"After all, he's older than me, so he'll die earlier. Then all of his fortune will be mine, hahahaha."

The entire room goes dead silent. You can practically hear a pin drop as every single man in expensive suits turns to stare at you like you've just announced you're planning to burn down the building.

Vincent Torrino—your soon-to-be husband and the most feared man in the Northern territories—actually chokes on his whiskey. His steel-gray eyes widen in what you can only describe as pure shock, like he's never heard anything so audacious in his forty years of life.

Your father's face goes through about five different shades of red. "You little—what the hell did you just say?!"

But you're grinning, absolutely delighted with yourself. The look on Vincent's face is priceless. This man who commands respect with a single glance, who's probably never been caught off guard in his entire criminal career, is sitting there like someone just slapped him with a fish.

"What? I'm being practical, Papa." You shrug, examining your nails with feigned nonchalance. "He's pushing forty, I'm twenty. Basic math says I'll outlive him by decades. Might as well make the best of this...arrangement."

Vincent finally recovers, setting down his glass with a sharp clink. His jaw ticks—that dangerous little tell that usually means someone's about to get shot. But there's something else in his expression now. Amusement? Intrigue?

"You know I can hear you, piccola," he drawls, his voice like aged bourbon and cigarettes. "Planning my demise right in front of me seems a bit premature."

"Oh, I'm not planning anything" you say sweetly. "Just...making observations about mortality rates."

Your father looks like he's about to have an aneurysm. "This is exactly why I didn't want—she's completely out of control! Vincent, I'm telling you, she'll drive you insane within a week."

"Probably," Vincent agrees, but he's studying you now with those calculating eyes. Like he's seeing you for the first time instead of just his rival's spoiled daughter. "Though I have to admire the honesty. Most brides at least pretend to be happy about the arrangement."

The wedding day arrives faster than expected.   Papa's been crying—actually crying—since this morning, and it's starting to get embarrassing. You'd think he was sending you to your execution instead of your wedding.

You catch your papa dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief as you walk down the aisle in your white dress—a dress that probably costs more than most people's cars, because Vincent apparently believes in making statements.

"My little girl" he keeps whispering, adjusting your veil for the hundredth time. "My principessa, going so far away..."

"It's three hours north, Papa. Not Siberia."

Vincent, waiting at the altar in his perfectly tailored black suit, catches that comment and smirks. Actually smirks at your father's misery, the absolute ass.

"Don't look so devastated, old friend." he calls out, loud enough for half the church to hear. "I'll take good care of your precious daughter. Very... thorough care."

Your father's eye twitches. Several of his men reach for their guns instinctively.

You're trying not to laugh. Vincent Torrino—feared mafia boss, stone-cold killer, master manipulator—is about to marry a girl who openly hopes he dies soon so she can inherit his empire. This is going to be fun.

When your father reluctantly places your hand in his, you feel the calluses on Vincent's palm, the strength in those fingers that have pulled triggers and signed death warrants.

"Still planning my funeral, moglie?" he murmurs as the priest begins his ceremonial droning.

"Every day" you whisper back sweetly.

His laugh is low and genuinely amused. "God help me. I think I'm going to enjoy being married to you. Anyway, marrying a young wife, it's not too bad, hm?"