Wrecking His Perfect Bride

I gave up a marriage contract to a mafia kingpin so a stranger could take a body shot off my skin instead.

I dropped the marriage contract on my father's desk and uncapped his pen.

Crossed out my name. Wrote Chiara Falcone above it.

My father stared at the paper. Then he smiled—wide and relieved and ugly with it.

"You're sure," he said. Not really a question. He was already reaching for it.

"You spent a decade grooming her for exactly this." I set the pen down. "Stefano wants a woman who irons her gloves. Congratulations. You finally raised one."

He had the nerve to look pleased. "She understands what this family needs, Tessa. You never did."

"She's also proof you were cheating on my mother while she was still alive." I kept my voice even. "But sure. Call her your polished daughter."

He went very still.

"I'm not doing charity," I said. "Sign over the absolute control of South District Pier 9 to me. Now."

His jaw tightened. The pier was a massive smuggling hub, a real asset. But the Mastroianni capital injection was worth ten of those piers. He snatched a separate document from his drawer and signed it immediately.

The deal was always the point. I was never the daughter.

He left fast, already laughing into his phone before the door finished closing.

I stood at the window for a moment.

Last life, I packed away every leather jacket I owned and let his stylist dress me in things that needed dry cleaning.

I sat with my back straight at his family dinners and smiled until my face hurt.

I let him correct my posture in front of his mother like I was a dog he hadn't finished training.

I wasn't even allowed to wear lingerie I liked when we had sex—he picked everything, right down to how desire was supposed to look on my body.

But I was still the one who ended up in the ground.

I swallowed down the sudden sting in my eyes, forced the knot in my throat back where it belonged, and chose the only thing that felt like freedom—I grabbed my keys, headed for the garage, and drove south.

Two hours later, I won the underground sprint by a full car length, climbed onto my Shelby's hood, and didn't bother with a glass for the second shot—just tilted my head back and poured tequila into the hollow of my collarbone.

The liquid pooled warm against my skin. I looked out at the circle of drivers.

"Well? Who's taking the shot?"

They hesitated. Shifted. Someone muttered Mastroianni under his breath.

"Come on," a guy with a neck tattoo muttered, stepping back. "We all know who you're marrying, Tessa. Nobody wants a bullet from Stefano Mastroianni."

"Relax." I propped myself up on one elbow. "I'm single."

That got a reaction.

A guy in the front stepped forward, smirking, eyes already dark with heat. He leaned in and pressed his mouth to my collarbone, drinking the shot straight off my skin.

The crowd erupted.

Then the music cut. Hard. Mid-beat.

Four shots in quick succession—and my Shelby dropped on all four corners.

The guy stumbled back. The crowd split apart. In the sudden silence, Stefano walked through the main door, gun still in his hand, eyes already on the guy in front of me.

"Wipe your mouth," he said quietly. "Before I cut it off."