2. Sofia

2

SOFIA

I search for my father through the carnival grounds, my nose wrinkling at the smell of grease and sweat mingling in the summer heat. This place gives me the creeps—too many shady characters lurking about, their eyes lingering too long.

That ringmaster is the worst of them all. Who does he think he is, undressing me with those dark eyes and giving me that wolfish grin? The nerve of him flirting so brazenly after literally slamming into me. I don’t care how ripped he is under that stupid ringmaster costume, with those intricate tattoos snaking across his muscular arms.

Ugh, I can’t be thinking about him like that. I’m spoken for, thanks to dear old Dad setting up this ridiculous arranged marriage. To a mobster—because that’s just what a girl dreams of. Marrying into the family business of extortion and violence.

My aimless wandering leads me right to the freak show tent. Of course. I peek inside, grimacing at the strange human oddities on display. A woman with a beard thicker than most men, contortionists folding themselves into impossible knots, and...is that a guy hammering a nail into his nose? I stumble back, hand over my mouth to stifle my revolted gasp.

“There you are.” Dad’s gruff voice makes me jump. He grabs my arm, yanking me away from the tent flap. “C’mon, we gotta meet Tyson about that shipment.”

Tyson

Isn’t that the ringmaster’s name? My heart stutters in my chest. I don’t want to see that arrogant, inappropriately flirtatious jackass again.

But I don’t have a choice. Dad’s already dragging me toward the main tent, his beefy hand clamped around my wrist like a vise.

I steel myself as Dad yanks open the tent flap, the heavy canvas parting to reveal a dimly lit space that reeks of cigarette smoke and cheap beer. A few burly men lounge around a rickety card table, their laughter rough and grating.

In the center of it all is the ringmaster himself—Tyson. He’s shed the gaudy red jacket, wearing a tight black tank that strains against his muscular frame. Those intricate tattoos I noticed earlier wrap around his bulging biceps, disappearing beneath the fabric. A cold sweat prickles my neck despite the heat as his dark gaze lands on me.

“Mr. Moretti.” Tyson rises to his feet, that insufferable grin playing at the corners of his lips. “I wasn’t expecting such lovely company. ”

Dad grunts, oblivious to the way Tyson’s eyes roam over me. “You got those supplies we talked about?”

“Of course.” Tyson’s focus shifts back to my father, all traces of flirtation vanishing as he launches into logistics about weights, quantities, and drop-off points.

I try to tune it out, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment and anger. The way he looked at me like he wanted to devour me right there. Surely, if he knows anything about my dad, he knows I’m in an arranged marriage. Not that I want to marry that slimeball Paulie Gambino, but still. I have my obligations.

Tyson’s deep voice cuts through my thoughts. “Everything’ll be ready by midnight like we discussed. You’re good for the payment?”

Dad huffs out a laugh, slapping a thick envelope on the table. The sound of it smacking down makes me cringe. “You know I’m good for it. Now, are we done here? I got places to be.”

“That’s it, Mr. Moretti. Good doing business with you.” Tyson scoops up the envelope, tucking it into his waistband.

I avert my gaze, refusing to meet his eyes again. But not before catching the briefest glimpse of the bulge in his pants and how it strains against the fabric.

No. I don’t want to think about the bulge in his pants. I turn on my heel and storm out of the stifling tent, leaving Dad and his goons behind. The carnival has officially lost all its charm. Not that it had much in the first place.

I storm away from the tent, my face burning. The nerve of that Tyson guy, looking at me like a piece of meat right in front of my father.

Heavy footsteps sound behind me, closing in fast. Before I can react, a strong hand clamps down on my upper arm, wrenching me backward into the shadows between two tents.

“Let go of me!” I cry, struggling against him while he pins me against the faded canvas.

Tyson’s face looms in front of mine, his eyes glittering with an intensity that makes my breath catch. Up close, I can see a faint scar over his eyebrow, remnants of past fights or troubles with the law. He’s terrifyingly attractive in a rough, dangerous way.

