Cashmere Cruelty - A Mafia Romance

APRIL

I burst into the wedding I'm not supposed to be at with my hands still cuffed tight. I sprint halfway up the aisle, look the groom dead in the eye, and blurt out the truth behind this entire nightmare: "I'm pregnant. And it's yours."

The groom doesn't speak.

For one endless moment, no one does.

And, honestly, I can't blame them. I can only imagine what this must look like. What I must look like. Between getting kidnapped, escaping by the skin of my teeth, hailing a cab in the thick of Manhattan traffic, and stalking the man in front of me on all social media platforms until I could figure out who and where the hell he was, I didn't exactly get a chance to look in the mirror.

My hair must be a mess. Nothing like the braided work of art sitting on the bride's tilted head.

The rest of me isn't much better. Instead of a delicate gold ring around my finger, I'm sporting a gleaming pair of handcuffs. I've sweated through every piece of clothing currently touching my skin and then some. My voice is breathless and strained, though in my defense, it's been a good few months since I last hit the gym.

Nine months, to be exact.

Which leads me to the most glaringly wrong aspect of my appearance: a humongous, pregnant belly, jutting under my ruined maternity dress like it's trying to make contact with the man responsible for it.

The man who's now staring at me like I just ruined the biggest day of his life.

Which, to be fair, I did.

The silence breaks. The guests start whispering to each other. The whispers quickly grow into a tidal wave of confused static, louder and louder, worse and worse.

I force myself not to glance around the room. Why bother? I saw enough the second I entered. Tall, broad men in black suits and mysterious, gun-shaped bulges under their jackets that tell me how unhappy they are to see me. Hostile-looking women in cocktail dresses that could easily hide a knife sheath.

I keep my eyes fixed on the groom. It's my one lifeline, my one hope -getting this man to listen. This dark, dangerous man who's looking like he wants nothing more than to summon lightning out of the sky and smite me into a plume of smoke.

But I don't have a choice.

I'm aware I just pulled the trigger on a suicide mission. Something I can never come back from. But this desperate move, this Hail Mary of mine, is the last play I've got left.

If I'd known, all those months ago, that giving in to temptation with this man would paint a target on my back for the rest of my life, I'd have thought twice.

Maybe.

Or at least, I hope I would have. That those magnetic cerulean eyes wouldn't have made me sign my own death warrant willingly.

I can't know that now, but