Page 51 of The Mafia Bachelor

It’s as intimate, it’s as unique. It’s the most special moment of my life pushing that ring onto Avery’s finger.

This means more than anything. Even in the rain, both of us soaked.

“My wife. I can’t wait to call you my wife.” I press her hand, with my ring on it, to my lips in a kiss of gratitude. I found her. She’s mine.

“Kill. My fiancé,” she says, sounding as awed as I feel.

Then I wrap my arms around her and surge to my feet, lifting her and covering her shriek of surprise with my mouth. Kissing her and holding her as tightly as I can. It’s minutes of bliss, kissing Avery as she deserves, although possibly with more moisture, before I can bear to let her go.

I have a massive erection by the time I allow her to slide down my body, both of us groaning at the feel of her against me. I keep her close, stroking my hand down her back as I look into her face. She’s panting, her lips shiny and pink where I’ve kissed her thoroughly. “I need to be in you, love.”

My mind whirrs with how to achieve that the quickest, then there’s a cough from the side, and we both turn. Avery stiffens in my hold.

My mother is there, standing as though she’s been waiting for quite a while, under a large umbrella held by my dad. Fury roars up my throat, but she smiles. A genuine, warm smile that is totally unlike the cool baring of teeth she’s done throughout this process.

“Welcome to the family, Avery. I think you’re going to fit in.” She guides Dad towards us—they still understand each other perfectly—and with her perfect poise relaxing, embraces us together. Kissing Avery’s cheek—my girl seems too stunned to say anything—she leans into me, and whispers, “I knew you’d get her.” Then drawing back, adds, “Congratulations, both of you. I always wanted a daughter to spoil. Boys just aren’t the same. And I look forward to some grandkids!”

My gaze slides back to Avery, who blushing, and I grin. “We’ll get started on that, don’t worry.”

EPILOGUE

AVERY

Eight years later

I’m in the entrance hall, wrangling one of our children into a coat when Kill returns from being on the phone. I heard him instructing Brandon that he’ll be back in just over a week, and reiterating, again, that his second-in-command mustn’t agree to take on any commitments from the London Maths Club while we’re away.

The mafia aspects of our lives have continued, and where I once was nervous, Kill’s confidence and competence have long since settled me.

“Will Granny make her special baked potatoes?” Ciara, our eldest daughter asks, half-heartedly holding out her arms. “Did you ask?”

This is the important question. Will Granny Sue spoil them?

Is the London Maths Club terrible at maths? Of course Kill’s mother will spoil them rotten.

“If you’re really good, maybe,” I say with a smile as Kill silently takes over from me with putting on Ciara’s coat. I gather up the other jackets and boots we’re taking with us and drop them into a bag.

“If you get back to me without having had any of Granny’s potatoes, I’ll know you haven’t eaten anything,” he says dryly. “You’re not⁠—”

“Really Irish unless you love potatoes,” Ciara finishes with me in a singsong voice. “I know that, Daddy, but what about her special baked potatoes, with the bacon and cheese? She might not make them if you didn’t ask. And I don’t like mashed⁠—”

“I will not hear a word against mashed potatoes,” he cuts her off.

The kids are all going to visit their Irish grandparents—Kill’s parents—for a weeklong trip to Ireland. They see my parents regularly too, and my mum has turned out to be a much more understanding and indulgent grandmother than she was a mother. That’s true of both grandmothers, actually.

Kill and I are leaving the kids in Ireland and going somewhere hot and secluded for him to ravish me and hold me through the whole night without having to get up even once.

Bliss.

I love our children, but sometimes we both need time to spend focused on each other. I’m anticipating a week of sex and walks along the beach and laughter as we indulge ourselves.

“Will we go to our castle?” Ciara asks.

Kill shakes his head before I can answer. “That’s only for visiting with your mam. It’s her castle.”

Our castle. A ruined castle where we picnic, and the kids play, and where Kill has fucked me against the rough, cold stone more than once. It’s where he took me on our final date, and we returned soon afterwards. But he took me as the new owner.

My husband is absurdly indulgent of me. I don’t have to do legal work anymore, spending my time when I’m not being a mother researching my castle’s history. I’ve started a children’s history club in Archway, too, helping keep all the traditions and understanding alive. There are a lot of colouring pages involved, but I love it.