“You shouldn’t have run off like that.” His voice is a deep, gritty rasp that sends a shiver down my spine. “We weren’t finished talking.”

“Get your hands off me, you pig!” I snarl, pushing against his chest. But he doesn’t budge, his body a solid wall of muscle trapping me in place. “If Paulie knew you were touching his future wife, he’d cut your filthy hands off.”

A dark chuckle rumbles from Tyson’s throat as he leans in closer, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Is that what you want? To be Paulie Gambino’s little wifey, popping out babies and turning a blind eye while he fucks every piece of ass in the city?”

It’s true—everything Tyson’s saying about Paulie. The guy’s a notorious womanizer, bragging to his goons about all the side pieces he’s got stashed around the city. And I’m sure that won’t change once we’re married. It’ll just be another way for him to flaunt his power and status, keeping his wife at home barefoot and pregnant while he philanders around.

But it’s my duty. My obligation as the daughter of a mob boss is to make this arranged marriage work. To play the good little mobster’s wife and keep up appearances, no matter how much it makes my skin crawl.

“It’s my duty,” I grit out, struggling against Tyson. “Something a carnie like you could never understand.”

His eyes narrow to dangerous slits. But then that insufferable grin creeps back across his lips, and he leans in until our faces are inches apart.

“Oh, I understand duty just fine, baby girl.” His raspy voice drips with contempt on that last word. “But I also understand when someone’s trying to convince themselves they’re okay with a shitty situation.”

I open my mouth to protest, but he barrels on, his tone low and intense.

“You deserve so much better than being Paulie’s latest possession. A woman like you needs a real man who can keep her satisfied, not some two-timing scumbag who’ll be too busy sticking it in anything with a pulse.”

My breath catches in my throat as Tyson’s hands grip my hips. An unwelcome spark of desire flares in my core at the raw hunger in his gaze.

“You should be mine, Sofia.” His lips ghost my jaw, his beard scratching deliciously against my skin. “I’d treat you like a fucking queen, not some glorified baby maker. You’d never want for anything. I promise you that.”

Part of me wants to slap him, to knee him right in the balls for daring to speak to me that way. But another part—a deeper, more primal part that I’ve denied for far too long—is thrumming with excitement at his bold words and even bolder touch.

This is so wrong. So utterly inappropriate, not to mention insulting to my family’s honor. I’m not some cheap piece of ass to be leered at and grabbed by a shady guy.

And yet...my body betrays me, instinctively arching into Tyson’s solid frame as his calloused palm skims up my ribcage to cup my breast through the thin fabric of my blouse. A ragged gasp escapes my lips before I can stop it.

“That’s it, princess,” he murmurs, his thumb grazing my peaked nipple. “Let me show you what a real man feels like.”

I yank myself free from Tyson’s grasp, stumbling backward as fury burns through my veins. Who does this piece of trailer trash think he is, grabbing me and spewing that filth?

“Get your hands off me,” I snarl, shoving him hard in the chest. He staggers back a step, that infuriating smirk never leaving his face. “The only man who’ll be showing me anything is Paulie. My fiancé.”

Tyson lets out a harsh bark of laughter, raking an appraising gaze over my body that makes me want to squirm. “Let me guess—you’re a virgin, saving yourself for marriage like a good little girl?”

Heat floods my cheeks as I straighten my spine, glaring defiantly into his mocking eyes. “That’s none of your business. But for your information, I’m not some blushing innocent. I lost my virginity years ago.”

The words tumble out before I can stop them. Tyson’s brows shoot up, that shit-eating grin widening as he takes a deliberate step forward, crowding my space again.

“Is that so?” His voice drops to a low, gravelly purr. “Do tell, baby girl. Who was the lucky guy?”

I open my mouth to tell him where he can shove his condescending attitude. But the memory rises unbidden—a drunken night in some frat guy’s basement, stumbling through the motions with a sloppy, impatient idiot who couldn’t be bothered to make sure I enjoyed myself.

