Borrowed Bride: A Fake Marriage, Secret Baby, Dark, Mafia Romance (Mafia Lords of Sin)

A distant rumble of thunder through the stone-gray clouds above sends shivers down my spine.

There’s a storm coming.

The subtle rumble adds a note of haste to the stream of people around me who flow, unhindered by my stationary presence, like a river flowing around a rock. No one notices me. No one stops to ask if I’m okay or if I need help.

Every New Yorker is in their own world, floating in a bubble that instantly becomes more secluded with the threat of rain hanging overhead.

I sip the coffee I bargained from the cart a few blocks over, watching men tuck their coats tighter around their necks and women clutch their bags a little closer as they pick up the pace. Traffic flows like the rapids, stopping for no one until the red light acts like a damn and forces a halt to the flow. Horns screech loudly as if the red light is a strange anomaly and a never-before-seen phenomenon. The river of people around me wanes slightly as groups hurry to the other side of the street, and then it starts up again.

This works in my favor. When people are distracted, they’re more interested in getting back to their cozy homes, safe from the rain.

They don’t notice someone like me.

The homeless don’t exist.

I scan the crowd as the last hot dregs of my coffee slip down my throat and pick a target.

I’m not fussy about who, but the man I spot looks like he’s got some cash to spare. I’m cold, and with a storm coming, I definitely don’t want to spend another night on the street.

Topping up my funds is as easy as slipping my fingers into unsuspecting pockets, but in order to get something that secures me a few nights in a decent hotel, I need to steal from someone so careless they won’t think to cancel their missing card until at least a few days later.

From the way my target is barking at the poor girl behind the pretzel cart, he looks exactly like the type. He’s tall and rotund, with a cream coat dragging behind him as the long fingers of the wind whip through the streets. A stronger gust knocks the porkpie hat from his head, and of course, he takes that out on the pretzel girl too.

She keeps her head down, busy with salting the twisted dough in her hand.

I crush my paper cup against my palm and stride forward with my head held high. Weaving around the people of New York is second nature to me now; I’ve been doing this for almost as long as I can remember. It’s as easy as breathing, and in a single blink, I slip into character.

My smile becomes easy, and my auburn locks dance about my shoulders, thick enough to withstand the next rushing gust of wind.

A few inches away from the man, I stumble hard with a soft cry and launch myself into his arms. His tirade abruptly ends as he has no choice but to catch me.

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” he barks at me in a deep voice. He’s so angry that his plump cheeks ripple when he snaps his mouth shut. “Watch where you are⁠—”

There it is.

The moment we lock eyes, this man instantly stumbles over his words and a crimson flush rises in his cheeks. His anger dissipates because a beautiful woman has just fallen into his arms.

“Oh, sir, thank you so much!” I gasp, putting my whole heart into sounding distressed and grateful. “I just got so dizzy all of a sudden and lost my footing.”

“My—it’s … it’s quite alright,” the man mumbles. He grips my arm and uses his body to steady me—just as my fingers slip into his pocket and locate the heavy leather of his wallet.

Within three seconds, it’s stuffed deep into the pocket of my leather jacket.

“I’m so sorry,” I say again, leaning heavily against the man as I pretend to be uncertain of my stability.

“Are you okay? Do you need me to call someone?”

Our eyes meet and the truth of his questions is clear in his eyes. He wants me to be okay. He wants me to be so thankful that he stopped me falling that I throw myself at him and fulfill his wildest dreams. That deep hunger is so apparent that it sickens me.

Men are too easy to read.

“No need,” I say, finally steadying myself and placing a hand over my bust, drawing his eye to my visible cleavage. “I think it was just a dizzy spell. Thank you, thank you so much.”

I step around him, sliding my hand slowly over his forearm. He’s so distracted that he only nods and smiles at me, his eyes still firmly on my chest. I glance at the girl behind the cart, who stands with eyes wide, holding the pretzel up. I wink at her and make a note to send a tip from this guy’s wallet. Then I melt into the crowd with my prize.

I don’t open his wallet until I’m two blocks away. Inside are a couple of credit cards, his ID, and a generous wad of cash. His useless club cards end up in the trash alongside my discarded cup, and I pocket the wallet and credit cards. Counting the cash, my heart sinks. It’s a thick lump, but it’s all small bills totaling seventy-five dollars.

He won’t notice his wallet is missing because he has no plans to pay for that pretzel. And when he eventually does notice, he won’t remember enough about me to call the cops. But, at most, I have two days with his cards.

I need to find a hotel that will let me withdraw cash. Given how untraceable it can be, it’s my preferred method of payment, but given his lack of on-hand cash, I doubt it will be enough.

I need another mark.

The sky grows darker, and the people around me are more aggressive in their movements. I wander down the street with my hands in my pockets, dodging men and women seeking shelter from the faint drizzle of rain that appears in the air.

Suddenly, a sharp scream cuts above the noise of the traffic and my heart leaps into my throat. No one else around me reacts. I scan the crowd, searching multiple faces for the source of the scream just in case someone is in need of real help.

I locate the source thirty seconds later, and what I feared was a scream of terror turns out to be a scream of excitement from a child bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. He’s pressed against the window of a toy store, breathing heavily against the glass and pointing furiously at something inside. His parents stand around him with affectionate smiles on their faces, and I watch as they scoop him up, kiss his cheek, and carry him inside.

