Todos os capítulos de The Revenge of the Underboss’s Bride : Capítulo 1 - Capítulo 6

I had spent years dreaming about the day Julian Moretti would put a ring on my finger. I never imagined another man would be waiting to take it off. "Stop picking at the silk," my cousin Gina whispered, shoving my elbow. Her breath smelled of espresso and stale garlic. "You pull one thread and Julian will think we bought this off a rack in Queens." "It fits," I said, keeping my voice low while breathing in shallow drafts. The satin pressed hard against my ribs. "That is all that matters." "What matters is that the Don is sitting downstairs right now," Gina muttered, smoothing the red fabric over my hips with rough, impatient palms. "He does not like waiting, Sienna. Neither does his son." I looked at my reflection in the dark windowpane. For twenty-two years, I had been the poor relation in the Rossi family, the daughter of an uncle who left behind nothing but gambling debts and a bad name. Moving through the halls of the Moretti compound felt like walking through a house made

The cold edge of the steel scraped lightly against my skin as Vincent tilted my chin up. My pulse rattled against the blade. I forced my jaw to lock, staring straight into his grey, unblinking eyes. With a swift flick of his wrist, he turned the blade away from my neck and sliced through the thick nylon zip-ties binding my wrists behind my back. The plastic snapped. My arms fell forward, numb and prickling with sudden heat. I rubbed my wrists, staring at the raw red rings left on my skin. "Why do that?" I asked, my voice raspy. "You like playing games?" Vincent slid the dagger back into his inner coat lining. "I don't play games, Sienna. Your hands were turning blue, and you can't sign a marriage certificate with dead fingers." "I am not signing anything with you," I said, backing away until the wood frame of the glass case dug into my shoulder blades. "I would rather rot in a cell." "You won't rot in a cell," Vincent said, turning his back on me to pick up his glass of wh

I placed my palm flat over his bloody knuckles. His skin was warm and rough, but his grip closed around my fingers with absolute firm certainty. Three days later, the velvet ropes outside the Plaza Hotel opened for us like a gate to a kingdom. I stepped out of the back of the armored sedan into a wall of camera flashes and dark suits. The emerald silk gown Vincent had chosen for me swept the stone steps, heavy and smooth. Around my throat rested the Moretti family crest in platinum and black diamonds, a piece of ice that practically announced my elevated status to every family captain watching from the terrace. Vincent offered his arm. He wore a crisp charcoal tux, the scar on his jaw sharp and visible against his high collar. "Shoulders back, Sienna," he said quietly, his gaze sweeping the lobby like a hawk looking for a target. "Let them see the blood in your veins, not the glass in your shoes." "I am fine," I said, breathing through my nose. "Just don't let me trip over t