Cashmere Cruelty - A Mafia Romance

APRIL

I burst into the wedding I'm not supposed to be at with my hands still cuffed tight. I sprint halfway up the aisle, look the groom dead in the eye, and blurt out the truth behind this entire nightmare: "I'm pregnant. And it's yours."

The groom doesn't speak.

For one endless moment, no one does.

And, honestly, I can't blame them. I can only imagine what this must look like. What I must look like. Between getting kidnapped, escaping by the skin of my teeth, hailing a cab in the thick of Manhattan traffic, and stalking the man in front of me on all social media platforms until I could figure out who and where the hell he was, I didn't exactly get a chance to look in the mirror.

My hair must be a mess. Nothing like the braided work of art sitting on the bride's tilted head.

The rest of me isn't much better. Instead of a delicate gold ring around my finger, I'm sporting a gleaming pair of handcuffs. I've sweated through every piece of clothing currently touching my skin and then some. My voice is breathless and strained, though in my defense, it's been a good few months since I last hit the gym.

Nine months, to be exact.

Which leads me to the most glaringly wrong aspect of my appearance: a humongous, pregnant belly, jutting under my ruined maternity dress like it's trying to make contact with the man responsible for it.

The man who's now staring at me like I just ruined the biggest day of his life.

Which, to be fair, I did.

The silence breaks. The guests start whispering to each other. The whispers quickly grow into a tidal wave of confused static, louder and louder, worse and worse.

I force myself not to glance around the room. Why bother? I saw enough the second I entered. Tall, broad men in black suits and mysterious, gun-shaped bulges under their jackets that tell me how unhappy they are to see me. Hostile-looking women in cocktail dresses that could easily hide a knife sheath.

I keep my eyes fixed on the groom. It's my one lifeline, my one hope -getting this man to listen. This dark, dangerous man who's looking like he wants nothing more than to summon lightning out of the sky and smite me into a plume of smoke.

But I don't have a choice.

I'm aware I just pulled the trigger on a suicide mission. Something I can never come back from. But this desperate move, this Hail Mary of mine, is the last play I've got left.

If I'd known, all those months ago, that giving in to temptation with this man would paint a target on my back for the rest of my life, I'd have thought twice.

Maybe.

Or at least, I hope I would have. That those magnetic cerulean eyes wouldn't have made me sign my own death warrant willingly.

I can't know that now, but I know one thing: I never intended for him to find out about this baby.

For nine months, I kept it a secret. Hid it from everyone but my closest friends. Because a part of me knew, must have known, that Matvey Groza was not a good man. Not the kind of man you'd tie yourself to for the rest of your life. Certainly not the kind that you'd tie your child's life to.

But now, with this man's enemies after me and the precious cargo I'm carrying, my hands are tied.

Literally.

"I'm pregnant," I repeat, "and it's yours."

As I speak, only that one thought presses against the walls of my skull, begging to be let out like a scream. As chaos begins to erupt around me, the crowd's whispers rising to shouts, only one thought crosses my mind.

How the hell did I let this happen?

1

APRIL

NINE MONTHS EARLIER

"Third Chance Tailor Shop, how can I help you?"

Holding the phone between my cheek and shoulder, I sweep through the racks. It's taking me forever to tidy up the approximately one million items of clothing Mrs. Kurt left lying around during her fitting. She must have found them interesting-because she took great care to pull each one off its hanger-and then not so interesting- because she took way less care in leaving them heaped in ragged piles in every corner of the shop.

You can always tell when a customer's an artist. A con artist, in Mrs. Kurt's case, but an artist nonetheless. Being twice widowed and thrice married at the age of twenty-eight is nothing short of impressive, especially when your husbands are old enough to recognize your grandfather from the trenches.

"We absolutely do make custom wedding gowns," I say to the customer on the phone. "Did you have anything specific in mind?"

Trick question: brides-to-be always do. As the customer launches into a detailed explanation of the dress of her dreams-a natural white fishtail model with a pearl-studded Bardot neckline-I finish dismantling Mrs. Kurt's masterpieces, stash everything back where it belongs, and make for the back of the store.

I ask the bride-to-be about her veil. That'll buy me another five minutes to finish boxing up Mr. Boyd's suit for pickup.

I can recognize my boss Elias's handiwork in the stitching, the perfect details that sign a piece as his. At the age of "seventy plus a few," as he puts it, Elias Turner is still the most renowned tailor this side of the East River.