Twisted (Never After #4)(44)

“Mr. Faraci,” Ciara says. “What can I do for you?”

“I need you at the courthouse.”

“Of course. I’ll be there in thirty.”

It takes her closer to an hour to arrive, and then another twenty minutes for me to tell her my expectations.

Don’t speak unless she’s needed, stay out of the way, and sign as the witness when Anthony asks her to. And above all else, don’t breathe a word of it to anybody. The last thing I need is for the press to get wind of this and Ali to find out I’ve secretly married his daughter without him there. I need to tell him in person so I can spin it in my favor.

He’s still alive, which means he can still change his will, and if he realizes what I’m doing, everything could go to complete shit.

But it’s better to take the chance and make sure Yasmin is bound to me rather than give her time to second-guess her smart decision of playing along. Or even worse, to come up with some foolish plan and try to outsmart me.

I sent Razul, the bodyguard I’ve tasked from my personal security to be her shadow, to bring Yasmin from her house. Personally, I don’t care if anything happens to her, but until everything is said and done—her father and her both out of the way— she’ll be my wife, and I take great care in protecting my assets.

“So,” Ciara starts as we lean against the wall outside Anthony’s office. “Married, huh?” She picks at her pink painted nails.

I swipe through emails on my phone, ignoring her completely.

“And to Yasmin Karam?” she continues. “Now I get why you were so up in arms when I didn’t let her in the other day. I didn’t even know you were dating.”

I glance at her out of my peripheral vision, my top lip sneering in disgust. “Since when is it a receptionist’s job to know who her boss is fucking?”

She shakes her head. “It’s not. You’re right. I just…I don’t know. I’m surprised is all.”

“I don’t pay you to care about my personal life,” I reply. “I pay you to do what I say. Answer phones, schedule meetings, and when I say jump, you ask how high. That’s it. Got it?”

She nods, moving her gaze to the ground, the toe of her blue-heeled shoe gliding back and forth on the tiled floor.

The sound of an elevator pings in the distance, click-clacks of high heels on hard floors reverberating off the walls. My eyes fly to the end of the hall just as Yasmin walks around the corner, Razul’s large, bulky frame at her back.

She has a long black peacoat covering her body, the cinched belt making her curves look exquisite. Large black sunglasses cover her eyes entirely, shielding her gaze from my view. Her lips are a fire-engine red that match her manicured nails perfectly, and my eyes trail down her toned legs until they hit her black heels.

Her lips twist into a pathetic attempt of a smile as she reaches me, her head turning to nod at Ciara.

“Gattina,” I say. “You look edible.”

She doesn’t give me a response, too busy untying the belt at her waist and slipping the coat off, handing it to Razul, who folds it over his arm and stands stoically behind her.

My cock jerks at the sight of her in a skintight, bloodred dress, visions of what she looked like naked and splayed out in the throes of pleasure assaulting my mind.

“Hello, husband,” she purrs.

My brows shoot to my hairline, but I recover quickly, smirking as I straighten from where I was leaned against the wall. “Not your husband yet, I’m afraid.”

She looks around, pursing her lips, those black shades still blocking her gaze from my view, which annoys me. It’s easier to tell what’s going through her head when I can see her eyes.

“Is that not why we’re here?” she asks.

I frown, making sure to put on a show for anyone who might care to watch. “I wanted to surprise you.”

Her lips twitch. “Having one of your goons come to collect me and bring me to the courthouse isn’t exactly stealthy, patatino.”

A chuckle bursts out of me at the Italian term of endearment.

I’m sure she learned the word to irritate me, but if anything, it does the opposite, bringing a sense of nostalgia back, one that I haven’t felt in years. My nonna— the one who never left Italy— used to call me patatino, her little potato, whenever I’d speak to her on the phone.

She was the only good thing in my life as a child, and even though I never got to meet her in person, I was devastated when she passed away. I begged to go to her funeral, but it was impossible. My father wouldn’t hear of it, and even if he would have, we didn’t have the money.

It was one of the first times in my life that I promised myself I would never grow up to be financially insecure.

Reaching out toward Yasmin, I link our fingers together, ignoring the way the touch sends an unwelcome tremor through me, and I bring up her hand, pressing a kiss to the back. “Learning Italian just for me? I’m touched.”

Anthony’s office door flies open, and he storms out, his beady blue eyes bouncing from me to Yasmin and then to the two people with us. He nods. “Ready.”

“Excellent,” I say, pulling Yasmin into his office.

“Where is my father?” she whispers, finally taking off her sunglasses and looking around.

“At home, I’d presume. This isn’t about him.”