Can you damage someone beyond repair?
Luca plays his role as the loyal underboss. Violent, lethal, flawless. The lapdog, the starboy.
On the surface, he maintains his facade of smirks and casual charm, but beneath the mask, thereʼs a profound dark...
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I HATE WEDDINGS. THE FORCED smiles, the sweet speeches, the annoying display of love and commitment—it makes me fuckin’ miserable. Itchy. Feel like I’m breaking out in hives.
Doesn’t help that it’s freezing. We’re on a beach in the middle of November. Don’t ask me why, but Freya wanted it, and Torren wasn’t going to refuse her. The bastard’s psychotically obsessed.
At first, I was surprised when Torren made me his best man. Got over it quickly, though. One, he didn’t have any friends, and two, what man out there was better than me?
Normally, I’d bring the sleaziest girl I could find to piss everyone off and joke about how my dumb cousin’ll be signing divorce papers in a few months, max.
But this time, it’s different.
It’s not one of my annoying fucking cousins.
It’s Torren. Torren.
And he’s not getting married for duty or honor. He loves her. Torren Costa is balls-deep in love with the Russian princess. He orbits around her like she’s Saturn and he’s just one of her moons.
How the fuck does my cousin, the asshole of the century, get love, when he never believed in it in the first place? Freya’s way out of his league.
I don’t know how much he had to beg for her to come back. I don’t even care that she betrayed him, as much as it contradicts my code of honor.
He deserved it.
Torturing Freya wasn’t going to bring Sofia back.
Stupid fuck.
Now normal weddings are bad enough, but Italian weddings? Another level. Our family’s big. Huge.
After the ceremony, a flurry of aunts descend on me like a pack of vultures, all perfume and lipstick. One grabs my face, planting a sloppy kiss on my cheek that definitely leaves a bright red mark. The others follow, each making sure they get their turn.
My aunt Rosa leans in close, grinning. “Sarà il tuo turno presto, bel ragazzo,” she teases. It’ll be your turn next, pretty boy.
As fuckin’ if.
I turn my attention outward. The place is something out of one of those 2000’s rom-coms with a bottomless budget—thousands of candles, a canopy with soft draping and snow on the beach.
At the main table, Freya is sitting on Torren’s lap, feeding him red-velvet wedding cake. The bastard’s secretly enjoying it, too. Looking up at his newly-wedded wife with goddamn stars in his eyes. Freya murmurs something to him, and his eyes darken.
“Watch it,” he growls, leaning down to nip at her nose playfully.
She laughs, pushing him off. Instead of moving away, he pulls her closer and kisses her on the mouth. Could swear he fuckin’ groans and everything.
