The Mafia's Racer Bride

Chapter 5

Kelsey Schmidt

I peer cautiously over the banister, my heart hammering wildly against my bruised ribs.

Anthony Pierson French stands in the entryway like a specter of absolute judgment. He is impeccably dressed in a tailored charcoal overcoat, his dark hair immaculate, but his eyes… those near-black, bottomless eyes are fixed on Kennedy with a dead, merciless intensity. Behind him, standing broad and immovable in the open doorway, is another man and a small army of silent, suit-clad security detail filling the front lawn with four idling black sedans.

Anthony has one large, leather-gloved hand clamped mercilessly around Kennedy’s throat, pinning him flat against the hallway wall with terrifying, effortless strength. Kennedy’s face is already turning a dangerous shade of purple, his heels kicking uselessly against the baseboard like a dying insect.

"A-Anthony... please—" Kennedy chokes out, his trembling hands clawing weakly at Anthony’s iron wrist.

"You talk too much, Kennedy," Anthony says softly, his voice a lethal purr that carries up the stairwell. "And you gamble on things you don't own."

"I don't know what you're talking about—"

"Do you take me for a fool?" Anthony interrupts, stepping closer, his voice dropping an octave, heavy with suppressed, simmering violence. "I spent the last twelve hours pulling apart your life. I know about the fifty million you dropped at the underground tables in Chinatown. I know about the contract you signed with the Gambinos, selling your own blood to wipe away your debts. And I know damn well that they plan to sell her to the underworld, auctioning her off like cattle just because she has a pristine face they can profit from."

Kennedy’s eyes bulge in absolute, cowering terror. For the first time in my life, I am watching the monster who has terrorized my existence turn completely hollow with fear. But as I listen from the shadows, I also can’t believe everything I heard from Anthony. The sheer scale of my father's betrayal hits me like a physical blow.

"Anthony, listen to me, I had no choice, they were going to kill me!" Kennedy whimpers, hot tears springing to his bloodshot eyes. "If I didn't deliver her to New York, they would have put a bullet in my head! I don’t have a choice!"

“Yes, you have a choice,” Anthony spits, his voice dripping with icy contempt. “You have a choice not to gamble the money you don’t have and be a good father. I have had enough, Kennedy. I gave you many chances that I should not have.”

From the top of the stairs, Dottie suddenly appears, her silk robe flying open as she shrieks at the top of her lungs. She is so blinded by rage she doesn’t even notice me standing right beside her. "Get out of this house! I’m calling the police, you psycho!"

Her bare feet make a loud, aggressive sound smacking against the stairs as she starts marching down, acting as if she has any power over these lethal men. I won’t even try to stop her because she’s walking straight into a hurricane.

Anthony doesn't even bother to turn his head to look at her approach. “Marco.”

That’s all he says. He motions casually to the man standing close to his shoulder. Marco smoothly steps forward, sliding a massive, heavy hand over Dottie’s mouth, cutting her piercing screams off into muffled, frantic gasps of pure panic as he shoves her backward into the master hallway. Anthony ignores her completely, treating her like an annoying insect.

Slowly, deliberately, Anthony releases his grip, letting my father slump pathetically against the wall, gasping for air and clutching his bruised, purple throat.

Then, Anthony turns his gaze upward. Through the dim light of the house, his dark eyes lock straight onto mine, where I stand frozen, as if he somehow knew all along that I’ve been watching him from the dark.

He doesn't shout. He doesn't hesitate. He simply starts walking up the stairs toward me, each heavy, measured stride echoing through the silent house like a death knell.

My knees shake so badly I think I will collapse right there on the wood. I back away slowly until the corridor wall stops me, my mind racing back to the agonizing hours I spent sitting alone on my unmade bed, staring at the ceiling, utterly broken by the crushing realization that my own father would go that low just to feed his addiction. He had traded me away like garbage.

Anthony stops right in front of me. Up close, his sheer presence is overwhelming, radiating a potent mix of rain, expensive cedar, and cold, unyielding danger.

His dark gaze sweeps slowly over me, taking in my pale skin, the swollen, split lip, and the way I instinctively curl inward to hide my bruised ribs. For a fraction of a second, a hard muscle feathers sharply in his jaw, and I see something terrifying flash in his eyes.

It wasn't desire. It wasn't a cold calculation. It was pure, unfiltered, murderous fury. On my behalf.

Nobody has ever been angry for me. In my entire life, pain and suffering were always things I was told I deserved as payment for my mother's death.

"Pack a bag," Anthony says, his voice dropping low, steady, and entirely unyielding. "You're coming with me. I won't ask you twice, and I won't let anyone stop me."

I swallow hard, tears hot and sudden stinging the backs of my eyes, though I desperately refuse to let them fall. "I... I don't have much—"

"Grab anything you want," he cuts me off softly, his gaze softening just enough around the edges to make my breath hitch in my chest.

I turn and hurry back into my room. I pick up a canvas duffel bag, throwing in what little I own, rushing while Anthony stands in the doorway watching my every move like a silent guardian. I have earned a lot of money from my racing career, but I never had a chance to buy more clothes or things I actually liked for myself. My father despised it when I spent a single dime on my own happiness, punishing me violently every time he discovered I purchased something outside of necessities.

After packing my entire miserable life in this house into one small bag, I zip it shut and grab the strap.

We walk past Kennedy, who is still huddled pathetically on the floor, clutching his throat and shaking too hard to even look us in the eye. Down the hall, Dottie is hissing vile curses from behind a locked door, but nobody cares.

The freezing night air hits my face like a physical shockwave as the man who neutralized my stepmother escorts us down to the fleet of idling black sedans. I remember Anthony calling him Marco. He’s terrifyingly quiet like his boss. Clean-shaven head, built like a brick wall, possessing a calm, steady demeanor that masks lethal capability. He’s six-foot-two, matching Anthony’s height, moving with the quiet precision of a shadow.

“Let’s go.”

Anthony opens the heavy door of the middle car, gesturing for me to slide into the plush leather interior before closing it shut behind us, locking the rest of the world out.

The engine rumbles to life beneath us, the tires crunching softly against the gravel as we pull away from the house I would never, ever call home again.

Inside the quiet sanctuary of the car, the city's neon lights blur past us in a streaked cascade of rain. Anthony pulls out his sleek black smartphone, dialing a single number with practiced, chilling coldness.

"Get the chambers ready," Anthony commands into the receiver, his voice like liquid iron. "And wake up Judge Hill. Tell him I need a marriage license expedited by sunrise."

The call ends with a sharp, definitive click.

Anthony lowers his phone and turns his head, his dark, piercing gaze locking straight onto mine in the dim dashboard light. The raw intensity of his look makes my pulse spike all over again, a wild, unfamiliar rhythm.

He reaches out, his warm, calloused fingers gently brushing a stray strand of honey-blond hair away from my tear-stained face. A gesture so achingly tender it feels entirely foreign to my skin.

"I'm marrying you," Anthony says, the words falling like heavy, immutable stones that completely rearrange the trajectory of my universe. "Tomorrow. It's the only way to make you untouchable by the Gambinos and anyone else who ever thinks they can lay a hand on you."