Black Skies Riviera: An Enemies To Lovers Mafia Romance Page 5

Her assessment moves up to my face and she tuts out even more disapproval. “Good grief. Your make-up is abysmal. Antoinette!” Her maid appears in the doorway like a dutiful pet. “She needs less rouge on her cheeks. And that red lipstick is wrong. She looks like a whore, not a virgin bride.”

  There goes my one shot at individuality today.

  Is this really happening? Has it really only been twenty-four hours since my father announced that I was to marry a man I’d never even met? A one-minute, formally worded deposition slotted in between his business meetings. He takes longer to peruse menus in restaurants.

  He took longer to request his men to beat me.

  “Dressing table,” barks Marie, giving me a not so gentle shove in that direction.

  Gritting my teeth, I allow myself to be ‘de-whored,’ by Antoinette. On the plus side, marriage means leaving Marie behind. Even she wouldn’t dare disrespect the wife of Luca Zaccaria.

  “I don’t see why we’re bothering with this charade,” she mutters, driving an extra pin into the base of my chignon and scraping my scalp on purpose.

  “What do you mean?” I catch her eye in the mirror, instantly wary of the cruel green glint that I find there. “This is what my father expects of me.”

  I’m rewarded with a cold smile for my curiosity. “I meant why go to so much trouble to look the part when the ceremony room will be empty.”

  “But Signor Zaccaria’s family will be in attendance.” I’ve read all about mafia families and the eight billion aunts, uncles and associated offspring who get wheeled out for occasions such as these. Kind of like a Bratva wedding when a sibling’s disgrace hasn’t double-booked the venue.

  Her eyes widen for a beat, and then the chill in her smile drops a couple of hundred degrees. “What makes you think you’re marrying into La Famiglia, child? What makes you think you’re good enough for one of Zaccaria’s precious sons? Your sister has polluted you, like she’s polluted your father’s reputation, and today you will pay the price for her disgrace.”

  My stomach lurches. She’s right. My father never actually confirmed who my groom was.

  I assumed.

  I just assumed.

  Oh my God. It has to be the Italian.

  “Who am I supposed to be marrying?” I whisper.

  She shrugs, as if the detail is insignificant. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “I don’t believe you! He wouldn’t do this! Where’s Papa?” I rise to my feet, but her bony fingers clamp around my upper arm to stop me.

  “Sit down, stupid girl.” I wince as her grip tightens, her coral pink nails digging crescents into my skin. “Your father has no desire to see you. He left for Paris an hour ago.”

  My mouth snaps shut when I realize I’m gaping at her. “But he’s walking me down the aisle. I’m playing the role of the good Bratva daughter for him. The least he can do is guide me through the scene.”

  “Be quiet!” Her mask cracks, just like my colombina did, but this time spite comes pouring out. “The only things accompanying you to that altar, child, are shame and solitude. You are all alone in this world now, Ielena. Your sister has deserted you, and your stupid mother is soaking your memory in gin.”

  “Let go of me, Marie!”

  “All alone,” she mouths back.

  Shrugging her off, I sit back down at the dressing table. My hands are shaking as Antoinette pats away the last of the red Chanel before smoothing on a dash of Vaseline, and then painting my lips a pale mauve.

  Even that seems wrong. I need a shot of color confidence to bring my fair skin and frozen expression back from the brink, not something that’ll fade me out even more.

  I’m only a half-measure, remember?

  An image from yesterday slams into my mind, one with raging battlements of contempt in his eyes.

  Aiden Knight.

  The man I couldn’t stop thinking about all of last night. The beautiful cruel memory who tempted my fingers between my thighs at the break of dawn.

  What was it he said about me again?

  “Stupid rich, bored, empty, unemployable, unsalvageable.”

  If only he knew… I’m so much more than he’ll ever give me credit for. Sometimes the ugliest of lies are wrapped up in the meekest of packages.

  I hear Karina’s voice is in my head suddenly, telling me to hold on to my rainbow, no matter what. We made promises to each other the night she left. The kind you cross your hearts with, schoolgirl style, and keep until you die die die.

