Borrowed Bride: Chapter 3

His wife?

I should say no. Who the hell demands that kind of thing from a stranger?

He stands there with his broad shoulders and his stupid, handsome face, leaving my lips tingling from the sheer pressure of the kiss, and then tells me I will be his wife.

Who the hell is this guy? With his gaggle of armed men standing in each corner of the dressing room and the waiting room beyond the curtains, a limitless card, and such an inflated ego that he thinks he can snatch a woman from the street?

Sure, I stole from him. I started this, but most people called the cops. This whole song and dance are so out of my wheelhouse that I have no idea how to navigate it.

And yet, there’s a bubble of excitement fizzing away just beneath my ribs. It’s exciting in an alarming way. A challenge I’ve never navigated before and, perhaps, an opportunity. This man is clearly rich and very powerful.

Maybe, just maybe, I can play him.

It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve faked my way into a man’s life to get what I needed. If I treat him like a mark, just like all of the others, then maybe I can turn this to my advantage. At least until I find a window to escape.

Hopefully, with a bunch of money to boot.

My pulse thrums like a drum beneath my skin and I look up into his icy gaze. Each time we lock eyes, I feel utterly pinned. It’s like I’ve lost all control of my body. It’s as thrilling as it is intimidating but I know how to work men. At their core, they’re all the same, and this guy clearly has a raging boner for control.

Playing around that will be too easy.

He thinks he’s picked up just a regular street rat scraping for survival. He has no idea what I’m really capable of.

“Sure,” I say, slipping into an old persona I’ve used countless times to trick rich, hard men. “Do I get to know why you need a wife so quickly? You strike me as a man who can get anything he wants at the snap of his fingers.”

“I can,” Marco replies and he steps away. “But where’s the fun in that? Get dressed.”

He strides away from me and I step out of the puddle of fabric at my feet. Before I can make it off the stage though, he snaps his fingers in my direction.

Irritation immediately heats my blood. How obnoxious can this guy get?

“Wear that dress,” Marco says, pointing at the blue one I recently discarded. “It has a part to play too.”

A part to play? This guy talks like he’s in the middle of some gigantic puzzle that only he can see. As he leaves, the rest of his guards follow him, giving me a moment of privacy.

I force a few deep, calming breaths to try and ease the rabbit-fast patter of my heart. The dressing room is an enclosed oval; the only way in or out is through the curtains Marco just stepped through. I have no choice but to dress and head out to meet him.

“Breathe, Gianna,” I whisper, trying to comfort myself. “You’ve got this. Just another mark. Just another setup.”

Unfortunately, the sound of my own voice doesn’t calm me as much as I hope, and my fingers tremble as I step back into that dress. I’ve never felt something so soft and silky against my skin, but as lovely as it is, it disgusts me slightly. I haven’t showered in days. Wearing something this luxurious just feels wrong. I pluck at the fabric, trying to make myself comfortable but it clings to me like a second skin.

A new skin for a new life.

The dress is beautiful though. I just hope I don’t have to wear it for long.

“Miss?” The assistant from earlier pops her head through the curtain. Upon seeing me dressed, she hurries closer with a pair of silver, strappy heels in her hands. “Marco’s requested you wear these.”

“What about my boots?” I glance forlornly at my trusty brown boots set neatly beside my old, folded clothes.

“I’m sorry, Miss. He says you won’t need them any longer.”

There it is—that control he enjoys so much. He wants to control what I wear and what I do.

Do I play the part? Or do I push back?

“Thank you.” Smiling warmly at the assistant, I take the shoes from her and she dips her head, then hurries away.

I have a plan.

After fluffing what I can of my messy hair, I carry the strappy shoes in one hand and my bag of necessities in the other. My own comfortable boots warm my feet as I stride out of the dressing room and into the front of the store.

Marco waits by the door, having a hushed conversation with one of his guards—Frederick, I think he’s called? Marco’s ice-cold eyes dart to me for a second, then his entire stance freezes like a board when he sees the shoes in my hand and not on my feet.

“What do you think you are doing?”

“Anyone with any knowledge of women knows you don’t wear shoes like these to travel. What kind of husband would you be, wanting me to break my ankle wearing these in the street?” I drop the fancy shoes into his hands as I glide past him with my head held high. “Those are party shoes, dear, not traveling ones.”

I expect him to grab me like he’s done before—and I’ll need hours of therapy to work out why him grabbing me by the throat got me so hot and bothered—but he doesn’t. Instead, Frederick opens the door for me, seemingly at Marco’s instruction, and we head outside. Umbrellas are immediately raised to keep the rain at bay and Marco strides out next to me.

The shoes stay in his hand.

Smiling to myself, I gather my dress around my knees and slide into the waiting limo when he opens the door for me. Inside, the seats are butter-soft white leather and I immediately sink into them with a soft groan.

Luxury feels so damn good.

The doors shut with a soft but ominous click behind Marco, sealing my fate.

The carpet is dark, and the ceiling is covered in multiple tiny lights that sparkle like stars. One side of the limo holds a small table filled with various glasses and bottles, all secured in place by rubber grips to prevent them from falling. Dark wooden paneling runs the length of the doors, and the faint smell of smoke lingers in the air.

“Do you smoke?” I ask as distaste curls in my gut. I didn’t taste ash on him during that unexpected kiss.

“No,” Marco replies shortly. “My father does.”

His father. Another piece of the puzzle. The more I know about Marco, the more I can play this game to my advantage. I’m already taking the shoes as a win when Marco sits them on the seat between us.

