I act like I’m not nervous or impatient

  In a few moments we’ll make our way inside the cathedral and up the aisle. I’ll sit with my older son, my oldest surviving son, Giovani, and wait for his bride.

  The bride is due in twenty minutes. My guess is that Lily will arrive outrageously late, and then saunter up the aisle like it’s a walk on the beach. Brides are always late.

  But I still don’t know if her father Leo has come to his senses enough to walk up the aisle with her. I haven’t heard a word from him. Today, one of the most powerful families in L.A. will join in marriage with the second biggest family in Vegas. Who knows what the fallout from that will be?

  All of that is going on, and what I’m really looking for is the bouncy little blonde girl from the bridal salon.

  One look from her eyes and I was on fire, pumped in a way that I haven’t been in years.

  It’s ridiculous to think that she would be interested in me, but I still feel like the hot kid from out of town, ready to start a fire or a fight for her at the drop of one of her lovely eyelids. I could take her anyway. The idea gets me hard.

  Our families have tight, traditional social structures. They run on tribal lines. Irish clans like the O’Malleys and the Russian Bratva all operate the same way. But the firms are all headed by a tough, hard-headed male. A pure alpha.

  A killer. A hard, ruthless bastard who will stop at nothing to get what he wants, and double it for what his family needs. To run a serious operation like ours takes a man who’s ready to get his hands dirty. To get up to his elbows in blood without hesitation. A man who will do whatever it takes, and smile all the way through it.

  A steely bastard like me.

  “Congratulations, Lucas.” Liam O’Malley comes forward with a strong and sincere handshake. “Lily is going to be an amazing addition to your family. I wish you every possible blessing.”

  We clasp shoulders and pull close.

  His greeting and his blessing are formal, but it’s generous of him all the same. Liam is losing out by this marriage.

  He was hoping to go into a partnership with Lily Franconi’s father. He’s my most fierce rival in Vegas and we have finally come to a point where we can separate the business from our personal interactions and be civil. Friendly, even. A way that we can both understand and respect each other.

  He wants to be the top dog. It’s why he called his casino the Kingpin. I get it.

  He knows I will take the crown from him, any way that I can. But we can still get along with each other and be statesmanlike about it. It feels good.

  Liam O’Malley believed he and Leo were going to build the first partnership to bridge the Mojave desert from Vegas to L.A.. But my son Giovani took Leo’s daughter, and with her he scooped the prize. He even made Leo agree to hand the reins of the Los Angeles family’s business over to her and make Lily the first woman boss of an American mob enterprise.

  The deal Leo Franconi brought for Liam was a scam, and it was always going to be. Liam doesn’t know it yet, but he has a better chance with the new arrangement. He will lose his position as top dog in Vegas, but that was always my aim.

  The difference is that he was going to be cheated out of it by Lily’s father, Leo Franconi. Now he’ll be beaten out of it. By me.

  But all that’s for another day.

  Today, all of the major mob families in Vegas are here. Outside, my family the Morettis mingle with the bride’s family, the Franconis from L.A. The O’Malleys are here in an outbreak of peace. At least, that’s what it looks like. Loud voices echo and men exchange huge hugs and backslaps under narrow, wary eyes.

  I smile again at the guests as they mill on the steps.

  Off to the side, gossip fuels the day. Gossip, the newswire of the underworld.

  “Do you know that her father agreed to hand over the reins of the family to her? Next year?”

  “A female capo?”

  “She’s young, too.”

  It’s only about the fiftieth time I heard it today. This time, it’s two drivers and bodyguards of the O’Malley’s. Word really has spread. I wonder if that’s her doing, or if Giovani seeded a PR grapevine with that crackling little morsel. Whatever, it’s either an act of sheer genius, or it’s an insane time-bomb.

  Having his business arrangement out in the open like that could push Leo Franconi to come to terms with the inevitable, or it could make him rage and lash out. Family businesses roll, bounce, and ride on those intrigues. Plots and schemes are meat and drink in this thing of ours.

