CHAPTER ONE

SPARROW

Three years later

“IS IT POSSIBLE TO feel your heart breaking, even if you’ve never fallen in love?” I stared back at the woman in the mirror, chewing on my lower lip until the tender flesh cracked. I looked like a stranger.

Sorrow slammed into me like thunder. Sorrow for the man I would never meet, for the first love I would never experience, for the romance I would never have. For the butterflies that would never take flight in the pit of my stomach. For hope, happiness and anticipation, things I would never feel again.

“I didn’t spend three hours doing your makeup so you can munch on your lipstick like it’s a bag of chips, sweetheart.” Sherry, the makeup artist, fussed around me.

Just then, the hair stylist, a gay man in his late twenties, marched into the room, carrying a bottle of hairspray, and sprayed my hairline again without warning, spritzing the cold liquid all over my eyes. I blinked, fighting the burning sensation both on my face and from the inside.

“You done harassing me yet?” I hissed, stepping away from the mirror and walking to the other side of the luxurious presidential suite.

My first stay in a five-star hotel. And it made me feel like a glorified hooker.

I retrieved a champagne glass I was pretty certain wasn’t even mine and downed the whole thing in one gulp, slamming the glass against the fancy silver tray, fighting the urge to wipe my mouth with the back of my hand so that Sherry wouldn’t kill me. The glass broke into two pieces, and I grimaced, looking back at the crew Troy Brennan has appointed to make me look like the perfect little bride.

“I’m sure Mr. Brennan will have no problem footing the bill for this...too.” Sherry waved her hand, her overdone platinum hair stiff as a rock on her head.

She had a cleavage so deep you could almost see her belly button. She looked like a showgirl from one of the joints Pops used to work at, not exactly the kind of person I’d take fashion and makeup tips from. Then again, I had no say in anything about this wedding.

“As long as you didn’t hurt yourself,” said Joe, the stylist, wiggling his index finger at me. He pried the broken stem from between my fingers with his free hand. “Don’t want you bleeding all over the dress. It’s a vintage Valentino, mind you.”

I didn’t even pretend to look like I knew what a vintage Valentino was. Why would a girl from my tough South Boston neighborhood know anything about couture? Ask me about coupons and how to sneak into the subway for free, and I’d tell you all about it. High fashion, though? Yeah, not for me.

I rolled my eyes and walked into the bathroom to wash my hands. If I had nicked my finger, I wouldn’t want to infuriate Brennan by staining the costly rental dress. The counter was littered with hair products and makeup, as well as creams, spa essentials and my cell phone. I jumped when the phone bleeped with a text.

Eying the group in the other room, I eased the door mostly shut.

Lucy: Still not gonna make it to class today? Boris is teaching us how to make stock. x

Me: Sorry. Caught a bug or something. Been throwing up all night. Text me the recipe when class is over.

Lucy: You got it, babe. Hope you feel better.

Me: Have a feeling the worst is yet to come. x

I put the phone down and prayed, for the millionth time that day that Lucy would be too busy to read the society page tomorrow. Troy Brennan was the kind of guy to show up in the local news for all the wrong reasons. He was trouble—hot trouble, flash-fire-on-the-stove hot trouble—and I knew that his wedding would likely be spread all over the local news like salmonella from a dubious food truck the minute he said, I do.

And me? I’d never attracted too much attention. My social life was as active as a dead turtle. I didn’t have many friends. Those I had I’d kept oblivious to my shotgun wedding. I was pretty frightened of the groom, embarrassed with myself for agreeing to do this in the first place and too confused to deal with their potential (and understandable) questions.

Sadness pierced my heart when I turned on the faucet. My fingers brushed my engagement ring under the stream of running water. It had a diamond the size of my fist at the center, and two, smaller ones on each side. The band itself was plain, a thin platinum shackle, but the weight of the bling—literally, figuratively, freaking mentally—screamed nouveau riche to the sky and back. It also yelled money, power, and look-at-me pretense.

But there was one thing it didn’t even whisper—my name.

Me, Sparrow Raynes. Twenty-two. The child of Abe and Robyn Raynes. An avid runner. A tomboy. A lover of blueberry pancakes, hot chocolate, sweet summer air and unapologetic boyfriend jeans. That kid. The girl who sat in the first row of every class and fiddled with her lunch box during school breaks because no one wanted to hang out with her. The woman who never cared about fashion. The poor chick who thought money was overrated, glitzy cars equaled small dicks, and that happiness was Irish stew and Kitchen Cutthroat reruns under the covers.

This ring belonged to someone else. A Real Housewife of Whatever-suburb. A trophy bride of certain tastes and status. A girl who knew who Valentino was and why his dresses were so goddamned expensive.

Not. Me.

I turned off the faucet and took a deep breath, running my fingers over my incredibly stiff hair.

“Just deal with it,” I prompted myself quietly. Marrying a wealthy man who was known as one of the most sought-after bachelors in Boston was hardly considered a punishment. “Not your choice, but roll with the plan.”

I closed my eyes and shook my head. First-World problem or not, the last thing I needed was for him to take care of me. A soft knock on the bathroom door made me swivel my head in its direction. Sherry’s face, plastered with makeup and a fake smile, peeked through the cracked door.

“Mr. Brennan’s here to see you,” she announced in her syrupy-sweet, insincere voice.

