Salvatore: a Dark Mafia Romance (3 page)

“Look, it’s been a really long day. A long fucking week. We’re both tired. Just eat something. I’ll leave you alone.”

I left her room without looking back and walked out the door of the suite, trying to shake off the image of her anguished face. It was impossible.

“You look like shit, boss,” Marco said as I walked out into the hall.

Marco was my private bodyguard and my friend. One of the very few in the world. Maybe the only one I had left.

“I feel like shit. Make sure she doesn’t go anywhere, okay?”

Marco nodded.

I headed for the stairs. The house had four floors, of which my room took up half of the third. My father’s rooms were on the top floor, and Dominic’s were down the hall from mine. The second floor housed more guest rooms, but we didn’t have any other overnight guests apart from Lucia tonight.

Before reaching the first-floor landing, I heard the loud voices of men talking. I followed the sound into the dining room, where a large group had gathered around the table, my father at its head. He looked at me, his gaze flat. I wondered what he thought of me right at that moment. If he was surprised to see me downstairs. Dominic, my younger brother, sat beside him with that stupid grin he always wore. The one that made me want to smack the living shit out of him.

I didn’t miss the fact he sat to my father’s right. My seat.

He didn’t make a move to rise. Instead, my uncle and family advisor, Roman, who sat to my father’s left, got up. He was my mother’s brother, and one of the few men my father trusted.

“Salvatore.”

He offered me his seat. I thanked him and sat down.

Dominic picked up his beer and leaned toward me. “Thought you’d be busy with your shiny new plaything.”

“She just buried her father, asshole.” I signaled for a beer, which the waiter brought a moment later. They were all jumpy, eager to serve. Probably more eager to get us the hell out of there. I hadn’t been back in a few years but knew when we were in town, the house became a target. The Benedetti family was a sort of legend here. We owned southern Italy and were moving in on the Sicilian territory. Another war brewed, one we’d win, like we’d won over the DeMarcos. Wherever we went, violence followed. The girl upstairs was testament to that.

Her words played back in my ears.

“I’m the one who pays when I didn’t have anything to do with anything.”

She was right. She was an innocent; her fate decided when she hadn’t been more than a child. Her sister’s pregnancy had placed Lucia at the heart of a decades-old war.

“She is a sweet little thing,” Dominic continued, sipping his beer. “Nice piece of—”

“Shut the fuck up, Dominic,” I said, my hands fisting.

“Salvatore’s right. Girl just buried her father,” my father admonished my brother, his gaze locked on me.

I didn’t trust this, didn’t trust him. My father had always been better at cutting me down. Certainly not defending me.

“You just make sure she knows who the boss is, son. I don’t ever want to see another incident like this afternoon again, you understand?”

Ah, there they were, my father’s true colors.

I nodded without looking at him, swallowing half of my drink.

“Good. Let’s eat.”

S
alvatore surprised me
. I expected violence. I’d prepared myself for it. But this, this kindness? His attempt to understand? Was that what it was? I didn’t like it. And I didn’t like how my body reacted to having him so close.

When I heard him leave, I went to the outer room. My stomach growled. I hadn’t eaten all day, and as appealing as a hunger strike seemed, when you were actually hungry, it lost some of its appeal.

I took the lid off one of the two dishes to find a thick steak, potatoes, and mixed grilled vegetables. I swallowed, salivating already, and sat down. Picking up the knife and fork, I glanced at the door before I dug in. If he returned, I’d be ashamed at having given in. Even if he kept his word and stayed away, when he saw I’d eaten, wouldn’t it just be a second victory to him?

I placed a piece of the meat in my mouth. So buttery and delicious, it melted on my tongue. God, that made me not care what he thought. I took a second bite, then tasted the grilled potatoes spiced with rosemary and more butter. A bottle of wine stood open on the table. I poured myself a glass, sipping it before returning to the meat. I finished nearly my entire plate and took the wine with me to my room, locking the door behind me even though I knew he had a key. Of course he had a key. It was his house.

I sat on the bed and poured myself another glass. That comment had gotten to him, just like what I’d said in the car had. I didn’t know much about Salvatore’s relationship with his father, Franco, but I had felt Salvatore tense when Franco approached us at the church. I’d been guessing when I taunted Salvatore with my comment about being his father’s puppet but didn’t realize I’d hit the nail on the head. When I’d said it was his father’s house, not his, I’d seen it again, that I’d gotten under his skin. I would learn more, watch their interactions, find and exploit their weaknesses. Maybe it was a matter of pitting son against father.

Then there was Dominic, his younger brother. I knew his relationship with Salvatore was strained, and I didn’t like the way Dominic looked at me, but maybe I could use that too.

