The Mafia's Racer Bride

Chapter 7

Kelsey Schmidt

I woke all alone in the guest room of Anthony’s penthouse on my own. Not to the violent, shattering sound of a loud shout from my father or the crash of broken plates downstairs. I woke up quietly. Warm and better.

I immediately freshen up. There are brand-new essential supplies waiting in the bathroom, everything I could possibly need, neatly laid out. I don’t have to ask for a single thing. Anthony immediately provided, unlike my old home, where I had to beg for everything I needed and could never have anything I actually wanted.

My back still itches, and the raw skin stings sharply from the healing pain. But I still handle it silently because I’m completely used to carrying it. I leave the guest room and look down the hall toward Anthony’s bedroom. Today is our wedding. I don’t really know what to expect, but it’s definitely going to be completely different from any normal dream wedding.

I walked downstairs, and the rich smell of bacon hit my nose. I slowly walk toward the dining area, deliberately making sure I am not making too much noise because my father used to fly into a rage whenever I walked too loudly, hitting me until I bruised.

“Morning,” I greeted Anthony quietly, who was sitting in the middle of the table with a dark coffee in his right hand.

“Sit down and eat.”

I immediately complied with what he told me, and he just silently watched my every movement. I look down at our table, noticing bacon, eggs, fluffy bread, and stacks of pancakes.

“Thank you for this,” I whispered, keeping my eyes low.

He did not reply with words, but I could still feel his heavy eyes watching my every move like a hawk. I carefully pick up just one single pancake and a small spoonful of syrup, unsure if I am even allowed to eat more than that.

“Get more pancakes so you can put on some weight,” he said seriously, his voice cutting through my hesitation.

I bit my lower lip and immediately did what he told me. I want to follow him because I don’t want Anthony to get mad at me and end up bringing me back to my father. I know that once I step foot back in that house, my father might treat me even worse this time, especially after what Anthony just did to humiliate him.

My father's fragile pride could never take a hit like that. He looks utterly terrified of Anthony and completely powerless against him, meaning all of that suppressed, blinding rage will inevitably be redirected right back at me. On my skin.

“I have a housekeeper who comes in here to cook and clean. If you want something else, you can just tell her. You’ll meet her later.”

I nodded quietly at him and went back to eating my pancakes in silence. There’s also water, fresh coffee, and orange juice set on the table, but I instinctively prefer a simple glass of water.

“Don’t you like to talk?” Anthony asked, his tone dead serious.

This time, I slowly lift my head to look right into his eyes. His dark brown eyes are so deep they look almost black. I haven’t seen him smile even once since the moment I met him again.

“Sorry, I just have nothing to say…” I drop my gaze back down to my plate to continue eating.

I never learned how to talk comfortably inside our house. Talking always brought me pain because my father hated it when I opened my mouth too much. But then I became a race car driver, and suddenly I had to talk in front of massive crowds, including all my cheering fans. I started to like using my voice again, but right here, right now with Anthony? All I feel is a crushing wave of awkwardness.

I feel like a completely different person when I am strapped into my racing suit. I feel strong, fearless, and bold. But I could never channel that courage in front of my father, and now I struggle to find it in front of Anthony either. At the end of the day, I still barely know this man sitting across from me.

“Why aren't you eating any bacon?” he suddenly asks, breaking the silence.

“I don’t eat meat.”

“But your favorite food is medium-rare steak.”

I don’t know which part of his statement surprises me more–- the subtle hint of confusion in his voice, or the horrifying realization that he actually remembers that steak used to be my favorite food.

“I changed,” I simply replied, swallowing the sudden lump in my throat.

When I was fifteen, my father was furious with me over a lost bet and killed my beloved pet goat. One night, he acted sickeningly sweet to me, carefully preparing a thick, juicy steak for dinner. After I finished eating every last bite, he asked me if I liked it, and I innocently told him, “Of course I like it, Dad.” Then he laughed.

He and my stepmother both laughed, and their cruel, mocking laughter echoed through the entire hollow house. That was the night that shattered my reality, making me realize my father wasn't being kind at all because he had cooked my own pet just to trick me into eating it.

I felt so violently sick that I threw up everything in my stomach until I was dry-heaving. Ever since that night, I grew utterly terrified of eating beef, pork, or even chicken. I completely stopped eating meat and forced myself to become a vegetarian.

“Kelsey.”

I flinched hard, snapping out of the dark memory when he said my name. I looked up at Anthony, and his dark eyebrows were pulled together into a sharp, deep frown.

“Sorry, were you telling me something?”

“Your dress.” I looked down at his hand as he held out a crisp white paper bag. “We are going to the courthouse. Get ready once you are done eating.”

I eat much faster now so I can get ready quickly. I don’t want to keep him waiting when he is going out of his way to do all of this for me. Willing to legally marry me just to shield me from the ruthless Gambino family of New York.

After I finished eating, I quickly hurried back to the guest room. I stepped into the hot shower and changed into the elegant white dress Anthony had bought for me. The fabric completely covers my arms and collarbones, meaning I don’t have to waste time slathering on heavy makeup to hide my bruises.