“It’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding,” I gritted out, clenching my fists together and allowing the monstrous ring to dig into my flesh. The pain was a welcome distraction.

“Trust me, it’s even worse luck to piss off your future husband.” I heard his iron-cold tenor cutting through the air outside the door.

I took a step back, hugging myself protectively. The door swung open, and he stepped inside, looking so much bigger than life and any of the pep talks I kept drilling into my head.

He wore a formal black three-piece suit and leather wingtips. He owned the small bathroom, sucking all air and my presence out of it. Suddenly, I felt even smaller than my already tiny frame. His icy glare peeled my walls of defense, exposing me for what I really was—a sweltering ball of nerves.

“Unfold your arms so I can see you,” Brennan ordered sharply.

I did as I was told, not out of respect, but out of fear. My arms hung at my sides as I gulped hard. He’d never looked twice at me before. Not in the eighteen years we lived in the same neighborhood or in the last ten days. This was the first time he’d acknowledged my existence this personally. The day of our wedding.

“You look beautiful.” His tone was detached.

I knew the dress was spectacular. Phrases like “mermaid silhouette” and “Queen Anne neckline” flew in my direction when I first tried it on at the bridal shop. Not that I chose it myself. Joe, the stylist, got his orders directly from my dear future husband. So did Sherry and the hair stylist whose name I couldn’t remember and even the woman who chose my jewelry for the event. I had no say about anything when it came to this wedding. Just as well, as I wasn’t exactly Bridezilla. I wanted this wedding like a bad case of gonorrhea.

“Thank you,” I finally managed to reply and despite my simmering rage, felt oddly compelled to reciprocate with, “You look nice, too.”

“How can you tell? You haven’t looked at me once since I stepped into the room.” Brennan’s voice was frosty and unapproachable, but it didn’t sound like he cared.

I gingerly lifted my chin and dragged my gaze to meet his eyes, every muscle in my face tightening as I watched him. “Very nice,” I repeated, not a trace of sincerity in my voice.

I heard Sherry fussing over God knows what in the other room and Joe talking on the phone, or at least pretending to. Meanwhile, the hair stylist and Connor, the bodyguard who followed me everywhere, were silent, which was coincidentally louder than any of Sherry and Joe’s futile attempts to sound busy. The buzz of a disaster rang between my ears.

He has a troubled past.

A disastrous future.

And I’m about to become a part of his present, whether I like it or not.

“Connor, Sherry, everyone—get the fuck out,” my groom ordered as he continued staring me down through narrowed eyes.

I twisted my fingers together and felt my mouth drying up. This wasn’t me. The insecure, little Mary-Sue wasn’t the Sparrow I had built over the years. But he was dangerous, and I was giving him trouble.

I was giving him trouble because ten days ago, completely out of the blue, he dragged me out of my house (a guy who was no more than a distant childhood memory in an expensive suit and a shady reputation) and threw me into his luxurious penthouse and announced (two days after he left me there with nothing and no one but a bodyguard and a number for a takeout joint) that we were going to get married.

Yes, Troy Brennan was one hell of a sociopath, and he didn’t bother disguising his nature and putting on a mask when he faced the world.

He stood in the presidential suite’s bathroom, looking at me like I was a bitter pill he had to swallow. It didn’t seem like he was mildly interested in me. He’d barely spoken to me, and when he had, a mixture of disappointment, boredom and apathy leaked from his gaze.

I was beyond confused by his behavior. I had heard of powerful, rich men forcing themselves on women before, but usually they desired the women they pursued. This wasn’t the case with Troy Brennan. The way he acted, it almost seemed like he was doing this because he’d lost a bet.

I stared back at my future husband, waiting for him to do something. Hit me, yell at me or break the whole thing off.

I wasn’t sure why the hell he wanted me in the first place. We grew up in the same Boston area, a blue-collar sketchy neighborhood. Our childhood scenery consisted of barred windows, ripped posters, old buildings in desperate need of repair and empty cans rolling down the street. But that’s where our similarities ended.

While I was the poor, working-class daughter of a drunken bum and a runaway mother, Troy Brennan was Boston royalty, and grew up in the nicest house in our zip code. His father, Cillian, once ran the infamous Irish mob. By the time I was a toddler, Cillian had moved on to more legitimate businesses, and by “legitimate” I meant strip clubs, massage parlors and other sleazy South Boston entertainments for guys barely making the rent. My dad, one of his last loyal soldiers, had worked as a bouncer in more than a few of Cillian’s joints.

Troy was an only child, with people saying Cillian’s wife couldn’t have more kids. He was therefore the apple of his father’s eye.

And while Troy might not have carried on with all of his dad’s old businesses, he was no choirboy either. Rumors about him spread like wildfire on the streets of our neighborhood, and at this point he was so talked about he was almost a legend. Word was that politicians, businessmen and rich people from all over the state reached out to him when they needed someone to do their dirty work.

And dirty work he did, and got paid plenty for it.

People called Troy “The Fixer.” He fixed stuff. Not in the handyman sense, mind you. He made people disappear faster than characters in Dennis Lehane’s books. He could cut your prison sentence in half and fix you up with a passport and a fake Social Security card in hours. In days, he could even convince the people who were after you that you didn’t exist. Troy Brennan was Boston’s master manipulator, pulling strings like we were all his puppets. He decided who lived and who died, who disappeared and who made a comeback.

