Page 33 of The Wrong Mafia Bride
The smell hits me.
Shepherd's pie.
Rich and savory and exactly the way Seamus's cook makes it, with the perfect ratio of meat to vegetables to those creamy mashed potatoes on top that I have loved since I was ten years old, and my stomach betrays me completely by growling loud enough that everyone at the table definitely hears it.
Traitor.
I look down at the plate in front of me, confusion warring with suspicion and a desperate, pathetic hope that makes me hate myself a little.
Gabriel sits across from me, watching with those steady gray eyes that miss absolutely nothing. Luca is to my left, sprawled in his chair like he doesn’t have a single care in the entire world, and Dante takes the seat to my right, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body like a furnace.
"Seamus says it is your favorite," Gabriel says, his voice neutral.
My head snaps up so fast my neck cracks audibly. "You talked to Seamus?"
"Yes," Luca says, and when I turn to look at him I am struck—not for the first time this week—by how unfairly attractive he is. Sharp cheekbones and full lips and those green eyes that alwaysseem to be laughing at some private joke only he understands. He leans back in his chair, completely at ease. "We have agreed to continue with the arrangement."
"What arrangement?" I demand, even though my brain is still stuck on the fact that they talked to Seamus, that he knows where I am, that he apparently told them my favorite food like this is all perfectly normal.
"The marriage," Dante says, like it is obvious. "The alliance. All of it."
I blink at him. Then at Gabriel. Then at Luca. "You are serious."
"Completely."
My mind races, tripping over itself. If the arrangement is continuing, that means Seamus is not looking for Erin. That means she got away clean. That means Dolan got her somewhere safe, somewhere they can be together, somewhere she can finally breathe without the weight of duty and expectations crushing her into something she was never meant to be.
Relief floods through me so intensely that I actually have to grip the edge of the table to keep myself steady, to keep from dissolving into tears or laughter or some hysterical combination of both.
She made it. She is safe. She is free.
And I am here.
I look at Luca again—really look at him this time, let my gaze travel over the sharp line of his jaw, the way his shirt clings to broad shoulders, the casual strength evident in every line of his body like violence is something he wears comfortably. Then I glance at Gabriel—solid and calm and dangerously competent inthat quiet way that makes you forget how lethal he is until it is way too late. And finally at Dante, who is watching me with an expression I cannot quite read but that makes something low in my stomach flutter traitorously.
Three men.
Three handsome, powerful, dangerous men who apparently want to share me like I am some kind of communal property.
I do not understand it. Do not understand why three men who could have anyone would want to share. Do not understand the logistics of it or the reasoning or literally anything about this entire insane situation.
"What is on your mind?" Dante asks, and there is something knowing in his voice, something that tells me he saw exactly where my gaze went and what I was thinking and is enjoying my confusion far too much.
I should lie. I should deflect. I should keep my mouth shut and maintain some semblance of dignity.
Instead, I hear myself say, "I do not understand why you share."
The table goes quiet.
Like, actually silent. Not a fork moving, not a breath taken, just absolute stillness that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
Luca leans in close—so close I can smell his cologne, something expensive and woodsy that makes my head spin in ways I absolutely refuse to analyze—and his mouth is right next to my ear when he whispers, "Because there is nothing hotter than seeing your girl filled to the brim."
I choke on my own spit.
Heat floods my face, my neck, spreading down my chest in a wave of mortification as my brain very helpfully supplies extremely vivid mental images of what exactly he means, and I grab my wine glass without thinking, bringing it to my lips and taking a long drink just to have something to do with my hands, just to give myself a second to recover.
The wine is perfect.
