I take her hand in mine. It's tiny, soft, trembling slightly. My thumb sweeps over her knuckles once, twice, and she falls silent, staring up at me with those huge brown eyes.
"Don't be afraid," I murmur, just for her.
The officiant clears his throat. "Dearly beloved..."
I don't look away from her face. Not even when I hear the commotion at the back of the chapel—the real bride must have arrived. Not even when I hear Marchetti's confused voice rising above the murmurs. Not even when my consigliere shifts nervously beside me.
All I see isher. All I feel is the small hand in mine. All I know is that ten years building an empire, and it took this one moment, this one woman, to make me realize what I actually want.
"Do you, Fabio DeLuca, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
"I do." No hesitation.
Her lips part in shock.
“What’s your name, doll face?” I ask her, my chest so tight I damn near don’t recognize my own face.
“S-sharon,” she stammers. “Sharon Silverman?”
I nod for the priest to continue.
"And do you, Sharon Silverman, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
She blinks rapidly. Glances behind her at the growing chaos. Looks back at me. I squeeze her hand—not threatening. Promising.
"Just say yes, angel," I prompt her. "I promise you won't regret it."
"I..." Her voice is barely audible. She swallows. "I do?"
It comes out like a question, but I'll take it. I'll fucking take it and run.
"By the power vested in me by the state of Nevada, I now pronounce you husband and wife."
The doors at the back of the chapel burst open. The real bride—all ten yards of designer lace and entitlement—stands framed there, her face contorted with fury. Marchetti senior is already halfway down the aisle, face purple with rage.
I don't give a shit. I pull my new wife—mySharon—against me and seal my mouth over hers. She makes a small, startled sound that vibrates through my chest, then melts against me like she was made to fit there.
When I pull back, her eyes are dazed.
"What's happening?" she whispers.
"You're mine now," I tell her simply. "That's what's happening."
The alliance is dead. The business opportunities gone. The Marchettis will be out for blood. And I've never been happier to burn a bridge in my fucking life.
My blood roars one word, low and final:mine.
two
. . .
Sharon
I'm just hereto pin boutonnières and arrange altar flowers. That's it. A favor for Jen, who couldn't make it herself. Then suddenly I'm being dragged forward by a frantic wedding planner, and I'm staring up at a dark giant in a tailored suit—scarred eyebrow, carved jawline, eyes burning with something that makes my knees go liquid. My heart slams so hard I feel it in my teeth. What the hell is happening?
"Wait," I whisper, trying to pull back. "There's been a mistake?—"
His hand takes mine, engulfing it completely. Warm. Dry. Strong enough to crush my bones, but somehow gentle. The contrast makes me shiver.