And for some unknown reason, Mr. Fixer chose to marry me. I had no way to fight, escape or even defy his irrational decision. All I could do was beg for a feasible explanation. So I decided to use our first encounter together alone—without Connor, Sherry or any of Troy’s staff—to do just that.

“Why me, Troy? You never spoke a word to me all those years we lived on the same street.” I gripped the creamy vanity top behind me, my knuckles whitening. Maybe calling him by his first name would inspire him to be nicer to me.

He cocked an eyebrow, an expression that looked like Well, shit. She can talk, too. He buttoned his suit jacket with one hand and checked his cell phone with the other.

I was wind, I was a ghost. I was nothing.

“Troy?” I asked again. This time he lifted his eyes to meet mine. My voice dropped to a whisper, but I kept my stare trained on him. “Why me?”

His brows furrowed, his lips thinning into a hard line.

He didn’t like the question, and I wasn’t satisfied with the answer.

“We don’t even know each other.” My nostrils flared.

“Yeah, well…” He kept punching his cell phone, his eyes dropping back to the screen. “Familiarity is overrated. The less I know someone, the better I usually like them.”

This still doesn’t explain why you thrust yourself into my life with the finesse of an army tank.

I glared at him under my newly fake eyelashes, trying to figure out whether he was even good-looking or not. Troy Brennan was never on my radar, but he was on everybody else’s. He was like the IKEA canvas pictures of London and New York in bachelor apartments, like fast food, like Starbucks, like a freaking Macbook Air for a preppy student—mainstream and well liked. At least among women. Buying into his bad boy, influential, rich mobster’s appeal was the polar opposite of who I was.

And still, even under the unforgiving bathroom light, I could see he might be a monster inside, but on the outside, he was anything but.

His thick black mane—so dark it had an almost bluish hue—was trimmed into an expensive haircut with smooth and soft edges. He had the palest, frostiest blue eyes, and a slight tan that made them pop even more. From afar, he was old-fashionedly good-looking. Tall as a skyscraper, wide as a Rugby player and with prominent cheekbones you could cut diamonds with. As he neared you, though, the dead expression behind those baby-blues made you want to run the other way. His eyes were always lazily hooded, vacant of any trace of emotion. Almost like if you looked deep enough, you’d see all the horrific things he’d done to his enemies running in slow motion.

Then there was also the sneer. The challenging smirk plastered on his face 24/7, reminding us all just how unworthy we were in comparison.

I feared and loathed Troy Brennan. He was practically untouchable in Boston. Loved among the cops and respected by the local gangs, he was able to get away with murder.

Literally.

Three years ago, Troy had been the prime suspect in the murder of Billy “Baby Face” Crupti. There wasn’t enough evidence to make the charge stick, but word on the street was the murder was payback. Supposedly Crupti was the one who’d killed Cillian Brennan. No one knew who had sent the simpleton gangster to off Troy’s father or why. The timing was odd. Cillian’s illegal activities were pretty irrelevant to gangland Boston by then. Then there was also the Father McGregor tale, about how Troy killed him too, for ratting about his father’s whereabouts to Crupti.

Yeah, Troy Brennan wasn’t one to take any prisoners.

I still remembered how, growing up, I used to wait for my turn to ride Daisy’s bike (she was the only girl in the neighborhood to have one, and with training wheels, too), and watch in awe when he ran into the cops. I swear the police patted down the boy down the street more than a newborn puppy. They were waiting impatiently for teenage Brennan to follow in his father’s footsteps. He got slammed into the hood of every patrol car that rolled by, and every cop on our beat knew the curve of his ass by heart.

Now cops were too scared to even look at him.

As I stood in the hotel suite’s bathroom, staring at his expressionless face, I realized that I had no cards to play. And even if I had cards, he owned the freaking table.

I was completely trapped, a caged bird with clipped wings.

“Can I still work?” I asked through a strangled voice. Mob wives were not allowed to, but Troy was not a mobster. Technically. He took a step closer, his breath falling on my face.

“You can do whatever the fuck you want. You have a long leash.”

I felt his lips traveling inches from the crook of my neck, and I stilled. Thankfully, he didn’t touch me.

“But let’s get one thing straight—when it comes to men, I’m the only fucking one for you. Do not test me on this subject, because the consequences will be grave for you…and for him.”

He was being deliberately obnoxious, but his words still stung. I tried to focus on the small victory I was granted. I could still work. Still get out of the house and avoid him. Now it was just a matter of finding a job to keep me busy.

“If my leash is so long, why is Connor following me around?” I lifted my chin, challenging him.

“Because I always protect what’s mine.”

“I’m not your property, Brennan.” I seethed, narrowing my eyes. Yes, I was scared, but more than anything, I was royally pissed off.

“The fact that you’re in a wedding dress and have my ring on your finger begs to fucking differ,” he said, his voice flat and calm. “But even if you weren’t, with the amount of enemies I’ve collected in this city, anyone affiliated with me needs protection. Now if you’ll excuse me.” He turned on his heel and headed out the door.

It was only after he left my personal space that I released the breath that was trapped in my lungs for what felt like a decade. Why was he so hell-bent on reminding me how dangerous he was?

“You’re not going to get away with doing this to me, you know,” I called out after him, watching his broad back.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Red. I get away with everything. Always.” He didn’t even bother to turn around to face me.

