Cashmere Cruelty - A Mafia Romance

PROLOGUE: 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.

There’s so much to do; I feel like my head might explode. I sigh and curse myself for my stubbornness. I could have really used an extra pair of hands around the shop, especially an expert pair like my boss’s. But I can’t exactly complain—I’m the one who sent him home.

I can handle it, I told him, like a big, lying liar. And Elias, bless his soul, eventually relented and took the afternoon off.

Leaving little old me in charge of the whole shebang, which is precisely what I wanted.

“Mhm. That sounds lovely.” I take stock of the work I’ve got left before closing: patch up Mr. Connor’s coat, alter the waistline on Ms. Forrest’s skirt, sketch out a pantsuit for Dr. Brown’s conference, count the change in the register, fix the lightbulb in the bathroom, and take out the trash before the raccoons wake up. All in an honest day’s work.

Like I said: I can handle it.

The door chimes. “Be right with you!” I call out, covering the phone as Ms. Holland finishes explaining the concept behind the corset’s elaborate decorations. I give her an appointment for a first fitting, jot down her details, and wish her a happy day.

By the time I make it out the back, the new customer’s already tapping his shoe.

Very bad sign.

“About time,” the customer growls, clicking his tongue in annoyance. “I was starting to wonder if I’d have to come fetch you myself.”

Normally, I’d tell anyone who spoke to me that way to take that sass and stick it where it rhymes. However, in this case, there are two very good reasons why I can’t.

The first is that I’m at work. And, in my line of work, you can’t just ask the customer to kindly fuck off. You can think it—very hard—but you have to do it with a smile.

So I smile. “My apologies,” I say, keeping my middle fingers holstered for the time being. “Is there anything I can help you w…”

The second reason I don’t tell him off is that, as soon as he turns, I can no longer form words.

Clear, piercing, cerulean eyes root me to the spot. I’ve never seen a color like that on a human being—like the surface of a frozen lake. Being on the receiving end of that stare, I feel like I’m standing right in the middle of one. One wrong step, and I’d be plunged into the icy depths below.