Salvatore had mentioned knowing how it felt to lose someone close. I knew he’d lost his older brother, Sergio, and his mother, both within a year of each other. I assumed they were who he meant. I felt like a jerk for a minute. I picked up my glass, drained it, and poured some more. Was he trying to connect with me over our shared pain or something? Why? What would be the point?

I lay my head back on the headboard and closed my eyes. I was tired, overwhelmed with emotion, jet-lagged, and exhausted. I’d cried over my father after the funeral once I’d been left alone here. Why hadn’t I talked to him when he’d called? Why had I refused to see him when he’d come to the school? I knew he regretted what he’d done, selling me to buy his and our family’s lives, but what choice had he had? I was a peace offering, in a way. An olive branch. The white flag of surrender to keep everyone else safe—my sister, my niece, my cousins, aunts, and uncles. It was the deal: no more bloodshed. We surrender. You own us.

I just happened to be the sacrifice.

Whose idea was it, I wondered, my father’s or Franco’s?

I swallowed two sleeping pills and finished the second glass of wine. Setting it on the nightstand, I pulled back the sheets and climbed into bed. I wanted to sleep, to stop thinking about everything.

Darkness fell when I switched off the lamp, and I closed my eyes. My thoughts moved from Salvatore and Franco and my father to Izzy. The pregnancy had saved her, or she’d be the one here in this bed right now. They’d wanted her, the firstborn. I’d heard my father and my sister arguing, yelling like I had never heard him yell before. Not at us, anyway. That’s how I’d found out she was pregnant. That was when Izzy had run away, leaving me to a fate that should have been hers.

I couldn’t blame her, though, not when I thought of Effie. She was protecting her baby. But it didn’t absolve her for leaving me without a good-bye. Without telling me the truth herself. She knew what would happen to me.

Those few words we exchanged at the funeral were the first we’d traded in the last five years. Maybe it was time to forgive her. I needed at least one ally, didn’t I?

* * *

M
y head hurt
the next morning. Probably a combination of too much crying, too much fighting, and too much wine.

A knock came on the door just as I zipped my suitcase.

“Come in,” I said, expecting Salvatore but finding someone else.

“Car is ready,” the man said. He was the same one who’d stood at the door after accompanying us up here yesterday. He moved toward my suitcase. I’d only packed one. It was a brief trip, and we’d be going back to the US today. I’d be going to my new home—Salvatore’s home—in New Jersey.

“Where is Salvatore?”

“He was called to a meeting, left earlier this morning.”

“What’s your name?”

“Marco.”

“What meeting, Marco?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.

The man simply looked at me, letting me know he chose not to answer.

“Fine.”

I walked out the door carrying my purse, leaving him behind to follow me with the suitcase. I went downstairs with my head held high, hoping most of all I wouldn’t run into Franco Benedetti. As much as I hated to admit it, he scared me.

The front doors stood open, letting in the bright sunshine and already too hot temperatures. I refused to glance around and kept my eyes on the car waiting outside, the driver standing beside it. Marco’s footsteps followed.

I was almost out the door when I heard a small clicking sound and instinctively turned my head. There stood Dominic, leaning against the doorway to another room. He watched me, and I took a moment to look at him, to
see
him. He and Salvatore couldn’t be more different in appearance. Salvatore was big and thickly muscled, whereas Dominic stood maybe an inch taller but not as wide, his build leaner. Salvatore had dark hair and olive skin. Dominic was blond and lighter skinned. His eyes, though, were a piercing, steely blue-gray so cold, they chilled me through.

But then he smiled a big smile. The change in his features became suddenly disarming.

Marco cleared his throat behind me.

I glanced back to find Marco’s eyes locked on Dominic. Dominic only shook his head and disappeared back into the room he’d come from. I walked out the door and got into the backseat of the car. After loading my suitcase in the trunk, Marco climbed into the front passenger seat, and the driver started the engine. I glanced up at the mansion as we drove off, irritated that Salvatore hadn’t come with me, wondering if I was being sent away again on my own, hating knowing I was a prisoner to his will.

I had a hundred questions but refused to ask Marco. I wouldn’t let them know I felt unsure, uncertain. Instead, I sat in the backseat of the car and watched the small Italian villages roll by on the hour-long drive to Lamezia Terme International Airport. I would connect through Rome, and the combined flights would take over fifteen hours to get back to the US. Getting to Calabria was a pain in the ass. I remembered hating the flights when we’d come here as kids, and that hadn’t change. I still hated the long trip. At least Salvatore wouldn’t be on the flight with me. Although would Marco then accompany me?

At the airport, Marco opened my door, and I climbed out, the heat coming off the asphalt stifling after the air-conditioned car. The driver unloaded my suitcase. Marco gestured for me to go ahead, guiding me toward the check-in counter. The man seemed to know Marco. I noticed their small exchange when he handed over my passport and ticket, neither of which I’d been allowed to hold on to, as if I’d skip out on my own father’s funeral and fly home. The desk agent took my bag and handed my passport and ticket back to Marco.

