Holy Christ, she was absolutely the most gorgeous woman I’d ever seen in my entire life.

Which was saying something, considering I’d stuck my dick into so many beautiful, nameless faces over the years, there had never been a point in trying to keep count.

But this one happened to be my new wife.

Wife.

I, Nico Rossetti, was a husband.

Jesus, every married individual in the world should have been offended. We just made a sham—a complete mockery—of the whole institution. Which was one of the many reasons why I’d steadfastly vowed to never bind myself to such subjugation as marriage. Everything was so much damn easier when you didn’t have those shackles around your ankles. When you weren’t responsible for another human being. When you weren’t accountable to anyone else except yourself.

As a single man, shit in my life ran smoothly. Seamlessly. I could do whatever I wanted because I didn’t have anyone else to answer to, and that’s the way I’d always wanted it to be. Always planned for it to be.

Until today.

Until my new father-in-law made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.

And now I’m speaking in fucking movie clichés.

Mafia-related ones, no less. Perfect.

Storming inside the guest suite at the enormous Russian compound I’d been staying in for the last twenty-four hours, I beelined for the antique credenza along the wall where two glass decanters sat. Knowing what the clear liquor inside the first one was, I swiped up the one filled to the brim with a beautiful amber liquid and sloshed a healthy amount into the closest tumbler glass. Lifting it to my lips, I knocked half of it back in one gulp. Normally, I’d savor good whiskey. It was a travesty to swallow it down without giving your taste buds the opportunity to appreciate the rich, smoky flavor—

“Aw, fuck.”

Good whiskey, my ass.

More like cat piss. Or goddamn sewer water.

I’d been in this godforsaken country for less than two days, and I had yet to locate a decent glass of whiskey. Vodka? Sure. The Russians were the vodka gods. But whiskey and bourbon were the pinnacles of life itself. Society didn’t exist without them, pure and simple. During the Prohibition years, did you see pictures of the police dumping out—and catastrophically wasting—barrels upon barrels of vodka? Hell, no. That was all beer, bourbon, and glorious whiskey.

The lack of decent liquor only served to blacken my already dark mood. And this watered-down crime against humanity in my glass sure as shit wasn’t going to do anything to work out the tension in my neck.

Married. I was fucking married.

Despite the fact that it was my own doing, I knew this was karma coming back to bite me in the ass in the most sadistic of ways. I had no idea how in the hell I was going to explain this to my family. But the time to bite the bullet was now, because I had to get on a conference call with them in precisely twenty seconds.

Ten minutes later, I sat in the stiff leather armchair near the fireplace, scowling into the crackling fire. My cell phone sat on the armrest on speakerphone, my father’s voice drifting through the bleak atmosphere of the room. I polished my favorite bollock dagger against my pants, scraping the blade against the material as I did so. I had a pretty decent dagger collection and a pension for practicing my aim at empty whiskey barrels back home. I carried at least one with me everywhere I went.

I couldn’t always tune in during family meetings while I was traveling abroad for business, but this conversation was particularly important to be involved in. My father, Enzo Rossetti, was detailing the new leadership hierarchy in the Sicilian mafia syndicate, since Santi and Dominic Gabbiano—the Sicilian boss and his nephew—had recently started sporting orange jumpsuits. All at the hands of my four brothers, our father, and myself.

You see, we were the “sixth” family of the New York five crime families.

The family that had voluntarily exiled themselves in the early twentieth century because my ancestors hadn’t wanted any part of the other five’s corrupt, greedy agendas. The Rossettis hadn’t been willing to kill for personal gain, not to mention kill innocent people. The Rossettis also hadn’t been willing to cheat, lie, or steal to make a name for themselves in America. And when they’d seen their Italian cohorts run headlong down that path toward evil, they’d packed their shit, drove across the bridge, and settled in Brooklyn.

Ever since then, my father and grandfathers before him had lived a life and raised their families based on honest, hard work and helping out their fellow man. We wanted nothing to do with the ways of the original five families in Hell’s Kitchen, made up of the Esposito, Mancini, Ferraro, Rinaldi, and D’Angelo families. Although, we tended to step in whenever their power became too great or too far-reaching.

That was the Rossetti credo: protect innocent people from the anarchy of the families.

The older generations of Rossettis had felt responsible for the malicious deeds of their former brothers. So, they’d taken it upon themselves to interfere when the families’ influence stretched well beyond their territory. And each generation of Rossettis had been taking up those shields ever since.

