My Fiancé Cheated With My Sister — So I Married A Crime Boss To Ruin His Life
Part 1
My left shoe stuck to the floorboards of a dive bar that smelled like bleach and cheap bourbon.
Two hours earlier, I had caught my fiancé pinning my sister against a floral wallpaper we had spent hours picking out together.
The heat of the August evening had been oppressive, but my apartment had felt like an absolute freezer.
I had been balancing two boxes of wedding favors on my hip when I pushed my key into the deadbolt.
Tyler was supposed to be at his accounting firm billing hours and complaining about his manager.
I certainly didn’t expect Heather to be there either.
The front door swung open with a pathetic squeak.
I dropped my keys into the ceramic bowl by the entryway.
The sharp, loud echo should have been their warning.
No one answered when I called out his name.
A low hum from the refrigerator was the only sound in the kitchen.
I kicked off my flats to soothe my aching feet.
Then I heard a distinct rustle from the living room.
It was the sound of fabric sliding against drywall.
A sharp intake of breath echoed down the hall, and it didn’t sound like a startled gasp.
I rounded the corner still clutching the heavy box of artisan honey jars.
They were pressed against the muted sage and blush peony pattern of our accent wall.
Tyler’s hands were twisted in my sister’s blonde hair.
His belt was unbuckled.
The leather tongue hung loose, striking the side of his trousers.
My brain refused to process the geometry of the situation.
I simply stared at the tarnished brass buckle I had bought him two years ago.
Tyler choked out my name and jumped back as if the plaster had electrocuted him.
He stumbled over the edge of our Moroccan rug.
Heather didn’t jump or act surprised.
She just stood there calmly pulling down the hem of her silk camisole.
It was one of mine, borrowed without asking, as always.
The box of honey jars felt incredibly heavy in my arms.
My fingers burned where the cardboard dug into my skin.
I didn’t drop it because I knew I would be the one cleaning up the mess.
I always cleaned up.
My voice sounded thin and hollow when I told him the caterer needed an extra thousand for the deposit.
Tyler begged, trembling as he draped his limp blue tie over the sofa.
He stammered that they didn’t finish.
The smell of Heather’s cloying vanilla perfume hit me like a physical blow.
She let out a small, wet sob and crossed her arms over her chest.
She shrank herself down to look smaller and more fragile.
Her perfectly smudged makeup made her look like a tragic heroine.
I looked at Tyler desperately trying to thread his belt back through its loops with shaking hands.
I didn’t scream or throw plates.
A hollow, cold ache scraped against my ribs.
We had a lease in both our names and three hundred save-the-dates sitting in mailboxes.
I walked over to the coffee table and set the box down with a heavy thud.
The glass jars clinked together in a harsh, jagged rhythm.
I told him to keep the apartment and that I would send someone for my things on Monday.
He took a step forward with his hand outstretched.
I stared at his ragged cuticles and promised to break his fingers if he touched me.
He froze immediately.
I turned around and walked out without looking back at my sister.
The quiet click of the latch echoed behind me.
The hallway smelled like old carpet cleaner and broken promises.
I took a taxi to a part of the city where the streetlights were mostly decorative.
The neon signs flickered against the damp pavement.
I pushed open the heavy wooden door of a dive bar called the Brass Nickel.
I sat at the far end of a deeply scarred, sticky counter.
I told the massive bartender to leave the bottle of generic bourbon.
I poured a generous amount and drank it neat.
It burned like battery acid all the way down.
Ten minutes later, a stool scraped against the floor next to me.
A man in a dark, tailored suit sat down.
His face was hard, with a sharp jaw and eyes as dark as obsidian.
He looked like a man who hadn’t rested in a decade.
He raised two fingers at the bartender.
The bartender immediately poured a specific amber liquid from a hidden bottle and backed away without asking for payment.
The whiskey in my system stripped away my polite filter.
I told him he was overdressed for a dive.
He took a slow sip of his drink and noted that I was staring at my ring like I wanted to cut off my own finger.
I poured a third glass and told him I had just caught my fiancé with my sister.
He didn’t offer a sympathetic grimace or an apology.
He simply called it messy.
I laughed bitterly and complained about the non-refundable deposits for a custom three-tier fondant cake.
He stared at me with a terrifyingly calm expression.
He asked me why I should cancel the party when I could just change the groom.
Before I could process his words, the heavy wooden doors of the bar crashed open.
Three men in cheap leather jackets walked in.
The dull murmur of the bar died instantly.
The man next to me didn’t flinch.
His right hand casually slipped beneath his tailored jacket.
The leader spat out his name, Brian, and pulled a gun.
It happened so fast my brain couldn’t register the threat.
Brian swiveled on the stool and his hand snapped out.
A deafening crack shattered the silence.
The leader screamed and dropped his gun as blood bloomed on his shoulder.
Brian clamped his large hand over my shoulder and shoved me off the stool.
I hit the sticky floor hard as glass shattered above me.
The chaos lasted only ten seconds.
When the shooting stopped, the only sound was a low groan from near the door.
Brian hauled me to my feet with effortless strength.
His gun was matte black and smoking slightly.
He grabbed my hand with an iron grip and dragged me out the back door into an alleyway.
He threw me into the passenger seat of a sleek black sedan.
The engine roared to life as we tore out of the alley.
My chest heaved as the adrenaline burned away the alcohol.
I demanded to know who he was and what just happened.
He introduced himself as Brian Moretti.
The name clattered around in my head until I remembered the news articles about extortion and racketeering.
I had just watched the head of a crime syndicate shoot three men.
He reached into his jacket and tossed a cell phone onto my lap.
I was sitting in a getaway car with a mob boss, and he was telling me to make a call.