“This way,” Marco said.

“You didn’t check-in. You won’t be allowed past security,” I said.

Marco smiled. “I will hand you over to one of my…colleagues in a few moments.”

Marco’s Italian accent was distinct. Raised in the US, although I spoke fluent Italian, I had no accent. Neither did Salvatore.

“He will travel with you.”

I would have been surprised if they let me go alone, honestly.

Used to having guards nearby since I was a little girl, I went along, ignoring Marco and the other man, whom Marco introduced me to and whose name I instantly forgot. We boarded our flight within the next half hour, and I settled in. I read the coverage of my father’s funeral in the newspaper reports, saw my face in the photos along with Salvatore’s and numerous others plastered across page after page of both local newspapers I’d picked up. We made big news here. The reining Mafia family, coming to bury their biggest rival. The daughter of the fallen man, now on the arm of the opposing family’s son. Most of the articles actually told the story of how we’d met and fallen in love. That would be Franco Benedetti’s work. It wouldn’t look good to tell the public the truth.

I folded the paper and tucked it into the pocket of the seat in front of me. I closed my eyes. I felt my bodyguard’s gaze on me, but I ignored him as best as I could.

With a three-hour delay in Rome, by the time we arrived in New Jersey and then drove the hour and a half to Salvatore’s home in Saddle River, I was exhausted. Evening fell, and it took an effort to keep my eyes open, to take in the surroundings of my new home. I was grateful it was Salvatore’s house and not the Benedetti family home.

Salvatore’s estate was large and very private. Tall iron gates opened upon our arrival. Only moonlight illuminated most of the grounds, until we drew closer to the house, and I got my first glimpse of the mansion with its huge garage, outbuildings, and extensive and various types of landscaping lights. The grounds, from what I could make out, were expansive, with woods circling most of the property. It seemed to me that the driveway was at least a mile long before it finally circled at the main entrance to the residence. A woman came outside and waited for us. As soon as the car stopped, I climbed out on my own, needing to stretch my legs after so many hours of sitting. I’d grown up surrounded by wealth, but I’d never lived in a house this grand. It seemed pretentious of Salvatore, maybe another weakness. I walked toward the woman.

“Ma’am.”

“Just Lucia,” I answered, attempting to give her a warm smile. I’d need allies. I didn’t want to be hated.

The woman smiled back and nodded. I turned to the guard who’d flown with me. He looked as tired as I felt.

“When will Salvatore arrive?” I asked, wanting information.

“I’m not sure.”

“Come inside,” the woman said.

I followed her in, looking around the house—my new home—for the first time. The large circular foyer led off in several directions, one of which had to be the kitchen, considering the delicious smell coming from that direction. I could see the living room through a large archway. At the far end stood a wall of glass, and large doors led to a patio. Dim, colorful lights shone off the glass-like surface of the swimming pool, inviting even now. The rest of the interior doors stood closed. I turned my attention to the large marble staircase leading to the upper floor.

“Are you hungry?”

I shook my head, stifling a yawn. “I’m just very tired.”

She nodded. “I’ll take you to your room.”

I touched her elbow to stop her before she turned. “What’s your name?”

“Rainey.”

“Rainey. That’s a pretty name.”

“Thank you.”

I figured her to be in her early forties. It felt strange to have her wait on me. I’d always hated that, actually. I felt uncomfortable and awkward even with servants. I didn’t mind a housekeeper or cook, but a servant felt different.

I followed Rainey up the stairs and toward the double doors at the end of the hall. I assumed that was the master bedroom. My heart thudded as we approached, knowing he’d expect to have me in his bed. Of course he would. Why not? What sense would it make for him to
take possession
of me but not fuck me?

But before we reached the foreboding doors at the end, we turned to the right, where Rainey opened a single door.

“This one’s yours,” she said, switching on a light and gesturing for me to enter.

The room was huge and richly decorated with heavy dark curtains draped from each of the windows. Exposed brick made the space appear darker and gave it a masculine flair, but I liked it, especially the large fireplace I wouldn’t have need for just yet. Rainey pointed out the bathroom, which I barely glanced at, because my gaze had fallen on the large, four-post, king-size bed in the room with a thick duvet and overstuffed pillows at the head.

“Shall I help you unpack? We’ve already moved your other things into the closet.”

“Other things? Oh.” I’d forgotten. Salvatore had had my things packed up and brought here a few days ago. I didn’t have much, hadn’t needed much at a Catholic school, but what I had was neatly organized in the open walk-in closet Rainey stood at the entrance of. “I’m actually tired. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll just have a shower and go to bed.”