The Complete Irreparable Boxed Set: Irreparable #1-2

by Sam Mariano

  Willow shifted, her hands nervously finding a lock of hair and twisting it round and round.

  “I didn’t really know you then. I didn’t know how incredible you were, how strong, how courageous, how… you would not just capture my interest, but me. All of me. I didn’t think there was anywhere else in the world I wanted to be, and before I stood here,” he said, looking at the ground, then back at her, “with you in my arms… there wasn’t. I was a different man before that night. Maybe a better man, so sorry you get the discount version, but….”

  Producing a shaky smile, Willow rolled her eyes.

  Ethan swallowed, reaching inside of his long coat pocket.

  Unable to keep it in, Willow murmured, “Oh, my god.” Almost intuitively, she took a step back and her hand made its way to cover her mouth as she watched him drop to one knee before her.

  Ethan looked at the ring box instead of her. “I know you’re not in any hurry, and I’m not either. I know you have to set the art world on fire and finish college. I know it won’t always be easy, but I also know it is what I want. You’re what I want, you and only you for the rest of my life.” Finally he tilted his head up to gaze at her. “On that note… Willow Kensington, would you do me the honor of agreeing to marry me… someday?”

  Bursting with glee, she grabbed him and pulled him awkwardly to a standing position as he laughed. Willow threw her arms around him, pulling him as close as she could with her clothes on and squeezing him.

  “Yes,” she said, not having to think about it. “Yes, Ethan Wilde, I will absolutely marry you.”

  “Yeah?” he teased, holding up the forgotten ring box. “I mean, maybe you should inspect the goods before you enter into a binding agreement?”

  Rolling her eyes, she snatched the box. Biting down on her lip, she paused before flipping it open to see what ring he picked out for her.

  It was simple and elegant—a stunning radiant cut diamond larger than anything she would’ve expected, set in shining platinum. She loved it instantly, and her fingers shook as she drew it out of the box.

  Ethan smirked. “Nervous?”

  “It’s cold,” she said, attempting to give him a dry look but she couldn’t wipe the smile off her face.

  Sliding it onto her unsteady finger, she held her hand out and admired it.

  “Wow,” she said, quietly.

  “Yeah?”

  “Oh yeah,” she assured him, nodding. “You did well, Mr. Wilde. Really well.”

  “Good. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to return it.”

  “Not without my finger attached, you’re not,” she told him, arching her eyebrows and hugging it protectively against her chest.

  Ethan pulled her in for a hug, and she dropped her hand to wrap her arms around him. In her wildest dreams, she hadn’t been expecting that homecoming. To think, not an hour before she was standing at the airport alone, questioning whether or not he had even missed her.

  Now she was engaged.

  Holy. Shit. She was engaged.

  To be married.

  Someday.

  Biting her lip, she tilted her head back so she could look at Ethan. “You’re kind of technically my fiancé now, aren’t you?”

  As if considering it for a moment, he slowly nodded. “I think I kind of sort of am.”

  “I’m affianced,” she said, more to herself than him.

  “Feel weird?”

  Nodding, she said, “Oh yeah. But good weird.”

  Ethan smiled, still with her in his arms. As it had many moons before, the light spilled over her face. Instead of tears—that he had put there—joy shone in her eyes. He’d put that there, too.

  Running the pad of his thumb across the soft skin of her cheek, he wiped away phantom tears.

  Willow watched, understanding as he echoed the last embrace they had there. She thought about kissing him, and her tongue naturally darted out to wet her lips in anticipation. His eyes raked over every shadow on her face, his thumb brushing her lower lip, and then he leaned in, giving her the kiss he held back that night long ago.

  As was usually the case when Ethan kissed her, fireworks went off in her mind, in her heart, in her very soul. She’d never been so full of joy and love before, and she wasn’t sure how her body managed to contain all of it.

  Melting against him as he drew back, Willow rested her head against his chest and just hugged him.

  “Much better,” he said, fondly rubbing her back.

  Memory stirred, she thought of that night. All of it, the exciting parts and the awful parts. Even after everything, she wasn’t sure he completely understood how much she had needed him.

  Softly, not lifting her head, she said, “You were my hero that night, you know that?”

  Gently kissing the top of her head, he said, “You’re mine every day.”

  Another grin transformed her face and she looked up at him. That time tears did shine in her eyes, but there was no longer even a trace of sadness in their gray depths.

  “Right back at ya,” she whispered.

  THE END

  About the Author

  Sam Mariano has been writing stories since before she could actually write. In college, she studied psychology and English, but now she’s taking night classes to learn real estate.

  Sam lives in Ohio and has a fantastic little daughter who loves to keep her from writing. Sam appreciates the opportunity to share her characters with you; they were tired of living and dying in her hard drive.

  Check out Sam’s other books, Because of You and Beautiful Mistakes, and feel free to find her on:

  Facebook

  Goodreads

  Twitter

  or her blog—

  she loves hearing from readers! She’s also available on Instagram now @sammarianobooks.