“So, are you going to give me the rundown?” I ask as the car pulls forward. Despite the softness of the seat, I remain stiff and on my guard. “Snatching a random woman from the street kind of screams desperation.”

“So does stealing wallets,” Marco replies. “Making a living off the backs of hard-working people. How honorable.”

I narrow my eyes. “And you made all this money by being honorable? Wealth is inherently dishonorable.”

“I wasn’t talking about me,” Marco replies. “The other wallet you had.”

“Oh.” I shrug. “He was an asshole to the pretzel girl so he deserved it.”

“Moral theft.” Marco watches me intently. “Interesting.”

His gaze suddenly feels heavy and the building warmth inside the limo quickly becomes smothering. I adjust myself against the cushion and press my knees together.

“Is Gianna your real name?” Marco asks suddenly.

I contemplate lying and giving him an alias, but there’s a risk he’ll catch me out, so I stick with it. “Yes.”

“I’ll keep it short. I need a woman on my arm to appease my father. He’s continuously harping on me about providing an heir for the family and I’m tired of it. My focus needs to be elsewhere on business, so that’s where you come in. You will be kind and polite, respectful to everyone you meet. And—” Marco locks eyes with me. “You will keep your nose out of things that don’t concern you. Am I clear?”

I’m a little too stunned to respond, but Marco continues regardless.

“In return, I will keep a roof over your head and I will provide for you so you no longer have to steal American Express Centurion Cards to buy toothpaste.”

My cheeks heat up immediately. “Clearly you’ve never had to worry about where your next meal comes from,” I mutter.

“No.” Marco lifts one dark brow. “And you won’t either. This deal will last so long as you can persuade my father and anyone else that we are married. Your job will be to keep the prying to a minimum, understand?”

This man is so … confusing. He’s clearly a good deal older than me, which doesn’t faze me. I’ve scammed men of all ages, and all it takes is knowing which buttons to press. But there’s something different about Marco that I can’t quite put my finger on. He’s cold, and clearly full of himself, but there are other things that trip me up.

His father demands an heir? A secret business?

He’s clearly not political because that warm personality isn’t earning any votes. I can’t picture him as royal either, not with his guards threatening to shoot me in the street. So what is he, a cocky asshole with a trust fund?

Or something more criminal?

It has to be. What other option is there for this amount of wealth?

“Am I expected to actually give you an heir?” I joke softly, trying to get a read on Marco. “Because that will cost more than decent toothpaste.”

“We will try,” Marco replies flatly, and it’s impossible to tell if he’s joking back.

My stomach suddenly twists itself into knots and I bite back a groan. I’ve talked my way into several beds over the years. When I was younger, it was the safest way to get a warm bed for the night, but I was always gone by morning.

This is different. Serious. He doesn’t actually expect me to give him a baby, does he?

My mouth turns to cotton, and I slide my fingertips over the twisted silver piping lining the hem of my dress. This may be too much for me.

I can play a lot of acts, but I can’t fake a baby.

Suddenly, there’s a time limit on my escape.

The air thickens in the car as we fall silent, swaying slightly as the car weaves through the streets of New York, carrying me further and further away from my familiar stomping ground.

The longer we drive, the tighter my gut twists. I’m alone.

Utterly and completely.

The one thing that catches my eye as we drive is Marco. He’s mostly a stoic rock, emotionless, with his attention down on his phone. He doesn’t speak. He scarcely even appears to breathe, but there’s one movement that I watch intently.

As he sits there, he toys with the butterfly charm that dangles from the edge of his wallet. He’d mentioned earlier that the charm is the only thing he considers to have value, and my curiosity rises.

“What is that?” I ask. “That charm? Is it important?”

Marco doesn’t reply. He doesn’t even look up, but he tucks the charm away from sight into his pocket.

So, we’re not going to talk about that. Got it.

The silence lasts for the rest of the drive. When the limo pulls to a stop, Marco hands me the shoes with a stern look and climbs from the car.

I roll my eyes and accept. I won the earlier battle but here I will lose. I remove my boots, the last comfort of my old life, and slip my feet into the fancy shoes. They’re so new that the straps bite into my ankle, and my heel slips slightly against the sole, but they’re on.

I slide from the limo onto a gravel driveway, and Marco’s arm is unexpectedly there for me to hold on to and balance with.

“Actually,” I say as I quickly take in my surroundings. “If we’re married, what’s my new last name?”

It’s too dark to make out much detail of the surrounding gardens, but the gigantic towering mansion is lit like a Christmas tree. With four floors and burnt-orange stonework emblazoned with black iron railings, the place is stunning. Smooth, white stone steps lead up to a gigantic black door flanked by two burly men holding assault rifles against their abdomens.

“Barrone,” Marco replies.

His words hit me like a truck and my next step makes me stumble. Marco’s hand catches my elbow, but there’s no warmth in his touch.

Barrone.

I know that name.

Everyone on the streets knows that name. You can’t breathe without coming into someone pushing drugs for that family and their associated gangs.

Barrone. Mafia. They’re the stuff of nightmares.

Anytime anyone vanishes from the streets, the Barrone name is whispered in secret. They hunt, maul, and kill anyone that gets in their way. There’s no forgiveness with late payment, no respite for anyone who works for them, and if you even think of going clean, they’ll kill everyone even remotely related to you before they hunt you down.

I had one run-in with this family a long time ago when I was young and stupid, and I swore never to cross paths with them again.

I’m so far out of my league that I can’t even see the shore anymore. A smothering sense of dread looms over me as we walk in the shadow of the mansion.

I’m walking right into the jaws of death.