  “Are you finished?” I catch Marie’s eye in the mirror and hold it. Screw her. Screw my father. They could marry me off to a beggar on the street and I’d still find a way to paint my world gold.

  She rolls her eyes and nods.

  “Good,” I say, firing back a ping-pong shot of my own.

  I was right to feel that sense of satisfaction earlier. I’m not some little girl she can push around anymore. My new groom may not be Luca Zaccaria, but my father’s choice for me would have been tactical. He’ll be a man of standing in the Sicilian mafia. He’ll be enough.

  “Good?” she mocks. “You won’t be saying that in an hour’s time.”

  “Aren’t you going to wish me luck?”

  Without waiting for an answer, I rise to my feet and sashay from the room as elegantly as my badly fitted shoes—thanks again, Marie—will allow.

  Heart pounding, I make my way down the elegant marble staircase, feeling like Scarlett O’Hara in Gone With The Wind, but with the whole world, not Rhett Butler, declaring that they don’t give a damn about me anymore.

  I reach the lobby to find the tall, stoic figure of my father’s Brigadier waiting for me. There’s another man standing there, too. He has his back turned, his black-suited shoulders blocking out most of the light from a nearby window. I’m so relieved to see Maxim I barely glance at him.

  “You’re here!” I take the last couple of steps too fast and nearly lose my footing.

  He turns at my voice—eyes hooded, expression bleak. “Issa.” He catches me with one arm as pain ricochets through my body, but I manage to silence my whimpers in time. “Careful, zvezda moya.” He sets me right before sweeping his gaze downward. “Why, you look beautiful.”

  “You’re the sweetest liar.” I step back, embarrassed by my lack of poise. What’s worse, there’s a masculine scent in the air that’s aiding and abetting that emotion, whipping up memories I’d rather forget. “Marie chose the dress so you can draw your own conclusions from that.”

  “Tsch, Issa,” he chides. “She chose well.”

  “Liar, twice over,” I say with a shy smile.

  “She’s right, it’s hideous,” drawls a deep voice in perfect Russian. “But it’s nothing a bottle of Saint-Émilion couldn’t fix.”

  Colors. All the damn colors.

  The same man from the bar and my late-night fantasies is smirking down at me, his cerulean-blue oceans churning with the same derision. My lungs flutter and lose function as I finally place the scent in the air.

  “You,” I gasp out.

  “Me,” he says flatly.

  “W-what are you doing here?”

  “My presence was requested, so it’s a good thing I had another suit to wear.”

  My head swings to Maxim for answers, but the scars on his face offer me nothing so I find it swinging back to him. It’s magnetic. I couldn't stop it if I tried.

  “Monsieur Knight,” I say, pulling myself together. “How lovely it is to see you again.”

  He barks out a rough laugh. “You could strip paint with the acid in your voice, princess. Your insincerity is corrosive.”

  “Who knew a gentleman could be so vulgar,” I counter quietly.

  “Who knew you had the brains to come to that conclusion all by yourself.”

  “Have you two met before?” Maxim looks confused, trapped here in our simmering crossfire.

  Aiden Knight cocks his handsome head and grins at me, but his eyes are like chips of ice. “Let's just say we had a
difference of opinion over some home truths and a bottle of red yesterday.”

  Instantly, my heart is a drum and bass beat inside my chest. I hate how British men have the whole archetypal bastard thing down to a fine art. His accent is a poisoned arrow with a fin-shaped fletching of contempt.

  He’s dressed in black Armani again today, though he’s swapped the black dress shirt for white.

  Colors. Colors. He wears them like a warning.

  His necktie is a brilliant crimson, the same red as the lipstick I chose for myself until Marie instructed Antoinette to scrub it off. He’s stolen it. How dare he! I find myself hating him more for that than I do for his insults.

  “Is it true Papa left for Paris an hour ago?”

  I mean to direct it at Maxim, but I can’t seem to tear my gaze away from my nemesis. He’s coolness personified, with the kind of hard arrogance that hazardous men exude

  “Why? Are you worried he took his credit card with him?”

  "That's enough, Knight," growls Maxim.

