Cashmere Cruelty - A Mafia Romance

P

tight. I sprint halfway up the aisle, look the groom dead in the eye, and bl

m doesn'

ess moment,

escaping by the skin of my teeth, hailing a cab in the thick of Manhattan traffic, and stalking the man in front of me on all so

like the braided work of art sit

pair of handcuffs. I've sweated through every piece of clothing currently touching my skin and then some. My

ths, to

a humongous, pregnant belly, jutting under my ruined maternity dre

at me like I just ruined t

o be fai

h other. The whispers quickly grow into a tidal wave o

oad men in black suits and mysterious, gun-shaped bulges under their jackets that tell me how unhappy

his man to listen. This dark, dangerous man who's looking like he wants nothing

n't have

Something I can never come back from. But this desperate m

temptation with this man would paint a target on my

yb

se magnetic cerulean eyes wouldn't have ma

w one thing: I never intended fo

of me knew, must have known, that Matvey Groza was not a good man. Not the kind of man you'd tie

after me and the precious cargo

era

" I repeat, "a

begging to be let out like a scream. As chaos begins to erupt around me

l did I let

P

ONTHS

ailor Shop, how

ms of clothing Mrs. Kurt left lying around during her fitting. She must have found them interesting-because she took great care to pull each on

netheless. Being twice widowed and thrice married at the age of twenty-eight is nothing short of imp

ns," I say to the customer on the phone.

ss of her dreams-a natural white fishtail model with a pearl-studded Bardot neckline-I finish dismantli

at'll buy me another five minutes to fin

ls that sign a piece as his. At the age of "seventy plus a few," as he puts i