“When do you need to leave?” he asks.
“Tomorrow.” I stand and button my coat, ignoring the way Angel raises a brow.
Truth?
I could wait a week. Plan something civil. Give her a wedding that makes the papers.
But I’m not going to.
Because I don’t want pomp.
I want her wearing my ring, my name, my fucking scent like a brand.
And I want it now.
“Tomorrow?” Luc repeats, frowning. “That’s not enough time. I’ll need at least a day to get you into City Hall. The paperwork, the officiant?—”
“I don’t need City Hall,” I interrupt. “We’ll get married after the plane lands in Greece. Aboard my yacht. The captain’s licensed. It’ll be legal.”
“And the optics?” Nico presses.
I smile faintly. “It’ll look like what it is. A honeymoon.”
Luc stares at me long enough that I wonder if he’s about to throw me through a window.
Instead, he just says, “You better keep her safe.”
I look him in the eye, and this time, I do let something slip.
The rawness. The vow. The obsession that lives under my skin like a second heartbeat.
“I will.”
Because that’s the one thing I know how to do.
I won’t let Cecilia Batiste fall.
Not to warlords.
Not to her enemies.
Not even to me.
I turn on my heel and leave them in that sterile room of marble and money.
It’s time to find my bride.
Chapter Eight-Cecilia
Leaving that room like everything is fine and I feel nothing at all is the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life.
But I do it. I march upstairs, back straight, eyes level. I give nothing away of the riotous emotions inside of me.
The Den’s front bar is already alive with sound—bass-heavy music vibrating through the floors, laughter spilling like smoke.
I spot Emilio behind the counter and crook my finger.
“Martini,” I tell him. “Dry. Two olives.”