  I blush right to my roots as my father’s confidante proceeds to curse in both French and Russian at my English invasion. It’s a bi-language of reproach, but Knight just shrugs it off. Clearly, his ninety-nine problems don't include Bratva Brigadiers who would be more than happy to use his head as target practice.

  Is this man completely impenetrable or just plain indifferent?

  “Jesus, you talk a lot of shit, Maxim,” he says in a bored voice, cutting him off mid-flow. “If you’re quite finished, her chariot awaits.”

  Her?

  I watch him stalk through the open front door, down the stone steps and into one of the waiting Escalades without so much as a backward glance at me.

  Who is this vile, rude, arrogant man?

  I meet Maxim’s heavy stare with unspoken questions in my eyes. Without answering, he takes my hand and presses something into the center of my palm.

  “England,” he murmurs, so quietly I have to strain to catch it.

  She made it.

  Thank God.

  “Marie told me I’m not betrothed to Luca Zaccaria anymore,” I say, failing to keep the panic out of my voice.

  “No, zvezda moya, but he’s still connected. We must proceed as planned. Infiltrate and wait. I will be in touch as soon as I can with the next stage of their plan.”

  “Then, who?”

  “Issa—”

  “Please, Maxim,” I beg. “You know what’s at stake. Who the hell am I marrying today?"

  He curses and swipes a hand across his jaw, as if he's disinfecting his next words for an unclean revelation. I then watch in mounting, escalating, soul-crushing horror as his gaze shifts to the vehicles outside. Or rather, to one in particular...

  Please.

  God.

  No.

  Chapter Five

  Aiden

  How the hell does she do it?

  How does she take my self-control, shove a meat hook through it and hang it out to dry?

  Yesterday, I’d viewed Ielena Dubova as a mild splinter: sharp on impact, but easy enough to spurn with a shot of neat whiskey. Today, she’s a festering wound. One I couldn’t ignore even if I drank my own bar dry. Suffice to say, I’m not laughing like a goddamn hyena any longer.

  I don't need this distraction. She’s a disposable part of a fourteen-year plan, nothing more. So why am I grinding the driveway gravel beneath the heels of my black Oxfords? Why, when I enter the car, do I slam the door so violently the whole Escalade shakes?

  I was planning on behaving this afternoon. At Frankie’s bequest, I’d agreed not to act like my usual, insensitive arsehole self, at least until the ceremony was over. Then she appeared at the top of the stairs in that monstrosity of a dress and bang went every resolution, from here to kingdom come. She should have just stapled hundred-euro bills all over it, and called it what it was: Vulgar Couture with a shitty lace trim.

  It was the classic falling domino, anti-elitist effect. After that, everything about her pissed me off.

  First, it was the affectionate way she’d flung her arms around Maxim, gazing up at him like he was a loaded ATM. Side note: it made me want to rip the rest of his ugly face off, and I still haven’t figured out why. Next, it was her reaction to yours truly. I can’t remember the last time a woman looked at me as if I didn't have a dick dipped in gold and sparkles. When Issa Dubova looks at me it’s like my dick is a yeast infection waiting to happen.

  Her delicate up-turned nose: infuriatingly cute.

  Her creamy pale skin: nauseatingly flawless.

  Her soft, brown eyes: disconcertingly direct.

  Worst of all, is her mouth—a mouth that I may or may not have envisaged in the shower last night doing more than just talking back to me. What the hell did they teach her at Swiss finishing school? Flower arranging, exiting cars without pussy flashing, and habitual irritation?

  The mademoiselle needs a reality check. I’m not the worst decision her daddy ever made. Luca would have broken her within a year. He’s easy with his fists, and his dick sees more tunnel action than a high-speed SNL train. As for me, I’m choosier than you might think, and I’ve never raised my hand to a woman unless she’s bent over my knee, panties around her ankles, and dripping all over my pants.

  I bet her skin would look good pinking up like that.

  Letting out a growl of frustration, I slam the back of my head against the seat rest a couple of times to shake some sense into me.

  The car door opens, streaming sunlight onto the back seat. Without a word, she slides in and carefully arranges the long hem of her dress around her feet. Positioning herself so far away from me she’s practically wearing the window as an accessory. A side-eye confirms that there are glistening tears and snail tracks down her cheeks.

