She’s My Queen

2. Cute but hates me

2

CUTE BUT HATES ME

SEVERIO

T his is the sixth wedding I’ve attended this year.

Thankfully, this one is a farce, or I’d have thought it a bad omen cosmically lining me up as the seventh man at the altar. I wouldn’t wish a lifetime spent with me on my worst enemy, let alone of the woman I’d chosen as my bride.

The same could not be said for my brother, who smeared cake frosting on the cheek of his stunningly beautiful wife just so he could lick it off. Before I gag, I position my phone on my niece’s stroller, meeting the eyes of a guard standing at the ramp. The camera disguised as a red serpent pin on his suit allows me to view the main gathering on my phone.

Watching the cowards who want to hurt me when they’re unaware I’m watching gives me perverse pleasure. I sip my whiskey. The slight jerk of my twin’s head toward the middle of the long table where the bride and groom sit tells me something’s happening.

I flick two fingers toward the guard whose camera I’m using as surveillance, and he moves a few steps closer.

My uncle Gio, a dark-haired man in his sixties, grips the hand of his bride, a voluptuous, petite woman in her late twenties. Her neck curves as she looks up at him.

All things considered, she’s holding up pretty well. At the altar, I expected at least some grievances or tears from a woman whose fiancé gave her up before the marriage was consummated. She made it through the ceremony, smiled, and nodded, even kissed her fake groom on the mouth as a bride would. All that without a glint of a tear in her eye.

I doubt her eyes will remain dry once the claiming starts. It’s not intended to be pleasant, but it’s also not a punishment. It is a claiming. A permanent reminder that all major decisions regarding the Order must go through me.

The ritual is written in the rule book, and since I’m executing the claiming because Gio broke the Order’s rules, the ritual feels like vengeance, which makes it that much sweeter.

It’s taken my uncle over a decade since my father passed me the throne, in a manner of speaking, to find a way to steal the Order from me. He found his way when he took over the Capone family fortune and tried to marry Capone’s only heir. If he’d been successful, he would have gained popularity by allowing human trafficking alongside our legitimate trade that passes through the web of islands we own.

Trafficking people is something I’ve refused to allow and will never allow as long as I’m alive. And hopefully, that’ll be for many decades so I can properly enjoy the fortune I’ve amassed.

The waves softly hitting the sand right under the venue remind me of the beauty of this island I’ve coveted since I first came here as a boy. I inhale the briny breeze blowing from the water, and it smells like victory.

I finally own this island. This small country, I should say, but that makes me sound like I’m interested in politics. I’m not. My uncle remains the prime minister. That won’t change, and besides, I’ll need to make use of his political ties and savviness. I make for a poor diplomat. Autocracy is more my forte.

Behind me and before another ramp in the path under the wisteria tree, one of my guards argues with someone. I turn to see a band of musicians trying to make their way up. When I meet my guard’s eye and nod, he lets them pass.

Jesse, the former vice president of a motorcycle club, has been in my detail since my niece was born seven months ago. He’s not the type I’d normally place in my guard unit, but he’s a longtime friend of my sister-in-law, which means he’s shown loyalty over time. It means I can trust him, so I put up with his rebellious attitude.

Jesse lets the musicians through. One of the band members, a short blonde woman, picks up her trumpet and wipes the mouthpiece as if ready to test it before the performance.

Don’t do it.

I glance at my niece’s cute face as she sleeps peacefully in her stroller next to me.

The musician blows into the trumpet.

My niece startles, her little arms shooting up, big blue eyes snapping open, tears instantly pouring out of them, accompanied by a bellowing cry. I chug the remainder of my whiskey and pull the stroller toward me so I can rub her perfect chubby cheek. She grabs my finger and holds it tightly in her fist, my touch slowly calming her down.

But the blood-curdling cry draws her parents, most of the security detail, and even a few seagulls. The concerned mob swarms my guard, who lets them through, scaring my niece even more. Now she’s bawling her eyes out, and I have to pick her up. Carefully. Very carefully so she doesn’t slobber on my suit.

My brother beats me to it. As he scoops up his daughter, he stares daggers at me as if I caused the unrest. I’ve been babysitting Corrado’s child most of the evening so he can stare at his wife’s tits without a little mouth attached to the nipple.

No good deed goes unpunished. I give him a death stare in return.

“Wait.” I lift a pink cotton cloth and hand it to my brother at the same time that my niece makes those cute little “grabby hands” at me and opens her mouth. She projectile vomits right at the center of my chest.

