The Mafia Princess’s New Groom Chapter 11
I turned and nodded to the old butler by the wall. He hit play.
The massive screen behind the altar lit up. Sophia’s face filled the frame.
She wasn’t alone.
A man had her pinned against the headboard, his mouth on her neck, teeth dragging across her skin.
The camera was close. Too close.
Every bead of sweat, every hitch of breath, every lazy, satisfied smile on her face, all of it in high definition for five hundred guests to see.
“Baby, I’ve been putting in the work, haven’t I?” The man’s voice was thick against her throat. “Once you get pregnant and lock down that Mrs. Mancini title, you better not forget about me.”
Sophia laughed. Loose. Easy.
The laugh of a woman who had the world figured out. “With what do you do to me? How could I ever forget?”
“So tell me. Who’s better? Vincent or me?”
“You. No contest.” She rolled her eyes. “Every time with you, I can barely walk after. Vincent?” Her lip curled. “Like sleeping with a corpse. Cold. Stiff. Dead weight. Every time he touched me, I had to fight the urge to gag.”
The sounds from the screen got louder. Wetter. Harder.
The helpless little lamb was gone.
The woman on that screen rode the man beneath her like she was trying to break him in half, nails raking down his chest, head thrown back, moaning loud enough to echo off the vaulted ceiling of the hall.
Every head in the room turned to Vincent.
His eyes had gone black. His jaw hung slack. His body was locked rigid, every muscle frozen, like a man watching his own house burn down and not being able to move.
Ten seconds. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
Then something inside him snapped.
He threw himself at the screen with a sound that wasn’t human.
His fists smashed into Sophia’s face over and over, cracking the glass, splitting his knuckles wide open, blood spraying across the fractured image.
“YOU LIED TO ME! YOU LIED! GO TO HELL! GO TO HELL!”
He kept swinging long after the screen went dark.
Kept going until his arms gave out and he slumped against the shattered frame, chest heaving, hands ruined, blood dripping from his fingers onto the marble.
The great Vincent Mancini.
The man who swore no one could play him.
The man who thought he had two women wrapped around his finger.
Brought to his knees by a dead woman’s bedroom tape.
Five hundred guests. Dead silence. Not a whisper.
I watched him for a moment. Then I laughed.
A real laugh.
The kind that starts deep in your gut and rolls up through your chest until your whole body shakes with it.
The kind that comes when something so perfectly, catastrophically ironic plays out in front of you that your body doesn’t know what else to do.
I wiped my eyes. Caught my breath. Smiled.
“Get this trash out of my sight.” I waved a hand. “Drag him to the pier. Let him bleed out with the fish.”