  All I wanted was a sight of Poppy.

  And as I enter the cool scented shade of the cathedral, I see her stepping out of a red, white, and blue Camaro. I can’t see the driver, but I’m wondering who brings a loud, showy car like that to a wedding.

  She looks wonderful, in a simple, beautifully cut dress, just loose enough to light my fantasies about what’s underneath it.

  Of course, the day belongs to the bride. All the rest of us, the immaculately groomed men, and the perfectly dressed and styled women, are all here as supporting cast. We are all here as decorations on the bride’s big day.

  My son, Giovani, made an unlikely match in Lily Franconi. He’s a lucky dog, and he knows it, even though I think he will have his hands full. Because Lily is easily a match for him, and because of the ultimatum he issued to Leo Franconi,.

  Giovani’s wedding is a massive, pull-out-all-the-stops cathedral bells, organ fanfare echoing to the high arches affair. Inside, the cathedral is draped with cascades of fragrant flowers that scent the air.

  Lily arrives, dead on my twenty-minute estimate. She’s beautiful, and it does me good to see my son’s chest swell with pride as she makes her way up the aisle. Her dress is a fantasy in silk and lace. She looks wonderful in it. And seeing it makes me scour the congregation for Poppy.

  I’m not even sure who the man is who walks with her up the aisle. His suit is so out there, I figure he must be one of her influencer friends, though he could be a brother.

  He’s certainly not her father, Leo Franconi. If she’s upset, she doesn’t show it. I know that they have what people call a ‘complicated’ relationship.

  The organ music is moving and soulful. The hymns are familiar and up-lifting. And the wedding service is elegant. I’m impatient for it to be over, but I have discipline. I keep myself still and quiet. Staying statue-still through the sermon is tough.

  Maybe I’ll have to mention at my next confession how many times I imagine biting the priest’s throat open, just so his moralizing drone would be over.

  Back outside in the hot sun, I smile and nod and shake hands as I wait in a receiving line. There’s only one person I’m waiting for, but I stay cool.

  I still have work to do on the relationship I have with my eldest daughter, Giulietta. When she practically ran off to marry Peter O’Malley, we parted on bad terms. My relationship with Mia is even more fragile since I tried to engineer a marriage to my former enforcer.

  My chief of staff who became unhinged and went rogue, demanding that I turn the family over to him. The problem who looms like a dark cloud on the horizon.

  And the only thing my mind will fix on is her. Poppy. Her dress is simple. Understated. But nothing could hide those pyrotechnic curves. The sight of her makes me salivate.

  Finally, she makes it down the receiving line to shake my hand. Her eyes light a fire in my belly. Again, the look in her eyes makes me feel a powerful flash of wickedness. I take her hand in both of mine.

  As her fingers touch my palm, a thump inside shakes me like the burst of a giant flashbulb.

  Her hefty companion is still a way off yet. He’s flirting with some of the bridesmaids. His sideburns could qualify for an Elvis impersonator. Maybe that’s the look he’s shooting for.

  Her voice is like cream run through with maple syrup. “Congratulations, Mr. Moretti.” She gulps. “You must be proud and very happy.” I want to taste her lips. And the inside of her mouth.

  Before I’ve had a chance to even speak, Mia rushes up and grabs Poppy’s hand.

  “Party bus to the reception.” She flashes a look down the line to the Elvis lookalike. “Your beau will have to wait to see you there.”

  Anger burns in my gut. Then Mia looks at me. “Sorry, Dad. I have to steal her away.” Turning Poppy away, she shrugs with her butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth smile.

  Giulietta takes Poppy’s other arm. “No exceptions, no excuses.”

  My two daughters giggle as they haul the wide-eyed girl into the crowd.

  Chapter Five

  Poppy

  When Giulietta said ‘Party bus,’ I expected a huge, raucous, ravenous gaggle. So I feel quite honored that there are only the three of us traveling in the limo. Mia gives me champagne.