The humiliation still stings all these years later. I shake my head, forcing the memory away.

“None of your damn business,” I repeat, mustering every ounce of venom I can. “Just some loser in college who couldn’t find a woman’s clit with a map and a flashlight.”

Tyson throws his head back with a roar of laughter, the unexpected sound making me flinch. When he meets my glare again, his eyes are bright with amusement.

“Well, damn. Guess the poor bastard didn’t do a very good job showing you how it’s supposed to be.” He takes another deliberate step forward, his body a solid, scorching presence against mine as he leans close. “Let me demonstrate that I know exactly where your clit is and how to make you scream with my tongue.”

I gasp at Tyson’s filthy words, my core clenching. The rough timbre of his voice, coupled with the blazing intensity in his eyes, has me struggling to maintain my composure.

Part of me wants nothing more than to give in and let this rugged man devour me right here in the shadowy alley between the tents. To finally experience the white-hot passion I’ve been denied for far too long.

But I can’t. I’m the daughter of Jimmy Moretti, one of the most powerful men in Dawsbury. I have to marry well and produce heirs to continue the family legacy. As distasteful as the idea is, Paulie Gambino is my best option, even if he is a womanizing scumbag.

Squaring my shoulders, I summon every ounce of defiance I can muster and meet Tyson’s gaze head-on. “Keep your filthy promises to yourself.” My voice thankfully emerges stronger than I feel as I shove him away. “I’m not some cheap carnival whore you can leer at and grab whenever you want.”

Tyson’s eyes roam over me in a way that makes me feel stripped bare. “Whatever you say. But you can’t fool me—I saw that hunger in your eyes. That aching need for a real man’s touch.”

My breath catches as he leans in close again, his raspy voice a low, gravelly purr in my ear. “When you finally get tired of playing the good little mobster’s daughter and want to scratch that itch, you know where to find me.”

With that, he turns on his heel and strides away, disappearing between the tent and trailers and leaving me flushed and flustered in his wake. I press trembling fingers to my flushed cheeks, struggling to steady my ragged breathing .

That arrogant, insufferable prick.

And yet...a tiny, treacherous part of me can’t quite silence the thrill that shot through me at his crude words, at the scorching promise in his eyes. It’s been so long since I’ve felt raw, primal hunger for a man. Too long since I’ve allowed myself to embrace my desires instead of burying them beneath duty and obligation.

Suddenly, the carnival feels stifling, the air thick and cloying with grease, sweat, and desperation. I need to escape this place and the unsettling effect Tyson seems to have on me. Smoothing my hands over my rumpled blouse, I straighten my spine and stride toward the exit, leaving the carnival behind.

My heels click determinedly against the pavement as I walk across the sprawling parking lot. I search for my keys in my purse, my hands only shaking slightly as I accidentally drop my credit card and bend down to pick it up.

I scan the rows of cars for my cherry-red Mustang. There it is, a welcome beacon amidst the sea of minivans and beaters surrounding it. I lengthen my stride, unable to shake the feeling of eyes burning into my back as I hurry toward my car’s comforting familiarity.

Just a few more steps, and I’ll be safe inside, able to crank up my favorite trashy pop music to drown out the lingering echoes of Tyson’s sinful promises. I can pretend this whole encounter never happened, that I didn’t come perilously close to betraying everything I’ve been groomed for.

With a shaky exhale, I hit the button on my key fob to unlock the doors .

I’m almost there. Just a few more steps to the driver’s side door. I can escape and put Tyson out of my mind for good.

That’s when I hear a powerful engine’s low, rumbling growl approaching from behind. My pulse skyrockets as I whip around, clutching my keys like a makeshift weapon.

The sleek, matte-black Surburban roars through the parking lot, its tinted windows glinting menacingly in the late afternoon sun. It peels around the corner with a squeal of tires, heading straight for me with no signs of slowing.