Did he just call me Red?

“Oh, so now I have a nickname? This marriage isn’t real, Brennan. No matter what will happen in church this afternoon.”

That finally made him react. He turned his head in my direction. Our eyes locked. His frosty blues pierced through my greens, burning an imaginary hole all the way to the back of my skull.

Stupid girl. I felt my pulse—wild and manic—behind my eyes, at my throat, in my toes, pumping, pounding, my heart trying to break free out of my skin and run for its life. Why provoke the guy if you can’t even handle a stare-down?

There was a brief beat, and then Brennan offered me one of his unpleasant I-Will-Destroy-You smiles.

“Dear future wife…” He smirked in a way that made me want to beg for mercy. “If you think you’re going to give me trouble, think again. I invented trouble. I stir it, I mix it, I fucking fix it. Don’t try my patience, because you’ll discover I have absolutely none.”

MY FATHER WAS giving me away at the Sacred Heart Catholic Church, conveniently located in the center of the city. The guest list was full of people I didn’t know or care about. A mish-mash of high-profile businessmen, a handful of politicians, one senator and endless socialites.

A trail of black stretch limos lined up in front of the old church. Sophisticatedly clothed matrons poured out of the cars, assisted by their husbands, sons and daughters. The attire was formal and oozed power, as the men puffed on cigars, laughing with each other and patting shoulders good-naturedly, certainly enjoying the event more than I was.

By the number of security guards marching through the entrance, you’d think I was marrying the Pope.

As my gaze roamed the entrance of the church from the limo I sat in, it occurred to me that the flower arrangements flanking the doors had probably cost more than a year’s rent at the apartment Pops and I shared for the past twenty-two years. The mere thought of marrying someone so obscenely reckless with his money sent a cold shudder down my spine.

I was trying to control the hysterical emotions swirling in me when Pops took my quivering hand in his warm, rough one and squeezed it tight for reassurance.

“You’re doing the right thing, you know that, right?” Hope gleamed in his eyes.

As if I was given a choice.

But I knew what my father didn’t have to tell me. Even if he hadn’t accepted Brennan’s request to take me as his wife (and Troy Brennan was undoubtedly one of those hypocritical, old-fashioned assholes who asked your dad for your hand), Brennan would have made it happen one way or the other. No was simply not in his vocabulary. What he wanted, he took.

And right now, he wanted little old me.

It made no sense at all. I wasn’t particularly beautiful, or at least not in the way to attract the attention of men of his caliber. My lips, probably my best feature, were pink, narrow and heart-shaped, but otherwise I was ordinary at best. I had a short, scrawny frame; long, fire-engine red hair; almost sickly pale skin and freckles peppering every inch of my round face. I was not Troy Brennan’s type.

I knew this with certainty, having flipped through the gossip pages of the local newspapers here and there. He was always seen with glamorous women. They were tall, curvy and gorgeous. Not mousy, ruby haired and a little on the odd side. So as I sat in the limo, about to walk into a church I’d never been inside, full of people I didn’t know, to marry a stranger I feared, a chant rang between my ears, its echo bouncing on the walls of my skull.

Why me? Why me? Why me?

“We’re up next,” I heard the limo driver announce, as the vehicle dragged leisurely forward.

My heart picked up speed, banging wildly against my sternum. A thin layer of sweat formed over my skin.

I wasn’t ready.

I didn’t have a choice.

Dear God.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. I was praying for God to step in and prevent the ceremony from happening, even though I was at his holy home.

A small, quiet but persistent, voice in me taunted that this was my punishment for being a bad Catholic. For not giving the Almighty the respect he deserved. I’d stopped going to church long ago, and even as a kid, I wasn’t particularly interested in faith.

All those years drifting off as a child at Sunday mass.

All those years attending youth group solely for the cookies and to ogle the young, handsome man who lectured us about God’s marvelous ways. Tobey, I think his name was.

All those years and now it was payback time. And Karma? She was well known as a hormonal, raging bitch. God was going to punish me. I was going to marry a monster.

“Here we are,” the driver said, tilting his hat forward.

I caught him eyeing me curiously from the rearview mirror, but at this point I no longer cared. Better get used to it, because once I was Brennan’s wife, people would ogle me like I was a unicorn at a magic zoo.

“Everyone’s taking their seats inside. Shouldn’t be more than a couple more minutes, ma’am.”

I looked back to my father as he handed me the purple bouquet. He leaned forward, kissing my forehead gently. He reeked of alcohol. Not the cheap kind either. Brennan must’ve spoiled him with the good stuff now that we were all about to become one big, unhappy, screwed-up family.

“I wish your mom was here to see this.” He sighed, his wrinkled forehead collapsing into a frown, his eyes two pools of grief.

“Don’t,” I cut him off flatly, relieved to hear there was not a trace of emotion in my voice anymore. “We haven’t laid eyes on that woman since I was three years old. Wherever she ran off to, she doesn’t deserve to take part in this, or anything else in my life. Besides, you did a good job taking care of me on your own.” I patted his thigh awkwardly.

It was true. Robyn Raynes wasn’t my mother, she was a woman who gave birth to me and left shortly after. I supposed most people would feel more strongly about it on the day of their wedding, but (a) this wasn’t my wedding, not my real one anyway, and (b) when your parent deserted you, you had two choices: you either let it define and rule you, or you moved on, making a point to show the world that you didn’t give a rat’s ass where your mother had gone.