  I’m excited for her and Giulietta, seeing their brother married. And to Lily. She’s a fireball. All of her fittings were like the wildest parties. I’d rather have stayed with Mr. Moretti, though. More Moretti is definitely what I need.

  I know he’s going to be highly in demand today, though. That was probably all the time I’ll get with him.

  “So,” the limo sways as Giulietta leans in with a mischievous twinkle. “What’s the deal with you and Mr. Camaro?”

  Mia’s eyes flash. “You brought your own Elvis impersonator! How’s the hip-sway action?”

  “Yuk,” I almost spit my champagne. “Clint is my brother-in-law. Long lost.” Maybe not long enough. I don’t say the last part out loud.

  I shouldn’t have said anything. Mia and Giulietta’s eyes are wide and they lean forward. I try to change the subject. But they’re not having it.

  Finally, I say, “Clint is my brother-in-law.” Their eyes widen even more. “No!” I say. And I seriously wouldn’t. Not with Clint. I never knew what Iris saw in him. And, whatever it was, he’s not putting it anywhere near me. I don’t even know why he was so eager to come. I can sense that he’s planning something.

  Watching him harass some of the bridesmaids may have been a clue, but somehow I think he’s got something else in mind.

  Getting his wick wet, as he often so charmingly calls it, is no more than scratching an itch for him.

  Since Iris died, I lost count of the times he offered to scratch it with me.

  Mia and Giulietta are at the one of the two big, round, family tables in the middle of the room.

  Under the huge glass dome, tables are set all around the edge of the Ol’ Blue Eyes Starlight Ballroom on the top of the Casino Cosa Nostra. There’s a trick to darken the dome in daylight. Neon colored stars project onto it.

  Of course, I’m seated with Clint. All the other guests at our table are from the Moretti side. I don’t know any of them. They’re friendly, but I think they’re all mobsters because nobody wants to say anything about what they do. I feel like a fish out of water.

  Clint’s conversation seems limited to crude remarks and innuendo. I’m relieved when he wrangles his way onto the bridesmaids’ table. It makes me sorry for them, though.

  The band is top class, and the food is fantastic. Light, tasty savory hors d’oeuvres, followed by perfectly cooked salmon with fresh vegies and a sweet, sticky sauce.

  Whoops and bursts of laughter explode from bridesmaids’ table where Clint seems to be holding court.

  When the two main family tables are through eating, the speeches start and I have to hold myself back from slugging too hard on the champagne at the toasts. I don’t really hear or process much of what’s being said and, looking around the room, everybody seems glazed, like we’re all waiting for it to be over.

  There’s a hush as Lucas stands.

  He looks around the ballroom with his wry half smile. In the corner of my eye, as his eyes sweep the room, everybody’s shoulders straighten up, like a subtle Mexican wave. A hush drops on the room like a soft blanket.

  His speech is short, direct, and powerful. He welcomes Lily Franconi to the Moretti family warmly, like an emperor receiving a foreign princess. When he talks about the two families coming together, it feels like warring kingdoms are lined up to meet at a border.

  Then he tells a couple of heart-warming anecdotes about Giovani in college, and everyone laughs. He finishes with generous and beautiful compliments to Lily, and when he offers a toast, everyone stands.

  His eyes scan the room, seeming to light on everyone, “We wish Lily and Giovani all the happiness, and all the love.”

  When he says, “Love,” his eyes are on me.

  I stand. Shaking. Biting my lip.

  When Lily and Giovani have made a show of cutting the cake, the smart wait staff whisk the tables aside for the first dance.

  The bride and groom make a fantastic couple. They spin more sexiness and joy out of the waltz than I ever saw in it before. Maybe it’s just because my own insides are still quaking. The parents’ dances follow. Everybody dances well.

  From the corner of my eye, I spot Clint herding the bridesmaids into a room by the kitchens. I hardly dare wonder what the fuck he’s up to.

  At the and of the formal dances, applause starts and people rise to join the dance floor. I look up to see Lucas standing over my table.

