Then the Boston Boss opened his mouth.
He leaned back in his chair, heavy gold rings glinting, cigar smoke coiling upward like rot.
“Tradition is tradition,” he repeated, louder this time, tone dripping condescension. “We need proof the marriage wasproperly sealed.Bloody sheets are necessary. Otherwise, how do we know the girl didn’t come to the altar damaged?”
My vision darkened as I went to stand up, but Francesca dug her nails into my thigh, right next to my dick, and forced me to calm down and remain seated.I couldn’t ruin this for her.
Francesca turned her head toward him, face empty of everything but calculation. No blush now. No embarrassment.
“You want bloody sheets?” she asked softly.
The room held its breath.
“There is no room for women in the Cosa Nostra,” He sneered, like he’d been waiting to say it. “Let alone whores.”
Francesca tilted her head, a soft hum escaping her, almost like she was considering his opinion.
Then, before anyone could blink, she pointed her gun at the Boss of Boston, and unloaded her magazine.
Shot after shot rang in the huge mansion, echoing with severity.
Blood popped from his neck, forehead, and chest, turning his white dress shirt red.
Blood splattered across the immaculate white sheets behind him – red blooming like rose petals in snow.
Some surprised screams escaped from some of the
But by the time Francesca’s gun cocked empty, the room was drowned in silence.
“There’s your goddamn bloody sheets,” she said, voice ringing like steel on marble.
Finally, the old bastard’s body slumped back into the chair, before he slid to the floor.
Francesca ejected the empty magazine, replaced it with a fresh one, movements calm – elegant even – and scanned the room.
“Anybody else got a fucking problem?!”
No one moved. Not a whisper. Not a blink.
She dropped her loaded weapon to the table with a definitive thud, and sat back down as if she hadn’t just painted the room in a man’s blood.
“Eat,” She commanded.
Forks lifted. Hands shook. Men who once ruled cities now stared at their plates like schoolchildren afraid of detention.
I wiped the smirk off my face. Still threatening to break across my mouth, I covered it with my hand. Pride and amusement burned through me, equal parts danger and devotion.
Francesca Vittoria DeMone…
Mywife.
Mybeautiful,ruthlesswife.
God help anyone who thought they could handle her.
Enzo sat at the head of the table, gold cufflinks gleaming, face unreadable. But I saw it – the flicker of annoyance, the calculating pause. He knew our marriage was business.
He didn’t know we had actually spent last night tangled in silk and breathless, her nails still carved faint crescents into my back.