I tried falling into the second category, and I rarely slipped.

Pops loved what he was hearing. His eyes shone with pride and surprise. Of course, I’d sugarcoated the hell out of our history. But somehow, I recognized today was just as difficult for my dad as it was for me. A raging alcoholic or not, he’d always put a distance between me and his job with the Brennans, and I knew he wanted nothing more than to shield me from these people.

As for his parenting abilities, truth be told, he had taken care of me on his own ever since I was a toddler. He was never abusive or impatient, even if he was a little on the clueless and insensitive side. There were even women he’d dated who’d played house and were my temporary “mommies” until they realized my father’s love for the hard stuff would always run much deeper than his love for them. Mostly, though, it was just me and him.

Well, me, him and the alcohol.

Even though I loved him, I knew my father wasn’t a good man. When I was growing up and he worked for Cillian Brennan, too often he came home bruised from fights. I dealt with surprise visits from the cops, and I brought him fresh clothes and cigarettes plenty of times when he was arrested. He was now employed by Troy, probably doing something just as illegal.

Pops was an alcoholic and a terrible Casanova with the ladies, but he was also the only person who loved me, who cared, who burnt himself on the stove trying to make chicken noodle soup for me—not the canned type, the real deal—when I caught pneumonia.

He deserved a little happiness, even if it was on my account.

“I love you, Birdie.” He let a single, fat tear roll down his wrinkle-mapped cheek as he pressed both his paws to my face.

I nodded, leaning my face into one of his palms. I stroked his forehead with the pads of my fingers. “Love you too, Pops.”

“Alrighty-o. Ready? Here we go.” The cheery driver pushed his door open and walked around the limo, opening the door for me.

I slid out carefully, noting that the front yard of the church was mostly empty, other than few elderly men scattered around, still caught up in business talk. Pops followed behind, but broke to the left where he spotted the small group of washed-up men.

“I need to catch a word with Benny. I’ll be back in a minute. Let the groom wait a little while. Be right back, little darlin’.” He winked and marched toward the herd of suited men at the corner of the cobblestone church.

I frowned, adjusting my dress. It was an uncharacteristically cold June day, but I knew better than to think goose bumps broke on my skin because of the chill. I eyed the opening in the high stone wall beside me and spotted a tiny garden with a bench. I wished I could hide there.

Then I heard him.

A man speaking softly to his son on the other side of the wall. His voice was gentle, but still throaty and gruff at the same time. I’m not sure why, but the sound of him seeped into my body like warm liquor on a stormy night.

“Of course, Abraham wasn’t a bad man, but he did what he thought he had to do, and that was to sacrifice his child to God.”

A trail of cold sweat dripped down my spine, and I leaned forward on one heeled foot toward the voices, straining my ears.

“But Daddy, dads love their children, right?”

“They do. More than anything else in the world, Sam.”

“And God loves his children?”

The man paused briefly. “Very much.”

“So how come God did what they did to Isaac?”

“Well, God wanted to test Abraham’s faith. Isaac was okay at the end of the day, remember, but God received proof that Abraham would put his adored son at the altar for him.”

“Do you think,” the little boy pondered, and by his voice, he couldn’t have been much older than five, “that God is just testing our Abraham? Maybe his daughter and Mr. Troy won’t get married today.”

The man chuckled to himself humorlessly, and I felt my heart sinking.

“No. That’s not a test, little champ. People want to marry each other. It’s not punishment.”

“Did you want to marry Mommy?” Sam asked.

Another silence filled the air before the man answered.

“Yes, I wanted to marry Mommy. Which reminds me, where is our mommy?”

Just then, the man’s strode through the opening in the wall and his hard body bumped into mine. I squeaked, almost falling flat on my ass, but managed to grab the wall with my hand that wasn’t clutching the bouquet.

“Shit, sorry,” he said.

I straightened, raising my head, and my eyes bugged out and my mouth dried up instantly. He was handsome. No, scratch handsome. He was a masterpiece in a sharp black suit, stealing my breath and momentarily shaking me free of my mental breakdown.

He was about six two, a little shorter than Brennan, and just like my husband-to-be, the way he filled his custom-made outfit told me he made it a point to work out at least four times a week. His chestnut-brown hair, wavy and thick, tousled and soft, stuck out in a few directions, despite his best effort to slick it back. His gray eyes studied me, narrow and intelligent, as he rubbed his strong jawline.

“You said a bad word!” His son practically bounced with happiness, waving a little blue truck in his hand. “You need to put a dollar in the jar when we get back home.”

But Sam’s dad seemed to have been sent to a parallel universe, judging by the way his gaze held mine. He looked surprised to see me, and I wondered how much he knew. I froze, trying to shake off the weird effect he had on me.

“I wasn’t eavesdropping,” I hurried to explain, smoothing my dress. His eyes dropped to where my hand stroked the fabric of my vintage Valen-something, and I immediately jerked it away, feeling self-conscious.

“I wasn’t accusing,” he answered serenely. That voice. That authority. He was one of Troy’s crew, I immediately knew.

