Page 25 of Bad Bishop
He smelled…warm.Alive… Like sex and violence and something else, not entirely terrible, but nevertheless catastrophic.
“The most beautiful woman on the continent. No close seconds. They call her a vision, a masterpiece, a myth. From now on, she only has one name—mine,” he growled, twisting my face by my chin to look him in the eye. A sadistic smirk touched his lips. “I cannot wait to devour my little forbidden fruit tonight. Touch the untouchable. Sully the pristine. Turn the elegant Ferrante princess into a Callaghan delinquent.”
The raucous laughter quaked the walls and settled in my stomach. My father choked on his glass of brandy, nostrils flaring. Luca’s hand settled on his gun in his holster, flicking his gaze to my father for the okay to start a war.
But it was my mother who threw me into a state of pure panic. She stood up and stalked outside, a veil of Camorra wives trailing behind to comfort her.
Crying wasn’t an option. I wasn’t going to give the bastard the satisfaction of seeing me break.
Mama and I had carefully made sure I didn’t show emotions, but our plan had backfired. Being allegedly a person with intellectual disabilities didn’t matter anymore. I was pregnant and wed. My walls of protection had shattered one after the other. I was unraveling like a loose thread in a sweater. I knew Tiernan would pull and tug until I was completely bare.
My husband dropped my chin. “Consider this your first and last warning.” He spoke to the room, but stared only at me. “Raffaella Callaghan is mine. Nobody is to look at my wife, speak about my wife, or breathe in her direction. She’s under my protection now. The first to cross the line will be the last. They’ll be made an example.” His gaze dragged across the room, which collectively held its breath. “There will be no body to bury, no ashes to spread, no memory to spare if you’re stupid enough to disrespect her.Us. Understood?”
They all did, judging by the horrified looks in their faces. Tiernan’s attention halted on Angelo Bandini, and a chill chased across my spine. The dread that slowly dripped into my gut all day turned into a tidal wave.
Why did Angelo unsettle me so much?
Why was the sight of my brother-in-law so distressing to me?
“You know, I never was a fan of Italian weddings.” Tiernan dragged his thumb across my lower lip, parting it to reveal my white teeth. “Too much pathos for my liking. Now, blood? Big fan of that. I think it’s time I shed some tonight.”
There’d be no blood on the sheets, as he very well knew.
Unless he draws it some other way.
The men in the room stood up. Cheered, clapped, whistled.
It was time.
“Move,” Tiernan ordered. One word. Yet, my entire universe shriveled into it.
When I didn’t, he gave my back a push.
I stumbled forward, and my legs did the rest, automatically carrying me toward the foyer. He glided behind me, his gaze searing the back of my neck. I tried to go as slow as humanly possible to prolong the inevitable.
When I wasn’t fast enough for thestronzo’s liking, he bypassed me and tossed me across his shoulder.
The crowd followed us up the curved stairway, hooting and throwing rice at us.
Tiernan took the curved hallway to the honeymoon suite. The one Luca and Sofia had stayed in weeks ago. And my cousins before them. Achilles and Enzo would too, once it was their time to wed.
The last thing I saw before he kicked the door shut behind us was my mother’s face peering from beyond the crowd.
Her hands moved quickly as she signaled me in ASL.
One word.
“Fight.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
LILA
As soon as the door clicked shut, Tiernan tossed me across the room on the four-poster bed like I was an old suitcase and slithered toward the writing desk. His movements reminded me of a viper seconds before striking its target. Languid, controlled, discreet.
The windows were open, allowing the briny summer breeze to drift into the room. The curtains danced playfully across the walls. I watched fixedly as he removed enough weapons from his body to start a medium-sized New York gang.
He unholstered two guns, a silencer, and a couple of knives, lining them up neatly next to an ancient flower vase, a charcuterie board, and chilled champagne with two glasses. He removed his tuxedo jacket and tie—cut, as per Italian tradition—rolling his dress shirt up inked arms corded with muscles and veins. My heart twisted into a painful knot when he turned to me. Our eyes locked.