Which was the exact reason for the current shit storm in which we’d found ourselves.

There was a major structure shift going on among the original five. Vinnie D’Angelo, former head of the D’Angelo family, had completely removed his name from, and all involvement with, the New York syndicate. He was done, out of the mafia. His only daughter was dating my youngest brother, Ace. Their relationship was what had inevitably led to the incarceration of the highest-ranking members of the Sicilian syndicate, Santi and Dominic Gabbiano.

And it wasn’t the first time we’d gotten in the middle of the five families’ business as of late.

My other brother Cris had been responsible for getting Raphael Esposito, head boss of the entire New York organization, locked away earlier in the year. A few months after Raphael’s arrest, Cris had personally killed Stefano Esposito, Raphael’s only son and heir, after Stefano had kidnapped Cris’s fiancé Jasmine.

To say that we were now deeply embroiled in all mafia business was putting it mildly. My family had been on Raphael’s shit list for years. But we’d painted giant fucking targets on our backs over the last several months. At least Raphael and the Gabbianos were in jail and on a fast track to prison. Raphael’s trial was coming up in a matter of weeks, and it was going to be a slam dunk. There was no way he could get off on those charges, boss or not.

But none of that was even our biggest concern at the moment.

My stress level rose as I listened to Dad explain the most recent developments and summarize the events of the last few months.

Two of my brothers had found love.

How fucking sweet.

God knew I was more than thrilled for Cris and Jasmine, as well as for Ace and his little spitfire Roxy. But ruminating over their newfound happiness grated in light of my current circumstances.

I remained silent as my brothers chimed in here and there over the line. All I could do was stew in the ramifications of my new situation and try to get my shit together. Which proved difficult because I could still barely wrap my head around it.

Married.

I, the confirmed bachelor of all sluthood, the King of Smartasses, was actually stunned speechless. I couldn’t come up with a single sarcastic quip, not one witty retort. Because nothing about this was funny.

Not one fucking bit.

Although, I’d damn sure had a response for everything Alexia “Lexi” Kozlov had to say to me earlier.

That sharp tongue of hers had pushed every one of my buttons, which had me asininely turned on in seconds. Not that such a reaction was anything unusual for me. A stunning woman spitting sass at me through red-painted lips? Fuck, that was like my kryptonite. I’d instantly boned up the moment she’d flashed that icy glare my way and told me to speak for myself.

You’ve fucking lost it, Rossetti.

She was obviously no more thrilled about this ridiculous arrangement than I was, which worked perfectly. Our mutual disdain would make it easier to avoid each other once we got back to the States. Christ, I was going to have a woman living with me. Sharing my space. Invading my privacy. Most likely frustrating the bejesus out of me.

I really hadn’t thought this through.

But I hadn’t had much choice in the matter.

“I think that about does it. Nico?” Dad suddenly asked, cutting into my spiraling thoughts. “You have anything to add?”

I hesitated for a moment, close to pussying out completely.

Just get it over with, jackass.

“Actually, yeah.” I cleared my throat when it started burning like hell. “So, uh, I kind of did something…”

Luka, one of the twins, chuckled. “What did you do this time, bro? Join the Communist Party? Screw the daughter of a Russian mafia boss?”

Everyone snickered through the speaker.

For the first time in my life, I wasn’t laughing along with them. Hell, I was the one usually cutting up first. I was the one always dicking around, making inappropriate jokes at someone else’s expense.

Oh, how the tables have turned.

“No,” I said gravely. “But I married her.”

The line went deathly quiet.

And it stayed that way for an ungodly number of seconds.

“What the fuck did you just say?” Dad eventually barked.

All five of his sons were taller and bigger than him, but that didn’t mean Enzo Rossetti still wasn’t the imposing, intimidating patriarch of our family. He was a man you did not want to fuck with.

I swallowed, my mouth now dry as a desert. “I got married…to Sergei Kozlov’s daughter.”

“Sergei Kozlov?” Cris spat.

“The boss of the Russian mafia?” Rome, the other twin, followed up, sounding more shocked than I’d ever heard the former special ops sniper.

“The same.”

I drained the rest of the wannabe whiskey in one pull. It was the appropriate punishment for my half-baked, impulsive actions. Which normally served me well in my various business dealings. But in this case, I was afraid I’d bitten off more than I could chew.

I was now in bed with the Russian mafia…at least figuratively.

And my family didn’t have to say the words for me to know exactly what they were thinking.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.