“She’s not for sale,” I grumbled around the cigarette hanging from the side of my mouth.
Though I could understand why he’d jumped to that conclusion. Trust Tierney to prance into church looking like a high-class hooker and make everyone think she charged by the hour. That little red dress had less class than a cum stain on a motel carpet. The fact that I didn’t rip it from her and cover her in the priest’s robe was all the evidence my family needed that I had control where she was concerned.
I’d saved her that day, and I would save her life all over again.
Because she was mine.
To control. To ruin. To obsess over.
“Not just for fucking.” Coppola rolled the amber liquid of his whiskey in his tumbler, puffing out a cloud of smoke. “I want to keep her. Marry her.”
“Marry her,” Enzo repeated, eyebrows hitting the ceiling.
“Yes.”
“You want to marry Tierney Callaghan,” he double-checked, probably hoping if he said it enough times, Coppola would understand how fucking stupid it sounded.
“The one and only.” Stefano’s smile just begged me to crush all his teeth into dust. “I did my due diligence. She has connections. Pedigree. A great piece of ass. What’s the problem?”
“The problem is she won’t consent to marrying a low-grade mobster,” I deadpanned.
“Low grade?” Sangue Blu tipped his head back, laughing. “I am the son of a titan, just like you. As for the life I have to offer her…” He scanned the room to make sure he had everyone’s attention. “I dug into her family tree. She’s in the Irish Mafia. Like knows like, yes?” He licked his lips. “She’ll feel right at home in my crooked kingdom.”
Sensing I was about to kill and drain my second victim in twenty-four hours, Enzo piped up. “What about Katya Rasputin? She’s in the market for a groom. Young. Hot. Bratva affiliated. You’ll get way more connections. The Irish are small fry.”
“I like fries,” Stefano said. “And I like the redhead. She’s the one I want. Not anyone else.”
“She’s not ours to give,” Enzo said good-naturedly.
“That’s not what I’m hearing.” Coppola rubbed his lower lip contemplatively, his gaze flicking to me. “Word in Naples is Achilles is in charge of her matchmaking. Well, I’m a widower, wealthy, and willing. Now, deal or no deal?”
I opened my mouth to tell him to start running before I was interrupted.
“Give us ten minutes.” My father stood up, wobbling over to the door on his cane, clapping my shoulder from behind midstride. “I’m sure we can work something out.”
We filed into the drawing room. Luca closed the doors behind us with a soft click. My pulse hammered against my eyelids. I felt like I had five minutes to stop the world from imploding and zero fucking tools to prevent the inevitable.
I needed to remain calm if I wanted to come up with a plan.
Smoke. I should smoke.
Or kill someone to take the edge off.
No. Enough killing for today.
Producing a cigarette from the soft pack in my pocket, I lit it up and sucked in a long drag.
Then I noticed Tiernan in the room. He was sprawled on an upholstered recliner, legs crossed and arms draped on the armrests with that steadfast, malevolent expression that made people turn inside out.
I recognized a psychopath when I met one because I saw one every day when I looked in the mirror. And Tiernan definitely fit the bill—dead eyes, flat stare, merciless air.
My father brought reinforcements.
He’d been waiting here for a while.
He knew.
I broke into a cold sweat, every fiber in my goddamn body trembling.