It’s a long-sleeved, beautifully fitted dress that hugs my frame. I blow-dry my long, honey-blond hair, letting it fall naturally just as it is. I step out of my new bedroom and meet Anthony downstairs. Anthony is dressed in colors that completely contrast my white dress.

He’s wearing a sharp black dress shirt with the top two buttons casually undone, revealing a strip of warm skin. His sleeves are perfectly folded up below his strong elbows. He’s wearing tailored black slacks held by a sleek black belt, and the only other splash of color on his dark frame is the expensive silver watch strapped to his wrist.

I look up into his dark eyes, catching a brief flicker of intense longing in those deep pupils before it instantly vanishes behind a wall of stoicism. I don’t know what it meant, or if my lonely mind was just hallucinating.

“Let’s go.” He turns his broad back to me, and I quietly follow him toward his private elevator.

A heavy, suffocating silence stretches between us as we ride down. No one speaks a word, and when the elevator doors slide open into the parking lot, two tall security guards standing on either side immediately nod in crisp greeting. Anthony gives a simple nod back, and we walk out toward the row of idling black sedans waiting for us.

There are still four identical sedans, and we climb into the second one. He holds the door, letting me slide into the plush leather interior first before walking around to get in beside me. Even with the wide armrest dividing the middle of the backseat, I still feel hyper-aware of how close his massive body is to mine.

Marco slips into the front passenger seat next to the driver, and the car smoothly pulls away from the curb. I keep my mouth tightly shut, staring blankly out the tinted window. The rain has finally stopped outside, and I realize with a jolt that I am actually on my way to get married to my godfather. A man I had barely ever seen growing up, save for the annual gifts he always left for me on my birthdays.

He became my godfather because of my grandfather Henri, even though Anthony was only twelve years old when I was born. He knew my grandfather far better than I ever did, seeing as I was barely two years old when my grandfather passed away. I don't even have any real, lasting memories of him.

After a short, tense drive, the car rolls to a stop right in front of the grand stone entrance of the Multnomah County Courthouse. Marco immediately steps out of the front seat and opens my door.

“Thank you,” I murmur with a small, polite smile, but he just gives me a grim, serious nod in return.

Anthony steps up beside me, and Marco takes the lead, walking a few paces in front of us. We follow him inside the quiet halls of the courthouse. My heart is pounding like a trapped drum against my ribs because the reality of getting married is crashing down. Just Anthony, myself, and Marco standing as our lone witness.

I don’t even have a single flower in my hand to hold onto. I have no map or idea of how to navigate this bizarre, terrifying new existence with my childhood godfather.

A terrifying spiral of intrusive thoughts suddenly hits me. What if he expects me to act like a real, traditional wife behind closed doors? What if he expects me to sleep with him tonight? What if he demands my body just like every other predatory male fan who has ever tried to claim me?

Panic flares hot and sharp in my chest, and before I can stop my mouth, the panicked words slip out into the open air. “I can’t do it.”

Anthony freezes in his tracks, and we both grind to a halt right in the middle of the marble courthouse lobby. “What?” he asks, his voice dropping instantly into a dangerous, chilling register. “I told you, Kelsey, there are no other options left. You need to marry me.”

“No… Not that.” I shake my head frantically, looking up into his hard, carved face. “I can’t sleep with you.”

A flicker of genuine, total surprise crosses his fierce features, instantly dissolving into a dry, humorless huff of a smirk. “Oh, sweetheart. I don’t sleep with children.”

My face instantly catches fire, a humiliating rush of heat flooding up my neck and cheeks, and I quickly drop my gaze to the floor to avoid his teasing, all-knowing look. I feel deeply insulted and small, even though I logically have no right to feel that way. I should be immensely relieved down to my bones that he views me as completely off-limits in that regard.

“Now, let’s keep moving so we can go home.”

I am so burning with embarrassment that I keep my eyes glued to the polished marble floor all the way until we reach the judge's private office. The judge greets us formally and doesn't waste a single second on polite small talk. He flips open his legal documents and dives straight into the ceremony with cold, businesslike efficiency.

“Do you, Kelsey Schmidt, take Anthony Pierson French to be your lawful husband, to have and to hold, till death do you part?”

There is no turning back now. The alternative is being handed over to the butchers in New York.

“I do,” I whisper, my voice barely a cracked breath over the distant hum of the city outside.

“Do you, Anthony Pierson French, take Kelsey Schmidt to be your lawful wife, to have and to hold, till death do you part?”

“I do,” he answers instantly, his voice deep, steady, and resolute.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may sign here.”

The judge slides the official marriage certificate across the heavy mahogany table alongside a sleek black pen.

With a trembling, unsteady hand, I sign away my old, battered life, binding my name to my godfather's.

Anthony signs his name right beneath mine with firm, steady strokes, then immediately turns to face me. He steps in close, his towering frame completely engulfing mine until his warm breath brushes softly against the sensitive shell of my ear.

“I will protect you as I promised,” he murmurs, a low, solemn vow that sends a violent shiver straight down my spine. “Your home is my home now. You are always safe there. No one enters without my permission, and I do not give my permission lightly.”