Page 7 of The Mob Boss's Bride
The door opens, and I freeze mid-step.
Atlas fills the doorway, a garment bag in one hand, a tray in the other. He's dressed in black pants and a charcoal henley that clings to his chest and arms, revealing the strong lines of his body. The tattoos on his neck disappear beneath his collar, making me wonder how far down they go. His hair is slightly damp, like he's just showered. He looks devastating.
"You're awake." His eyes travel over me, lingering on my bare legs. "Sleep well?"
"Where are my clothes?" I demand, tugging the hem of the t-shirt lower.
"Being laundered." He steps in, setting the tray on a side table. "I brought you breakfast. And something to wear."
He hangs the garment bag on a hook by what I now see is a walk-in closet. The normalcy of his actions—bringing breakfast, providing clothes—contrasts so sharply with the insanity of the situation that I want to scream.
"You can't be serious," I say, the words bursting out of me. "About last night. About... marrying me. That was just—you were just?—"
"I'm always serious." He pours coffee from a carafe on the tray, the scent rich and enticing despite everything. "Milk? Sugar?"
"I don't want coffee! I want to go home!" My voice rises despite my efforts to stay calm. "This is kidnapping. This is insane."
He sets the coffee down and levels those dark eyes on me. "Is it? You witnessed a gang war and police raid last night. Three men died. Two were arrested. The rest scattered, including Ramon Silva, who saw you standing there under that streetlight."
My stomach drops. "How do you know his name? Were you—" I swallow hard. "Are you one of them?"
A cold smile touches his lips. "I'm not 'one of' anything, Fern. I own this territory. Every shipment, every deal, every movement of merchandise happens because I allow it."
The room seems to tilt slightly. I sink onto the edge of the bed. "You're... what? A mob boss?"
"If you want to be dramatic about it." He approaches, and I fight the urge to shrink back. "I prefer to think of myself as a businessman with specialized interests."
"Illegal interests."
"Sometimes." He sits beside me, close enough that I feel the heat radiating from his body. "The point is, Silva thinks you saw enough to identify him. To testify."
"But I didn't! I barely saw anything! I was just walking to my car after a delivery and then there were gunshots and people running?—"
"Doesn't matter what you actually saw. Matters what he thinks you saw." He picks up the coffee again, presses it into my hands. "Drink. You're pale."
I take the cup automatically, the warmth seeping into my cold fingers. "So I'll tell the police I didn't see anything. I'll sign a statement."
"And Silva's men will believe that? They'll just let you go about your life?"
I take a sip of coffee—it's perfect, exactly how I like it, which is disconcerting—and try to think rationally. "There has to be another way. Witness protection or something."
Atlas laughs, the sound devoid of humor. "You think the government will protect you better than I can? They'll stick you in some shitty apartment in Omaha with a new name and no resources. And the first time you call your mother or check your old email, they'll find you."
"So your solution is marriage?" I set the coffee down with a sharp click. "To you? A man I met yesterday?"
"My solution," he says, voice dropping lower, "is to make you untouchable." His fingers brush my cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. The contact sends an electric current down my spine. "As my wife, you'd have my name. My protection. My resources. No one would dare come near you."
"And the legal part? About not testifying?"
His mouth curves. "That too. Convenient, isn't it?"
"For you." I stand, needing distance from his overwhelming presence. "What about my life? My bakery? I can't just disappear into your world!"
"You won't have to." He remains seated, watching me pace. "You can keep your bakery. Keep your life, with a few adjustments for security. The only thing that changes is your last name. And your address."
I stop, turning to face him. "You expect me to live here? With you?"
"That's generally what married people do." There's a hint of amusement in his eyes now. "Share a home."