“Of course you weren’t.” I blushed, turning away toward the church door. “It’s my wedding in there. So, you know, I better…” My dumb mouth kept spitting out stupidity. Yes, Sparrow. It is your wedding. Otherwise, you just showed up in the most inappropriate dress on the planet.

“It is. And I’m sorry,” he said gravely, his meaning clear.

More emotions stormed inside me, and my stomach flipped at his minor act of kindness.

He was married, with a son, I reminded myself. Oh, and also, I was about to get married in approximately five minutes to one of the most dangerous men in Boston. This made him firmly off limits. And me, a raging idiot.

I rubbed one hand over my face, grateful that Sherry wasn’t there to yell at me for messing up all the layers of makeup she’d caked on my skin.

“Me too.” I shrugged. “I hope you and your family enjoy the ceremony.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but I couldn’t deal with more of his kindness. I didn’t trust men these days, especially not those who were hypocritical enough to offer solace.

Turning away, I put two fingers to my lips and whistled to my dad. “Hey, Pops…” I waved him over with one hand as all the men in the churchyard stared at me, dumbfounded. I bet they thought Brennan would marry a lady and not some weirdo tomboy redhead. “Let’s get this over with.”

Pops jogged the short distance between us. Panting, he acknowledged the beautiful man with a nod. “Brock.”

“Abe,” Brock returned with his own nod. “Congratulations on the wedding. I trust you know I’m here should any of you need anything at all.” Brock turned his gaze back to me, and my heart squeezed just a little more with self-pity.

Brock and Sam turned around, walking into the church, hand in hand.

Pops took a step closer and grasped me by the shoulders. “It’s show time. Let’s get my little Birdie married.”

OBJECTIVELY SPEAKING,my wedding to Troy Brennan was a beautiful event. Obscenely lavish and obnoxiously wasteful. Brennan spared no expense when it came to what was his. Be it his penthouse, his cars, his women or his wedding.

The candles, floral arrangements, aisle runner, soloist, organist, floral archways and extravagantly decorated pews were all impeccable and plush. In fact, I was surprised the altar wasn’t built exclusively from blood diamonds and rolled one-hundred-dollar bills.

Nonetheless, to me, it was as pointless as Henry Cavill with a shirt on. So much detail and beauty shouldn’t be wasted on fraud. And that’s what Brennan and I were—a lie. A charade. Doomed people trapped in a marriage built on the ruins of extortion and lies.

We exchanged vows in front of four hundred guests, all teary-eyed and joyful. Father O’Leary performed the ceremony with grace, or so I assumed, seeing as my vision was blurry and my head spun. I tried not to sweat away the equivalent of my body weight in anxiety and mimicked what the priest was saying whenever appropriate.

Brennan wasn’t exactly basking in the attention, but he didn’t seem too bothered by it either. Overall, he looked tough, unfazed and a little irritated with the time he had to waste on the mundane event.

“Since it is your intention to enter into marriage, join your right hands, and declare your consent before God and His Church,” O’Leary instructed, and my emotions got the better of me.

I gasped when the groom took my small hand in his big one, clasping it firmly. While the people in the pews chuckled, thinking it was the sweet, authentic reaction of a nervous bride, black dots clouded my vision and I thought I was going to faint. He stared daggers at me, his jaw stiff as stone, and I forced myself to smile weakly, continuing with the charade.

“I, Troy James Brennan, take you, Sparrow Elizabeth Raynes, to be my wife. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you, all the days of my life.”

Women were wiping the edge of their heavily mascaraed eyes with handkerchiefs, sniffing their noses as they nodded their approval. Men exchanged contented grunts, sticking their chins out like this freak show was genuine. My face drained of color, blood and life.

My turn.

The priest turned to me and asked me to repeat his words, which I did, albeit with a shaky voice. “I, Sparrow Elizabeth Raynes, take you, Troy James Brennan, to be my husband. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you, all the days of my life.”

The priest continued rambling, but I tuned him out at this point, concentrating solely on the fact that I was almost married to this man. A criminal. A murderer. My promise to Troy Brennan left a bitter taste in my mouth.

A part of me wanted to yell at everyone sitting in front of us and smiling like idiots, to lash out angrily. I was twenty-two. He was thirty-two. We hadn’t even gone out on one date.

Never been out together.

Barely spoken to each another.

This was a lie. How could they let this happen?

My shaky relationship with humanity took another nosedive when Brennan’s best man, a plump man with ratty, mean eyes handed him my ring.

“Take this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” Brennan slid the ring down my finger.

When it was my turn, I spewed the words on autopilot. Plucking my husband’s ring from a pillow held by a young girl—she and my three bridesmaids, all complete strangers to me and probably hired—I slid the band onto his finger with a quivering hand.

“You may kiss the bride,” the priest announced with a satisfied grin when the deed was done.

Brennan didn’t wait for me to move or get hold of my emotions. Showing off his wolfish grin, he stepped into my personal space and tilted my head back, holding my neck like he’d done it hundreds of time before.

And I bet he had, just with so many women who weren’t me.

His taste exploded in my mouth as his lips crushed mine. Surprisingly warm and unapologetically masculine, he conquered my mouth. A mix of bitter stout beer (Guinness probably), the sweetness of a cigar, and freshness of mint gum swirled on my tongue. I stiffened, pinching my lips instinctively, not allowing more of him to invade me.