  His hand extends toward me. Big. Strong. Palm up. I feel like everyone in the room is looking at me. Like all the women are wondering, ‘who the fuck is she?’

  His hand is big enough and strong enough that I could sit in it. I certainly wouldn’t mind.

  “Will you dance?” He asks so nicely. As if anyone could refuse him. I feel like I should try. “Just once?”

  The band strikes up for the next dance. The first long, low, sliding beats are an unmistakable opening.

  “It’s a tango.” I stand. Nearer to him than I expected. The heat of his strong body is dangerously close. “A slow tango.” My stomach flutters.

  He holds me near with his hand on my waist as he leads me to the middle of the floor. I’m light-headed and my knees are watery. My breath is thick in my throat. He turns as he lifts my hand. I put the other hand on his shoulder.

  His eyes could pierce me as we wait, poised for the start of the next bar.

  His voice is strong and low. “You don’t need to know how to do it. I do. Trust me.”

  In his grip, my breath shudders. “I’ve been taking lessons.”

  A smile peels out between his lips like a thin blade.

  “Forget them.” And we start. “Let me dance you.”

  I do. He leads. He turns me. Sweeps me around.

  My feet follow his perfect rhythm. Our shoulders turn. Our hips twist. Perfect synch.

  He tangos me across the floor. Turns. Bends me back.

  Holds me. Leaning across me.

  He pulls me up, turns me again.

  My voice falters. “Did you know the band would play a tango?”

  “The band? Of course. I knew before they did.”

  “How?”

  His laugh is like bubbles in lava. “They didn’t know until I told them.”

  Then he tells me, “The ballroom, this casino, they are mine.” He spins me. “These musicians are the players in my resident house band.”

  “They’re good.”

  “Of course.” His smile sends a jolt to my hips. “And so are you. But I said you should let me dance you.” His hand tightens on my waist. “Prego.”

  My hip glides against his.

  Fireworks flash inside me.

  “What are you doing to me?”

  Chapter Six

  Lucas

  Of course she has a boyfriend. Maybe the lunk is even her husband. That should make a difference. I can’t believe he is.

  He’s a slob in a suit. Not even a good suit. Whoever came as her date or her escort, I know I would think she was dating down. Not that it matters. A girl like her, with a butterscotch skin and a smile like dark honey, would never be interested in an older man like me.

  And, even if she was, she deserves a better man. I’m a dark soul, far beyond saving.

  And she’s an angel.

  Apparently that doesn’t stop me thinking what I would do on her peach fuzz and her creamy body if I had the chance. And if I’m honest, if I could shut off all those filthy thoughts, dim the dirty movies in my head, I wouldn’t do it. Those thoughts are all too delicious.

  Even if it’s going nowhere, even if it’s nothing but pent-up frustration, imagining how hot and wet she is, the taste of her soft, dark places, her secret scents, the way her flesh would feel in my lips and on my tongue, I wouldn’t miss a moment of it.

  Looking into her eyes, I’m thinking of how she would look if I peeled her out of that dress. Would she be shocked? Would she fight?

  If I snatched her, whisked her into a room right now and unwrapped her, would she resist? And, if she did fight me, would she want to win?

  The spark in her eyes makes me think she’s running a porno in her own head. One where I’m ripping off her clothes, tearing them in strips. Pressing my fingers into her. In her soft mouth. Feeling the nip of her sharp white teeth. Slipping my hands into her underwear. Scooping out her breasts for me to suck and lick. Panting, hard. Running my fingers through her wet panties.

  She licks her lips.

  I hold on to the thrill of marching her, turning her, feeling her close in the insistent rhythm.

  I bend her back. Look deep into her eyes. Savor the scent from the warmth between her breasts. The raw heat between her legs.

  The tango doesn’t grind your hips together. But it brings you so close and in such a rhythm, you feel each other’s heat. And each other’s pulses. I feel her body, reacting to mine. A call and response as she pushes back.

  And as I look at the soft white flesh of her throat and her startled eyes, she asks, “What are you doing to me?”