In that moment, the world stills as I process what I’ve tried and failed to prevent.

A situation I can’t control. Disorder. God, I hate disorder.

My brother recovers first. “Pity,” he says and takes the baby away.

His wife’s breast milk on my crisp white shirt isn’t a good look for me. I start to remove my soaked red tie. Busy cleaning up, I don’t notice that one person stayed behind after everyone returned for the cake, until she speaks.

“You aren’t very good with babies,” she says.

I look up to see Cristina, my uncle’s almost bride. She’s as beautiful as a bride can be on her wedding day. Long dark hair drawn back at the sides into an elaborate hairdo that holds a tiara. Small, straight nose. Large, rich chestnut-brown eyes framed in unnaturally long eyelashes. Voluptuous lips painted in salmon lipstick and clear gloss.

A cute island princess.

“Not for lack of trying, I assure you.” I pull the tie from my collar and shrug off my suit, then fold it over the bench before I start to unbutton my shirt, my fingers soaked in vomit. “What a mess,” I mumble.

“Nothing less than you deserve.”

Hateful princess.

I shrug off my shirt and use it to wipe my chest. As I do that, the wind lifts the hem of Cristina’s dress, revealing her cute toes painted in pink and white. A French manicure, I believe it’s called. Thinking she won’t understand, I compliment her toes in French.

“Merci,” she says.

Surprised, I look up. “You speak French?”

“Only enough to get by. You?”

“I live in Paris.” I grab my suit, debating if I should just take her with me back to the villa now, since I have to leave to change my suit. She’s already here, and the wedding ceremony is over, even though her last name is still Capone and not Mancini. I check the clock. “How long before the fireworks?”

“As soon as I return.”

“What if you don’t return?”

All the blood drains from her face.

“Jesus, I’m joking.” I did say I’d claim her tonight, not this afternoon.

“That’s not funny, Mr. Mancini.”

“You may call me Severio. We’re almost family.”

Her eyes narrow at my taunt.

I give her a once-over again, now looking for hints of fear. She’s wringing her gloved hands in front of her, but that’s indicative of nerves, not fear. When I try to assess her expression, I find her gaze on my abs and chest. A pretty blush colors her cheeks, and she swallows as she looks away.

If she finds me attractive, which she does judging by her appreciative glance, she might even enjoy our evening.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I say. “I need to change.”

“I just want to get this over with,” she says in a rush.

I don’t ask her, “Which this?” There is only one thing on her mind, same as it’s occupied my mind. Her claiming, and my conquest. If she’s asking for forgiveness, she’s barking up the wrong tree.

Even during the best part of my day, which is normally the morning, I have little compassion for anyone. Now, toward the night, I’m as compassionate as Alexander the Great’s invading army. I can’t afford sympathy or empathy or whatever they’re calling feelings these days.

If I show mercy, the people I deal with would end me and all mine, including my little niece so that she couldn’t claim the family throne one day. Being at the head of an Order as powerful as the Serpentine takes courage and ruthlessness.

“I’m staying at?—”

Cristina cuts me off. “I know where you’re staying.”

I smile. “Are you stalking me?”

My humor surprises her, and her eyes widen before she shakes her head.

“This is not Paris, monsieur. On Isola Serenella, we all know each other, and the joining of our two families is a major event.” She points up, indicating the wedding reception. “Besides, I work here.”

“What do you do at the hotel?” I ask.

“I’m a chef.”

“I’m fond of that profession,” I say.

She pats her thigh. “I’m fond of food.”

I chuckle, liking how she brought up her wide hips and likely thick thighs with grace and humor and not distaste.

On the camera that I left on the stroller, I see the guests starting to get up from the tables and making their way down the path toward the beach. I’m shirtless and alone with the woman who others think is my uncle’s new bride, while my security team blocks the narrow and very private path.

I want a minute longer, so the party people will have to wait. My guards as unmoving as a living wall.

Cristina points at the crowd. “They think I’ve gone down to watch the fireworks that’ll start any moment.” She bites her lip, and when I don’t respond, she continues, “Are you going to let the people through?” She clutches her hands together as the eager mob tries to make its way down.

“No.”

“But—”

Fireworks explode over the waves in front of me. The crowd cheers, no longer protesting the blockade because the view is even better from where they stand.

Cristina watches the fireworks.

And I watch her.