  If you have the time and inclination to leave a review, however short or long, she would greatly appreciate it! :)

  If you enjoyed the Irreparable series, you may also enjoy my next release, The Last Boss’ Daughter

  It’s a standalone and kind of fairytale inspired—but, you know, darker, because we can’t have nice things! ;)

  Check out this sneak peek* at the first chapter!

  *Subject to change in edits.

  THE LAST BOSS’ DAUGHTER

  Annabelle

  There’s an old junk yard in Brooklyn that doesn’t mean much to anyone but me.

  My father used to bring me here when I was a little girl. I didn’t know it was part of his chop shop operation, I just thought it was wonderful because behind the old, beaten fence was a huge oak tree with an apple tree right near it. Dad put a rope swing on that big tree for me, and every time he brought me to the shop with him he would grab two apples, toss me one, and push me on the swing while I told him about my day or my dreams or my dolls or the boy I liked in school—whatever I wanted to tell him. My dad was a busy man, so having his undivided interest in those moments… well, it was special to me.

  Every year on the anniversary of his death, I come back to this old junk yard. I trespass on the land that’s no longer ours, steal two apples from the tree, and swing on the swing the new owners never took down. While I’m there, eating stolen apples and swinging on someone else’s swing, I reminisce and talk to my dad. Of course he isn’t really there, but I talk to him anyway.

  Only this year, something is different.

  The junk yard isn’t abandoned.

  I’m unsure what to do at first. There are lights on inside and a few vehicles parked in front of the building.

  That’s not the alarming part.

  The alarming part is the two armed guards stationed by the rickety old fence, guarding the entrance.

  All this for a yard full of rust? There can’t be much left of the cars at this point.

  The guard dudes go on alert as I walk by. I walk a little faster, my heart pounding a little harder as they take a step forward.

  What the hell? I’m not sure what to do. I could go home and forget
my annual tradition, but….

  I reach the end of the road before I decide, fuck it. Those guys saw me keep walking so they’re probably back to relaxing and bullshitting with each other, and I don’t want inside the fence anyway, I want to go behind it.

  I have to go about it a different way, that’s all. Usually I walk right in, cut through the hole in the fence at the back, but my instincts tell me before I even get there, that hole is probably gone. Whatever’s inside, someone wants their privacy.

  Cool with me.

  I couldn’t care less.

  My curiosity isn’t even piqued.

  I just want a few minutes on my swing. I just want to steal two apples, then I’ll be on my way.

  It may be dangerous. Little red warning flags, but fuck those, too. I’m going on my swing.

  I haven’t let dangerous men stop me from doing what I want to do in 26 years of life, so why start today?

  And I make it. I cut through an alley, go behind a building, hustle across a clearing, and I’m along the side of the fence that’s safely out of the view of the guards.

  Smiling faintly to myself, filled with a sense of peace and victory usually missing from my life, I pluck a pair of apples from the tree, climb up on the seat of my swing and push off.

  I’m a little less sure about talking to my dad with the security on the place, but as long as I’m quiet it should be okay.

  “Hey dad,” I murmur, hooking my left arm around the rope. “It’s been a while.”

  For a moment, I stop, words clogging my throat. As much as I love the idea of telling Dad about my life, I realize things have gotten so bad for me that I don’t think I’d want to tell him.

  Instead, I say, “Do you remember when I was 14 and I finally figured out the whole Mafia thing? How I was so conflicted about it, and… and I felt like my image of you was sort of damaged, and it was so morally reprehensible to do some of the things I realized you were responsible for?”

  I remembered an argument we had during that time, in the car on the way home from the swing. My arms crossed defensively in anger, telling him, “I would never do those kinds of things, not for any amount of money.”

  My dad shook his head, looking vaguely irritated with my naiveté, and told me, “You think that now, but everyone has a price.”

  “I don’t,” I assured him, vehemently.

  He nodded, not agreeing. “We’ll see.”

  He never did get to see, since he was killed two years later. I hadn’t sold out by then. Not what you would expect of a daughter of a criminal organization, but I was actually a goody goody. Hadn’t even had my first kiss until after he died.

  You can’t tell I was ever like that anymore, but I was.

  Life’s sharper corners poked holes in all of my ideals, like my father predicted they would.

  Clearing my throat, I say, “Remember when you told me, even though our family was our kind of family, that if I really didn’t like it, and it really made me unhappy, I didn’t have to have any part of it? I could have a normal life with my little ideals and live blissfully unaware of the goings on?” He couldn’t answer, of course, but I nod anyway. “I think if you would’ve lived, that might’ve been true.”

  I don’t get to further speculate, share, or reminisce, because the sound of leaves crunching beneath boots serves as enough warning. I launch off the swing and turn with my back to the tree so I can look my attacker in the face, a particular habit of mine.

  I like to unsettle them, if I can.

  This guy doesn’t seem unsettled. A blonde, short-haired guard stands, legs braced, large gun trained on me, ready to attack.

  “Over here!” the guy calls over his shoulder.

  Another guard comes around the side of the building, leaves crunching beneath his heavy, black boots. He’s bigger than this guy—a lot bigger. Looks like he’s all broad shoulders and lean muscle underneath all that gear.

