Twisted Cravings (The Camorra Chronicles, #6)(99)

Dinara nodded immediately. “That’s actually perfect, because it means that we have to renew our vows every year.” She paused. “I feel bad that you’re the romantic in our relationship.”

“I’m glad your expectations are low when it comes to romantic gestures, trust me.”

Dinara and I exchanged a grin. Nino looked impatient. “So I assume you are both fine with me tattooing the designs into your palms?” “Yes,” Dinara said, and I nodded.

“I should warn you that the palm is a tender spot and the tattoo is going to be at least uncomfortable, maybe even painful depending on your level of sensitivity.”

“I don’t think either of us is very sensitive to pain anymore,” I said dryly.

I’d gone through torture at the hands of our enemy and more broken bones than I cared to recount during fights or race accidents. And Dinara had lived through enough shit as well. Not to mention that she had a nipple piercing, which Nino of course didn’t know.

“Who wants to go first?”

“Me,” Dinara said without hesitation and thrust her hand at Nino who disinfected it thoroughly.

He took the tattoo needle but didn’t begin right away. “If you need me to stop, just say so.”

Dinara nodded but she didn’t say anything as Nino tattooed the intricate design into her palm, only watched with fascination. While I admired my brother’s tattoo art, my gaze often wandered to Dinara’s gorgeous face, unable to believe that we’d actually say yes to each other today. When Nino was done, she held up her hand between us. The skin was red but it was obvious that my brother had created something magnificent.

“Your turn,” Nino told me.



I held out my hand but didn’t take my eyes off Dinara who gave me a small smile. When the needle pierced my skin, I twitched once. It was uncomfortable like Nino had said, but nothing close to the pain I’d felt before, only this time the end result was worth every second of discomfort.

After Nino was done with my tattoo, he nodded in satisfaction before he turned into warning mode again. “Try to keep the wounds clean and no hand-holding or tattoo merging in the next few days. The result will suffer if you get an infection.”

“We’ll behave,” I told Nino sarcastically.

He gave Dinara a look. “I hope you’re the sensible of the two of you.”

“I love racing and got my belly pierced in a dingy back-alley place that also sold second-hand cell phones.”

Nino sighed and got up. “I think you two are a good match.” “We are,” I agreed.



Three hours later we stood in front of an Elvis imitator after all. Dinara and I had chosen matching outfits of our favorite leather jackets, ripped jeans, and white tees, no fancy shit. But I’d stuffed a white rose into the pocket of my jacket and Dinara held a bouquet of white roses in her hand. A single flower was also woven into her red hair, creating a beautiful contrast.

After we’d said our vows and kissed longer than was appropriate, I carried Dinara out of the chapel and toward my Corvette. I lowered her into the passenger seat, then gave her another lingering kiss before I closed the door and took my seat behind the wheel. “Ready for happily ever after with me?”

“So ready,” Dinara said. I hit the gas and we shot out of the parking lot with a loud clattering. The kids had insisted we string a dozen cans to the exhaust pipe.

We let the windows down, turned up the music—“Highway to Hell”— which seemed like the perfect ironic touch to our day and raced through Vegas. Soon we left the city behind us to find a remote place for our first night together as a married couple. We had everything we needed to make it the perfect honeymoon. Each other, cans of macaroni and cheese for nostalgic reasons, and a six-pack of ice-cold beer.





Dinara sent me a challenging look, cocking one perfectly groomed red eyebrow in an exaggerated way.

One corner of my mouth twitched up and I mimicked her expression.

“I’ll kick your ass Falcone,” she called over the roar of the engines.

I answered by letting my car howl. “Not if I kick your ass first, Mrs.

Falcone.”

Officially, Dinara was still a Mikhailov, but she’d soon realized that everyone considered her a Falcone in camp and in Vegas. Eventually, she’d stopped correcting them.

The pit girl raised the start flag. I tensed with eagerness, the thrill of the upcoming race rushing in my veins. This was the first race of the sevenday-circuit, and Dinara and I stood in the first row due to our excellent results so far.

When the pit girl dropped the flag, Dinara’s battle-cry-like laugh burst through the roar of the engines. I grinned as I slammed my foot down on the gas pedal.

My heart pounded, my pulse hammered in my veins, and I felt high on freedom and adrenaline. Dinara and I raced together for almost fifteen years now but we still relished every second of a race. Dinara tried to push me off the road when she cut in front of me in the first bend but I held against it.

My smile widened. It was on. There was nothing better than a wife who could kick your ass in a race.

Dinara won the first day, but I was right behind her so we could spend the night in the same spot. It had become a beloved ritual.

“Did you wait for me?” I joked when I got out of my car.