Chapter 10

10

Creed

Z ara in a curve-hugging wedding gown is even more tempting than a naked Zara wearing only my jacket.

I was struck by how perfect she looked, not just in the dress but standing in the living room of my penthouse, about to become mine.

From the high slit showing off her pale, toned legs to the V-neck of her dress drawing the eye down to her succulent cleavage, I still can’t look away as we sit in morning traffic on the way to the clerk’s office.

But then I remember her crooking her finger at me that night in the club and my desire for her melts away in the blink of an eye.

Forcing myself to watch the foot traffic outside the window instead, I remind myself that this marriage is a business arrangement. Nothing more. It’s the only way to keep Zara close and keep my eye on her. She’s a witness to Izaiah’s murder and partially responsible for Carmine’s.

Marrying Zara is only infinitesimally better than marrying Emilio Rovina’s viper-bitch daughter.

Oh, and Emilio is going to be fucking furious when he finds out I married someone else a week after our talk.

It’s probably best if I keep the marriage license off the public record until I figure out if Emilio put Izaiah up to the club raid or not. There’s no reason to incur his wrath before I have evidence and the upper hand.

Which reminds me, as soon as the ceremony is done, Zara and I will have to take the SUV with Izaiah’s body and dump him some place he’ll never be found. I dread enduring the stench that will have only grown worse a day later in the small, hot, enclosed space. The entire SUV will probably need to be destroyed afterwards.

“I was thinking we could drive out to the Hamptons this afternoon.” I carefully choose my words, since Lorenzo is in the front with Aldo, one of my drivers.

“The Hamptons?” she asks.

“You know, for our honeymoon? I have a house there. It’s very private.”

Turning to me, she nods her head in understanding. “That sounds…great. Do you have a boat?”

A watery grave is exactly what I was thinking as well. Or at least I assume that’s why Zara asked about a boat. “I’m sure we could find one to rent when we get there.”

“Sounds fun.”

Her accompanying smile makes it seem as if she’s excited to toss a man in the ocean, reminding me yet again that I know absolutely nothing about this peculiar woman I’m about to legally tie myself to through marriage.

And instead of planning how to dispose of Izaiah without getting caught, I find myself thinking about how Zara and I should spend a few days away from the city getting to know each other, which is idiotic. Still, I can’t seem to shake the thought that since there’s no women’s apparel at my beach house, I’ll get to see Zara in more of my attire. Wearing only my clothes and nothing underneath.

And my ring on her finger.

Rather than publicly shopping in a store with Zara for our wedding rings, I have a jeweler meeting us at the clerk’s office with a variety of choices and sizes for her to try on and choose from.

The rings will come after the ceremony, since I’m not paying a fortune for them only to have Zara backout at the last second when we’re in front of the officiant.

Would she actually choose death rather than marry me? It’s unlikely but still possible for the odd woman.

After all, being married into the mafia won’t be a walk in the park. It’s potentially a death sentence.

In fact, when we reach our destination, parking near the side entrance, I find myself wanting to be honest with Zara before we go through with this ceremony. “Will you and Aldo give us a moment?” I ask Lorenzo. “Remind him of the importance of being discreet about what he sees or hears about today. And the punishment for failing to do so.”

“Sure thing, boss,” he replies and jerks his chin at the driver, gesturing toward the sidewalk. They both exit the SUV, leaving it running.

“Before we do this, there’s something you should know about me.”

“Let me guess…you’re in the mafia?”

“I am. And I’m not going to lie. Being by my side will come with its own risks to your life. That’s how the Ferraro family curse got started.”

“The what?” She smiles .

“Women who marry into my family never live to see thirty.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. It’s our lifestyle, our enemies. I know that it’s not just because the women weren’t Italian.”

“The so-called curse is specific to non-Italian women?”

“Yes. I’ll keep our marriage license quiet for as long as I can, but that may only be possible for a few days or weeks.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Marrying you still seems like the better option,” she replies. “And dumping Izaiah in the ocean during our ‘honeymoon’ is probably our best bet, right?”

She says “our” honeymoon and “our” best bet because we’re already a team, have been since I trusted her not to tell him I was eavesdropping from her bathroom.

And as long as Zara is breathing, I don’t have any other choice but to marry her to keep her close to me. I hate that there’s an annoying, demanding part of my body that is desperate to fuck the woman responsible for Carmine’s death. I need to shut that shit down fast.

“This isn’t going to ever be a real marriage. Before the rings or vows, tell me right here, right now that you don’t want me and never will.”

Zara’s auburn brow furrows, drawing my attention to the trail of freckles that lead down her nose. “W-what? Why?”

She wants me to give her a reason why I need her to voice her rejection? Fine. She can have the whole truth. “Because there are already a million and one filthy ideas about what I’d like to do to you, swirling around in my head, and hearing your rejection may be the only thing that stops those thoughts from continuing to multiply.” That damn slit in her dress. I can’t resist running my fingertips up the smooth bare thigh that’s crossed over the other before she tells me to never lay a finger on her again .

Zara covers my hand; I assume she’s going to shove it away from her leg.

Instead, she slides my palm up higher, over to where her two legs rest against each other. There, she presses my fingertips about two inches between those tightly crossed thighs before unfortunately pulling them back out again. When my eyes lift to hers, she studies me as she returns my hand back to my lap. The temptress wraps my fingers around the length of my hard shaft, then makes me give myself a squeeze and an agonizingly slow stroke.

I’m staring down at her gorgeous cleavage on the second and third stroke, which is when I groan so loudly that I almost miss it when she says, “I don’t want to want you, but I would never say never.”

Fuck.

And that is the reason I was late to my own damn wedding ceremony.

It wasn’t the partial hand job in the car that had me so strung out, I couldn’t wait until later to go rub one out in the clerk’s bathroom like a goddamn teenager.

It was the possibility of someday having Zara underneath me that had me so turned on, I couldn’t think straight.