  He doesn’t stop next to his friend, but keeps coming. I lurch back when I realize he’s coming at me, but there’s no time—and no point trying—to get away with him right on me. If I run, he’ll give chase. And probably tackle me. Bruises. Soreness. Nah, not worth it.

  I can just explain myself.

  I don’t want the nuke codes or dead bodies they have inside, I only wanted a few minutes on the swing from my childhood.

  “This has all been a misunderstanding,” I attempt.

  Blondie is inexplicably out for my blood and enthuses, “That’s the same girl that just walked by!”

  Someone get the man a detective license.

  The wall of man stalking toward me is similarly unimpressed with his partner’s deductive skills, but there’s no time to think about that—or even the unexpected handsomeness in front of my face, the chiseled features, the golden hair tied back in a short pony tail, or his overall largeness. I hadn’t initially been intimidated by his strength, but the closer he gets, the more worrisome a detail it seems.

  “Who are you?” he demands, pressing one large hand against my chest, effectively pinning me down.

  My wide eyes are on his hand as he holds me against the tree and starts patting me down.

  “I—I’m not carrying,” I manage through my surprise. “I don’t even own a weapon.”

  “Who are you?” he repeats.

  Well, that may not help. I’m not personally involved in any bad dealings, but my family sure is, especially in the days since my father’s death.

  “Annabelle?” I offer.

  He gives me a dead look, but that may just be his face. He turns me around, belly to tree, and pats me down that way, too.

  Then I’m spun back around, but before I can imagine he’s satisfied that I’m not dangerous, he comes forward, using his whole body to smash mine against the tree.

  “Whoa,” I mutter, unprepared for the impact.

  “Get Raj,” he calls back to Blondie. I can’t see him through the wall of chest impeding my view, but I hear Blondie break into a run.

  I swallow, my heart in my throat, but a smile creeps across my lips.

  I don’t react to things properly. It’s been a struggle for a little less than half my life. It started at my dad’s funeral when I was beyond devastated, but I didn’t want to cry so I told jokes. People thought I was having a nervous breakdown. I think I’ve adapted “fake it till you make it” as an actual coping mechanism. It pisses Paul off to no end.

  As if egged on, the guard rears against me, smashing me even harder against the tree.

  Not the intended reaction, I sense a poorly timed stirring in my loins.

  I decide to use it. “Watch out there, buddy. If you’re looking to turn me on, you’re on the right track.”

  For the briefest fraction of a second, I see surprise before his face is back to its former stoicism.

  He leans back a step and lifts my 130 pounds with the same ease I lift a fork. Nudges my legs apart and pushes between them aggressively, like he’s going to push right through my clothes and fuck me there against the tree.

  “Still turned on?” he grinds out.

  Still stoic. Can’t tell what he’s going for here. Trying to scare me? Maybe he’s trying to call my bluff. I wasn’t bluffing, but there’s no reason for him to suspect that.

  In response, I smile and wrap my legs around his waist, using my heels to pull him even tighter against me. It’s a little exhilarating, courting actual danger like this. I’m truly getting turned on, which is so inappropriate, and I wish I could find even a single fuck to give.

  The guard scowls, but interest lingers there. “What are you playing at?”

  “Not even playing.” My eyes move over the muscular curves of him, the handsome face, the good hair. “I mean, look at you. You’re hot. I’m not trying to soften you up or anything, just stating the facts.” I crane my neck to peek over his shoulder before giving him a little wink. “How long do you think we have until your buddy gets back?”

  Less intense, less guarded, he asks
again, but that time less as if he’s interrogating me and more like he actually wants to know, “Who are you?”

  “Annabelle Covello,” I tell him, even though I’m still not sure it’s a great idea.

  He recognizes the name and his scowl comes back, his interest draining. “Covello?”

  I nod, resigned.

  Footsteps again, more than one set. Blondie says, “Here she is.”

  The other man with him says, “Jesus, Liam, get off the poor girl.”

  Liam, I surmise, is the guard between my legs because suddenly I’m on solid ground again and he backs away, as commanded.

  “I apologize, miss,” the man says, offering an apologetic smile. “We’ve had some security concerns lately, and I fear these two may have been a little overzealous. I hope—”

  I cut him off because I can’t believe who I’m looking at. “Raj?”

  He frowns, eyeing me speculatively.

  Raj Ahuja, the man who’d run the junk yard with my dad all those years ago. He’d been younger, of course—in years and appearance. The years must not have been kind to him; it looked to me like he’d aged 20 years in the 10 since I’d seen him.

  “I’m sorry, have we met?”

  “I’m Annabelle C—Annabelle De Luca.” Of course that wasn’t the name I’d just given the guard, so he scowls in my direction. “My dad was John De Luca.”

  He knows who I am now and it seems like he expected me to still be 16. “Annabelle?”

  I nod. “I didn’t know you still owned this place. I thought after Dad…”

  “I bought them out. It didn’t take a lot, the shop wasn’t much.”

  I agree, but I look to the guards. “That’s what I always thought until I saw Seal Team 6 over here guarding the entrance.”

  Raj gets uncomfortable. “Yes, I…”

  Since he doesn’t seem eager to finish that sentence, I do it for him. “Security concerns, I heard.”