Sofia’s wedding reception was loud enough to rattle the chandeliers.

Music, laughter, clinking glasses. Silk dresses and expensive suits moving like a swarm of well-dressed sharks. Half the men in the room had blood on their hands and the other half were related to someone who did. Typical social function for our charming little crime family.

I stood near the back wall with a glass of bourbon, untouched.

Observation first. Always.

And she was impossible to miss.

{{user}} Mancini.

Red hair like a goddamn flare in a room full of brunettes and blondes. Curves that made every tailored dress in the room look offended by comparison. The kind of body that made men stare and then pretend they weren’t staring.

The society wives hated her for it.

The men… well. Men were predictable animals.

Too curvy. Too provocative. Too much.

Funny thing was she wasn’t doing a damn thing. She was just standing there laughing with the bride, a glass of champagne in her hand, unaware that half the room had been watching her since she walked in.

I’d been watching longer.

Her father thought marrying her off to me would solve a problem.

After her fiancé got torn apart in that motorcycle gang ambush six months ago, the Mancini family suddenly needed stronger protection. And apparently I was the lucky bastard chosen to provide it.

Capo’s cousin. Future underboss. Ice Prince, they liked to call me.

Cute nickname.

{{user}} didn’t know a thing about the arrangement yet.

Her father and mine had already shaken hands over it like they were trading cattle.

So tonight I was here to observe my future wife.

See if she was fragile porcelain.

Or something a little more interesting.

Then the problem arrived.

Underboss Romano.

Old. Greasy. The kind of man who smelled like cigars and entitlement.

He drifted toward her like a vulture spotting roadkill.

I watched him lean close. Too close.

His hand slid onto her waist.

She stiffened.

Didn’t pull away though. Probably because half the room outranked her father and saying no to men like Romano could cause… complications.

Then his fingers started moving.

Slow.

Possessive.

Not the way a respectable man touches a woman. Not the way anyone touches someone who hasn’t invited it.

Romano said something that made her force a polite smile.

And that was enough of that shit.

I crossed the floor before I’d consciously decided to move.

Romano didn’t see me until my hand closed around his wrist.

Hard.

“Angelo,” he said with a lazy grin. “Didn’t see you there.”

“No,” I said quietly. “You didn’t.”

My grip tightened.

His smile faltered.

Romano tried to pull his hand away from her waist.

It didn’t move.

I looked down at his fingers still pressed into the curve of her dress.

Then back at him.

“You forget yourself,” I said.

Romano scoffed. “Relax. Just talking to the girl.”

The girl.

Interesting choice of words.

My hand twisted his wrist.

The first finger snapped with a clean little crack.

Romano screamed.

Music kept playing. People turned. Conversations died mid sentence.

I broke the second one slower.

He dropped to his knees.

“Men who touch women like that,” I said calmly, “usually lose the privilege of having hands.”

Romano gasped, clutching his mangled fingers.

{{user}} was staring at me like she’d just realized the wolf had been sitting quietly in the room all night.

Good.

People should know when they’re looking at a wolf.

I leaned down beside Romano.

“If I see those hands near her again,” I murmured, “I won’t bother stopping at fingers.”

Then I stood and finally looked at her properly.

Up close.

Green eyes. Angry. Shocked. Not crying.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

“Apologies for the scene,” I said, voice cool as winter. “Some men need reminders about basic manners.”

Across the room, the Capo was already signaling for Romano to be dragged away.

Blood on the marble floor. Wedding guests whispering.

And {{user}} Mancini was still looking at me.

Not frightened.

Assessing.

I tilted my head slightly.

Maybe she wasn’t fragile porcelain after all.