  “Penny finally dropped, did it?” I feel a flash of annoyance again. “Or did Maxim share the good news?”

  “Tell me why,” she whispers, refusing to look at me. “Why does my father would want me to marry you? You’re not even Italian. You’re British. I know about the Riviera deal with Tommaso Zaccaria, Monsieur Knight… What I don't know is how you fit into all this.”

  “Aiden,” I murmur, my fingers seeking out the lighter in my pocket. “Trust me when I say you’re not the only reluctant party here. Let’s just get it over with, shall we? We have the rest of our lives to antagonize each other.” I pause, trying not to gag as a sickly-sweet scent sticks in my throat. “Jesus Christ. Is that your perfume?”

  She shakes her head. “This.” She holds up her slim wrists like they’re a reluctant apology. “Is my something ‘borrowed’.”

  “From what? The sewer? If you’re that hot on tradition, borrow my aftershave. Better still, talk to the maids and splash yourself with bleach.” I glance across at her, but she’s still refusing to look at me. “Get back inside and wash it off.”

  Her perfect rosebud of a mouth tightens. “There isn’t time.”

  “I decide that. Get inside. I’ll deal with the rest of you in due course.”

  “You can’t just order—"

  “Care to take that bet?” I close the distance between us and hook a finger under her chin, forcing her to look at me. I can’t stop staring at her fucking eyelashes, and how dark and thick they look all soaked in tears. There’s a wildfire raging in her soft brown eyes and it’s spreading all the way to front of my pants. “You want to know more about me, princess, besides the figure on my dry-cleaning bill for yesterday’s stunt? First lesson starts now.” I drop her chin and lean across to shove the door open as she shrinks away from me. “When I say, ‘jump’ you zip the lip and ask, ‘How high?’ Capiche?”

  “No, I don’t understand,” she argues. “I don’t understand any of it. You’re just a bar owner.”

  “Am I,” I say icily, neither confirming nor denying it. Fucking gold-digger. “Think you’re better than me for living off daddy’s blood money, Ielena? Scared you’ll be slumming it with me, from hereon in?”


  “Scared you’ll be settling for ‘half-measures’?” Her nostrils flare in a way that tells me that the whole defiance thing is new to her. Just don’t make it a habit, sweetheart. “As for the money, I couldn’t give a damn about it.”

  “Says everyone who’s never had to worry about their next meal. Still, I’m glad you brought that up, because I don’t much feel like taking over your daddy’s Amex mantel. Your allowance is going to be considerably smaller in this marriage than it was when you were swanking it up in Paris.”

  She looks at me like I’m Poseidon and I just stuck my trident in her heart. Even so, she’s far too restrained to rip it out and stab me in the face with it.

  “Like I said, I don’t care about the money,” she mutters defiantly. “I’ll want for nothing if that’s what it’ll take to make this ‘marriage’ work.”

  “Keep on using those quotation marks, baby. This ‘marriage’ is me sealing a deal, nothing more.” I lean over again, going in for the kill. “It’s all for show. You know that, right? If I ever did this for real, rich bitches like yourself would be the very last in line.” I’m vaguely aware at the point that I’ve gone and pushed my cuntishness to an all-time low.

  “You’re a bastard,” she whispers, her anger playing havoc with her hard fought poise.

  “Yes I am. Let’s start at rock bottom with our opinions of each other. We’ll take the express elevator down from there.”

  She flies from the car in a blur of white. I watch her stumble past a stony-faced Maxim and into the house.

  “Fuck you, Zaccaria,” I mutter, under my breath. “Fuck history, and fuck the two men who set this massacre in motion.”

  “Are you going for a record?” demands the Russian, peering in through the open door. “You’ve already pissed her off twice and we haven’t even left the house yet. What happened to your word?”

  “What happened to Dubov’s family golden handshake?” I’m feeling that suffocating cloak of irritability yet again. “And what the hell are you doing here anyway? Where’s the whore you promised me? I was looking forward to staring at something pretty instead of Ielena’s frigid indifference.”