A bitter flurry of resentment rises inside me.

Life on the streets is rough, but seeing happy families just makes it even rougher. Seeing what I never had brings out my bitter, jealous side. It’s pathetic, being jealous of a child. But I can’t help it. Most of my family are dead or dead to me. There’s no love there. No comfort.

Certainly no loving kisses and toy shopping.

I kick the ground as I walk, trying to shake out the bitterness.

I have to refocus. I need more money. Something decent that will get me a score big enough so I don’t need to worry about food for at least a week.

The streets thin out as the rain turns from a faint drizzle in the air to something slightly more substantial. Those impatient with the weather seek out taxis to carry them home. Maybe I’d be doing the same if I had somewhere to go.

Then I see him. Out of the crowd melts someone who just screams arrogant dick. They’re a little more difficult to steal from, but it’s always worth the risk.

This man strides tall through the street, utterly unfazed by the weather and seemingly blind to how those around him scurry out of the way. He must be someone important, or at least he thinks he is. Sometimes, all it takes is the right attitude to trick people.

I know that all too well.

He’s tall, with black hair slicked away from his forehead save a single curl that sweeps down across a lined forehead. Dark brows pull together as he walks and talks, muttering close to the phone in his hand.

Surprisingly, he’s quite handsome. More than handsome, actually. His chiseled features are straight out of a magazine, with an angular nose and a square jaw so sharp it could cut straight through glass. A dusting of dark facial hair shadows his full, pink lips.

And his eyes.

They’re a striking ice blue, seemingly gleaming in this dark gray world. I can’t stop staring at him as he strolls down the opposite street, moving like he’s the only man in existence.

He’s the perfect mark. I move from where I’ve been hugging a wall and take a few steps toward the crossing, but as I do, I spot something else.

This man isn’t alone. At first, I think he’s being followed, given how these other men blend into the crowd and would be missed by anyone unskilled. But I see them as clear as day. Usually, I’m on the lookout for other people sneaking so I don’t move in on someone else’s mark, but this time it brings these men to my attention.

They’re dressed in dark jeans and sweaters, much more casual compared to the handsome man’s pristine suit. I can tell at a glance he’s got an Armani shirt on, and those can go for fifteen hundred dollars alone. It’s not until one of the men quickens their steps and takes the phone from the handsome man that I realize what they are.

He’s not being followed. He’s being protected.

This should warn me away from him, but it doesn’t. I press the button, bringing the river of traffic to a halt, and then I cross the road to his side.

I like a challenge. I can already picture what it will be like to soak in a gold tub on this man’s dime, knowing I swiped his gold right from under his nose and the nose of his guards.

The little voice in my mind that warns me not to be stupid slowly fades away, smothered by the sudden increase in my heart rate. Adrenaline sweeps through me and my fingertips tingle. He favors his left side as he walks. It’s subtle but his left arm doesn’t swing out as wide, which means that’s where he keeps his valuables.

I straighten my posture and fluff my hair, using the dampness from the light rain to my advantage and quickly curling my bangs. I’ll use the old stumble trick here because I’m confident this man will be far too annoyed at my presence to care.

People step aside as he strides closer, and suddenly, there’s no one between him and me.

Then he looks me in the eyes.

It’s so unexpected that I nearly overbalance. People in New York don’t look me in the eye. They can sense my homelessness just by being in my vicinity so they never, ever look me in the eye.

He does, and for a brief second I’m completely entranced by the gemstone-like shimmer in his icy eyes. Just as quickly as he looks at me, he looks away.

Shit.

Get it together, Gianna.

Shaking the strange, entranced feeling away, I tilt my head down and pretend not to see him. As soon as I’m close enough, I stumble into him with a surprise cry.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry! These shoes are killer, I swear.” My hands subtly grasp his coat for balance and I push into him, trying to throw him off-balance. The man is like a rock and a wall of solid muscle presses against my body as I fake my loss of balance.

Within three seconds, his slim wallet is in my grasp and tucked into my shirt as I straighten up.

“Sorry!” I don’t glance up at him, not wanting to be caught in that icy stare once more, and then continue down the street as if nothing happened.

The weight of his wallet rests against my collarbone, safety tucked under a strap.

Suddenly, a large, rough palm grabs my bare forearm and jerks me backward. My heart leaps into my throat as I spin around, and the tall, handsome stranger bears down on me.

Shit!

He throws me backward, and I hit the brick wall hard enough to knock all of the air out of my lungs. I gasp hoarsely. The man gives me no space. He presses right up against me with his hands firmly gripping my waist and pinning me to the wall. The rough brick scraps against my lower back as my T-shirt rides up.

My heart races.

“Not so fast,” growls a deep voice so gravelly that a strange, warm shiver curls up my spine and skitters across my shoulders. Muscles strain against his expensive white shirt, and as the fabric pulls at the buttons, I glimpse some dark ink underneath.

Hesitantly, I look up, and I’m instantly trapped in those icy eyes.

Around him, the men from earlier close in like shadows, blocking all possible escape routes.

“You picked the wrong man’s pocket, sweetheart.”