But my new husband would have none of it. He engulfed me with his arms, his broad shoulders shielding our faces from the crowd that stood up and cheered, clapping, whistling and laughing, a firework of happiness. The church boomed with ecstasy, while I worked hard on trying not to throw up in his mouth. His lips left mine, traveling up to my cheek, leaving traces of hot, charged breaths on my skin, before settling on the shell of my ear.

“Pretend to be happy, or I will provide you with a real reason to be sad.”

His hissed whisper sent a jolt of panic straight to my stomach. His eyes were still heavy lidded with the kiss when he leaned back, looking down at me. I squinted at him, but didn’t kick his balls with my impossible stilettos like I so desperately wanted to.

“Am I clear?” He dipped his chin, lips thinning into a hard line.

I swallowed. “Crystal clear.”

“Good girl. Now let’s shake some hands, kiss some babies and get back to the limo. I have a surprise for you.”

FOR THE NEXT hour, I played the role I was cast in. I shook hands, smiled big, hugged people I didn’t know and whenever things got too real, reached for a glass of champagne and numbed the bitter bite of reality. Brennan wanted to get the guests happy-drunk before we all left for the reception venue—and so bizarrely, there was an open bar on the sidewalk in front of the church.

While we mingled outside, occasionally, a photographer would gingerly interrupt whatever we were doing and ask to take a picture of us. Both my new husband and I complied. He looked at ease, clutching my waist assertively and placing a rough hand on my shoulder whenever was appropriate. Me? I stared back at the camera like I was begging the person behind the lens to call the police and save me. I knew I looked awkward, like my body was a rental I had yet to learn how to operate.

My father steered clear of me and my groom, opting to stay at his spot near the deadbeat wannabes of our neighborhood, all of them men who somehow found themselves being bossed around by the younger generation of criminals. Some because they lacked the intellectual ability to lead, like Sloppy Connelly, who according to the rumor, was just a few brain cells better than a potato, and some because they lacked discipline, like my drunk father.

Depression washed over me every time I glanced his way and saw him clinking a glass with his friends. The bitterness of my situation, paired with the lingering taste of Brennan’s kiss and the fact that I, too, drowned my sorrows with alcohol today, made me feel hopeless.

I saw Brock, Sam and his mother minutes before we walked back to the limo. The small family approached to give us their blessing and good wishes, just like all the other guests who treated Brennan like subjects kneeling in front of their king.

Brock was stunning, so I shouldn’t have been surprised to find out that his wife was as equally breathtaking. She looked Hispanic, with smooth golden skin, endless legs and curves that went on forever. I figured standing next to her made me look like a poor excuse for a teenager. She had short, coffee-hued hair cut in a stylish bob, while mine was long, straight and sunset red. Her eyes were the color of whiskey, a little slanted and inviting, while mine were light green and wide. She oozed sex appeal—I barely looked legal.

Still, it occurred to me that Troy Brennan could have taken her for his wife had he wanted to. It wasn’t that Troy had more charm than Brock. Quite the opposite, if you asked me. It was just that Troy had made a name for himself as a human bulldozer.

Brock’s wife bowed deep, her cleavage almost popping from her hot, tight red dress as she greeted Troy. “You make one hell of a handsome groom.” She gave him a lingering kiss on his cheek, leaving a lipstick stain on the edge of his jaw. “And what a lovely bride. I’m Catalina Greystone.”

We shook hands, Catalina applying enough force to break a bone or two in my fingers as she scanned me like I was a contagious disease.

“Pleasure,” I lied, a toothy smile frozen on my face. “I’m Sparrow.”

“Well, that’s a peculiar name.” She pouted, narrowing her eyes.

“Well, that’s a predictable comment,” I retorted.

She dropped my hand like it was made of shards of glass.

Brennan lifted one brow, amusement dancing in his cold blue eyes. So he liked my bitchy comebacks. Good, because he’d need to get used to ’em.

Brock and Troy shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. Despite being similar in height and bone structure, Brock was more of a pretty boy and Troy was rougher, rugged in features and a lot scarier. Brock looked like a poem; Troy, like a heavy metal song.

“My good man,” Brock said to Troy as he clapped his shoulder. “Lovely ceremony, gorgeous bride. Take care of her.”

Troy brushed his thumb over his lips, scanning my body like it was dessert. “I intend to.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Brennan.” Brock nodded to me, not giving away for a second the fact that we had already met.

I blushed for some unknown reason.

Looking for a distraction, I squatted down and offered Sam my hand. “I’m Sparrow,” I said, ignoring the grown-ups. It’s not like I felt like I was a part of them anyway.

“I know,” he answered matter-of-factly, and everyone, including me, broke into a relieved laughter. “It’s a cool name. Is it your real name?” he continued, his face serious but open. “Not a nickname?”

“I’m afraid it is.” I wrinkled my forehead, my smile growing wider. “I guess my parents felt original.” Not that original, my mother’s name was Robyn, but this was my standard line.

“Mine didn’t.” Sam shrugged, returning his attention to the blue toy truck he was holding in his small fist. “My real name is Samuel. It’s just a boring old name.”

“I think it’s pretty. And I bet you aren’t a boring boy. In fact, I’m sure you’re really bright. Don’t you think so, Troy?”

For the first time in my life, I voluntarily acknowledged my new husband’s presence. He seemed as taken aback by the gesture as I was, but recovered quickly, taking a slow slip from the whiskey he cradled in his palm and looking down at the glass, avoiding the little boy.

