeks.”
Alaric’s expression doesn’t change, but I see his jaw tighten.
The first course arrives. Some kind of fancy soup that probably has a French name. I ignore the multiple spoons and use the biggest one, slurping loudly enough to make Candy wince.
