Page 93 of Sinfully Savage Mafia

It’s something to think about.

I recline against the leather seat in the back of Roman’s Bugatti. He’s driving to the church, my brother Dante is in the passenger seat, and my other brother, Sergio, is on my right in the back seat. They flew in last night—Sergio from Las Vegas, and as usual, because of his secret assassin lifestyle, Dante kept us guessing about where he’d been before flying into JFK.

As far as my brothers know, this is a business arrangement, my marriage. They don’t know the Dominguez tie beyond the protection.

Before the protection.

And I’m keeping it that way. I work better alone, and it keeps my people safe. As safe as they can be, anyway.

Ever since I fucked Heaven, we’ve spent pretty much every waking hour together—in the gym, out at restaurants, shopping, work, wandering around her old digs to make sure all businesses were running smoothly. There was only one two-hour period when she broke away from me, and that was to try on her mother’s wedding dress with her Aunt Maura. Even then, I had someone watching.

I haven’t had a chance to corner Declan about Conor. To be honest, I don’t want to waste my time. Soon enough, the Mulligans will be handled and out of my hair. Heaven didn’t go to her father about that standoff. As far as Declan knows, all is right in the Mulligan empire.

Until it’s not.

And that time is coming.

Perhaps sooner than I thought.

I pull at my bow tie. Christ, I hate these fucking things.

“Nervous?” Sergio asks, chugging from a bottle of Jack Daniel’s while we’re stopped at a light.

I lift an eyebrow. “So classy. No glasses?”

Sergio shrugs. “This whole thing is kind of lacking in class. You’re marrying into a mick family at this tiny little church, and then we’re eating at some Irish restaurant afterward where we’ll probably be drowning in corned beef, cabbage, and potatoes, and warm beer. We’re in Manhattan, for fuck’s sake. Why not somewhere fucking cool like The Plaza, or Jean-Georges? It’s not like you can’t afford it. You say you’re marrying strategically. Be strategic. You make that shit count. What the hell, Matty?”

I shrug. “Heaven wanted something small.”

“Are you into her?”

“It’s business. That’s all.” His words don’t sit right in me. I like her, more than I ever expected, and I’m definitely into fucking her. But the rest? I deliberately don’t think about it, just play the part. A part that is, when I look back, alarmingly easy to play. “Why does everything need to be larger than life for you, Serge?”

“Because why the fuck not?” He takes another gulp and points the bottle at Roman. “I mean, look at Romo. He’s got this sick car. He doesn’t need it. He barely ever drives it—this is Manhattan—but he has it. Why? Because he can.”

“I don’t see what the big deal is,” Dante says, grabbing the bottle from Sergio. “Small is smart. It doesn’t make waves or draw the wrong attention. And also, warm beer is Britain, not Ireland, dumbass.” He glares at Sergio who rolls his eyes.

“You always get like this after a job, you know that?” Sergio says. “Why can’t you be a happy assassin?”

“Maybe I’d be happy if you were the target.” Dante takes a long gulp of the liquor.

He’s come off a job, I know that, and when he does, he finds small ways to unwind. If he ever really can. Out of the three, Dante is the one I could talk to about all this, if I wanted. Then again, I know what he’d say—quick, clean deaths for all. And he’s the guy to do it.

But that doesn’t solve the issues. It doesn’t get me the power I want. It would create a void and there’d be a fight. I understand strategy. He understands meting out death.

“Damn, Dante. That was cold, you fuck,” Sergio says.

But this isn’t the time or place to go where I’m going in my head, and I deliberately set it aside. I need to get into the role I’m about to play.

I listen to my brothers’ banter until Roman pulls up to the church. He looks at me in the rearview mirror. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” I don’t know why but it feels real, far more real than the business arrangement that it is.

“Is our dear father flying in?” Dante asks. I know he’s not exactly anxious to see our father. He handed the reins to me before retiring, but he and Dante always locked horns. Dante has never been one to follow the kind of rules the old man demands.

I’m not, either, but I know the game and how to manipulate it. Dante doesn’t give a fuck.

“He’s going to call when he arrives,” I say.

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