“Too soon to tell.” His dark smirk told me he was enjoying offending everyone around us, me included.

Catalina’s forehead wrinkled into a frown, but she kept her eyes trained on my husband, not her son. Brock jerked Sam to his side, stroking his head as he fought an angry twist in his lips. Sam was too focused on his little truck to care what the grownups were discussing.

I realized I was gaping at them when Troy nonchalantly used his pointer finger to press on my chin and close my lips with a snap.

“Careful,” he mocked, taking a step closer and whispering into the crook of my neck, “don’t want a fly to wander into that pretty mouth of yours.”

When we got into the limo taking us to the historic manor where nearly four hundred strangers would celebrate our fake wedding, rain knocked on the tinted windows. I swallowed a sarcastic remark. I might be a June Bride, but of course it was going to rain on our wedding day. Some people claimed rain meant good luck, but I knew better.

A handful of guests went through the usual motions, gathering on the sidewalk and throwing birdseed at our vehicle. Birdseed. At least my new husband wasn’t as predictable as to try and make a joke about my name.Instead, as we merged into the busy Boston traffic, he handed me a wide, deep white box tied with a pink satin bow.

“From me, to you,” he said, his expression emotionless.

I took the box carefully from his hand and untied the bow with shaky fingers. Pausing, I glanced up at him, suspicious. Dammit, would I ever stop acting like a sheep led to slaughter around this man?

“Sorry I didn’t get you anything,” I said, ignoring his predator eyes. “As you’re aware, this wedding was pretty rushed and unexpected.”

“I’ll live,” he said tonelessly.

Yup, unfortunately.I bit my lip to suppress the nasty comeback.

He waved his hand impatiently. “For fuck’s sake, Red. Unwrap the damn thing.”

I ignored the fact he called me Red again. Yes, I was a redhead, but he was an asshole, and you didn’t see me walking around calling him that without making sure he liked his new pet name first.

I poked aside the tissue paper in the mysterious white box. When the contents registered, bile shot up my throat and my blood froze. Almost screeching, I threw the box in his lap like it was a nest of snakes.

My gift was very revealing and degrading lingerie items. I’m talking leather, fishnets and all that crap.

Tears stung my eyes. I fought them, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry. A traitorous tear managed to sneak out, rolling down my right cheek. I swiped it away and clenched my jaw to stop my chin from quivering. If this asshole was hungry for my pain, I planned to keep him starving.

Brennan’s stony face broke into a taunting smirk. “What’s that, Red? Not even a thank you?” His low voice crawled deep under my skin.

I shook my head no. I assumed sex was going to be a part of the package, but in the ten days he’d caged me in his penthouse, alone and afraid, he hadn’t visited more than once, let alone tried to touch me.

This was a reminder that just because he hadn’t yet, didn’t mean that he wouldn’t.

“So you need a leatherette bra and a vinyl teddy to be turned on? I didn’t peg you for a cliché, Brennan.”

His eyes lit with something devilish. “And I didn’t peg you for someone who answers back. Don’t worry, little birdie. We’ll have plenty of time to explore one another.”

I stared straight ahead, focusing on the back of our driver’s head and biting my tongue. I hated that he called me Birdie. Only people I loved called me that.

“Chill out, Red. I have no interest in tapping your ass unless you’re willing and begging.”

“That’s interesting, because you sure seem to have a healthy interest in lingerie shopping. Too much spare time?” I deadpanned.

His smirk widened. “I didn’t pick those items.” He tilted his chin to the gift nestled in layers of tissue paper.

“No?” I blinked slowly.

“No…” He leaned forward, bringing his mouth closer to mine. “My mistress chose your gift.”

Sirens wailed in the distance, a truck beeped as it reversed and the angry hum of my blood buzzed in my ears. Still, somehow, time completely stopped despite the busy streets of Boston flashing by outside. Our driver kept swallowing hard and looking straight ahead robotically, but I knew he was listening. Saying I wasn’t comfortable having this conversation in front of a complete stranger was the understatement of the century.

I pressed my lips between my teeth, trying not to launch at my husband like a cornered animal. This man promised me his faithfulness in front of a priest less than an hour ago. I wasn’t naïve enough to believe he’d ever take this marriage seriously, but he didn’t have to rub his affairs in my face.

“She really doesn’t like you if she goes around buying lingerie for your wife.” My voice barely trembled.

“She just knows what’s best for her. Maybe you could learn a thing or two from her.”

I tucked my hands under my thighs to keep from trying to strangle him. “Tell her to send me the syllabus. I’m especially interested in How to Tame the ManWhore 101.” I offered him a sweet smile, folding my arms over my laced-covered chest.

Just then, the limo came to a halt and the driver rushed to help us out of the back and onto the steps of the eighteenth-century landmark where the wedding reception was taking place. Troy got out first, offering me his hand. I didn’t move, ignoring his gesture.

“Remember, play nice.” He kept his palm open, yet uninviting.

“Whatever. Fine,” I muttered slapping my hand into his. We walked and waved, smiling to our guests through plastic grins.

“But I like your fight,” he said softly through our make-believe joy as we made our way, arms linked, like the two happy lovers that we weren’t. “Can’t wait for you to show me some of it in my bed.”