Monster A Dark Arranged Marriage Romance - Vanessa Waltz Page 0,3
even proposed. His bodyguard had awkwardly shoved the velvet box in my direction.
Tony seemed to be all about status, like all wealthy egomaniacs. The ring, the Vera Wang dress, and the spa treatments belonged to someone else, a trophy wife, not me. I still clipped coupons. I lived in a mobile home and probably couldn’t name half the designers in his closet.
Why the hell did he want me?
Christian’s pocket buzzed. He answered his phone, murmuring in Italian. He always switched to the language when Tony called. He wheeled toward the door, closing his cell.
I clenched my jaw tighter.
The door opened to Tony’s powerful, Viking-like frame. His broad shoulders strained his suit. Normally, his hair was as untamed as the rest of him, but for the wedding he’d slicked it back. Salt and pepper marked his ebony mane. Everything about him was bold, the deep tan, the boyish lips built for sin. The media had dubbed him Mob Prince for a reason.
Tall, dark, and handsome didn’t begin to describe his level of gorgeous.
Heat stole into my face as my gaze raked over his devastating appeal. I drank in the lazy seduction of his big eyes, the cutting jawline. He was in his late thirties, and it showed in how he carried himself. He stood as though steel made his spine. A short mustache and beard clung to his upper lip and jaw. Dark wisps peeked from the V neck of his shirt.
Hot. Very masculine.
It was like he’d just left a vacation in the Amazon. I’d lived in Boston my whole life, and I’d never seen anyone like Tony.
“Looking good, T.” Christian slapped his back, exploding with enthusiasm. “Ready to get married?”
A cloud settled over Tony’s features. “I need a moment alone with my bride.”
“Of course, buddy.”
Tony glowered at Christian until the door swung behind him. Then his lightning rod stare landed on me.
I fisted my clutch.
It was very strange. He glared at me as though I’d condemned him to hell. As he crossed the room, my muscles tensed.
He held out his hand.
I took it, and a jolt passed from his skin to mine.
My body stiffened as he boldly assessed me, his gaze traveling down my face, neck, and breasts.
“I’m Tony Costa, and you belong to me now.” He beckoned me with a wave—a gesture for servants, not his fiancée. “Let’s see the rest of you.”
I stayed put. “Tony, I don’t want to be your wife.”
“You pick an odd time to complain.”
“I assumed you’d back out.” I lifted my chin, whispering with desperate firmness. “I’ve tried to meet you for days. You weren’t at the negotiation meetings. You didn’t come to the engagement supper.”
“I’m not a fan of chaperoned visits. My number is on your phone.”
“I only got it recently.”
His flat gaze held me still. “And?”
“Why the fuck do you want this?”
“I don’t,” he said, stunning me. “I rank marrying into your family slightly higher than blowing out my brains, which is the only reason I’m here.”
My chest tightened. “You’re not my first choice either.”
“No doubt, but nothing you say will stop this wedding.” His deep-timbred voice rose somewhat. “Are we clear?”
“Not one bit.”
My mind reeled. If he didn’t want to marry me, why were we doing this?
He squinted at me. “You are of age, right?”
I frowned. “I’m twenty-two.”
Relief smoothed his brows.
Weird.
He acted like he loathed me and had no idea of my age. I’d spent hours researching him. I’d read op-eds and articles. I’d scoured the comment sections for insight.
Tony literally didn’t know me.
“Didn’t you ask questions about me?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t care about the details, considering you were all the same. They lined up photos of women and told me to pick. Yours happened to be the one that made my dick hard.”
I stared at him, tongue-tied and frozen.
Tony brushed lint off his jacket. “Were you expecting something romantic?”
My face heated at his mocking drawl. “I had my blood drawn for fertility tests.”
“So?”
A flicker of adrenaline surged through me. “You could’ve asked me. I would’ve told you to go with someone else.”
His mouth twisted into a cruel slant. “Should I have picked from the club sluts with more STDs between them than Paris Hilton? I chose you, the virgin, knowing at least I wouldn’t get the clap.”
This man couldn’t be serious.
“You’re lucky you got a choice,” I snarled, abandoning all attempts at civility. “I’m stuck with Public Enemy Number One for my old man.”
“Don’t call me that,” he growled, the loudness piercing my ears. “I’m not one of