Damage: an Arranged Marriage Mafia Romance

by Natasha Knight

  “You’re not clumsy.” He peers closer, the camera showing me just part of his eye and nose for a moment. “You’re hurt,” he says, his expression so worried, it breaks my heart.

  “I’m okay, Gabe. I promise. It’s just a little bump.”

  He just sits there studying me for a moment and his expression is almost like it used to be. Like he used to be.

  But then it’s as though he suddenly remembers something and shifts the phone to his knee where there’s a scrape covered by a band-aid.

  “I fell too, Gabi. We have matching band-aids.”

  I smile when I see his face again. “How did you fall?”

  “I tripped when I was running.”

  Melanie comes into the picture. “We had a rainy day and the minute we could get outside Gabe went charging, didn’t you, Gabe?”

  “Yep,” Gabe says. “But it doesn’t hurt. Are you coming for lunch, Gabi?”

  “Not today, Gabe, but soon, okay? I promise.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  Crap. “Not tomorrow, no, but soon. It’ll be a surprise!”

  “You used to come visit me more.”

  “Gabe, why don’t you show Gabi your painting?” Melanie asks, saving the day because Gabe gets a proud smile on his face and a moment later, I’m looking at a large canvas of mostly smeared paint in all different colors.

  “It’s modern,” Gabe says.

  “It’s beautiful,” I say. I think about what Alex said in his last message about wondering if he’ll ever be able to talk to Gabe without breaking down afterwards. I wonder the same thing.

  “This one is for Alex,” he says, as if reading my mind. “But I’ll make you one next.”

  How am I going to tell him that Alex is gone?

  “I can’t wait to see mine!” I say, my enthusiasm overdone.

  We talk for another five minutes, but I can see Gabe getting distracted as he picks up his paint brush again and, after a promise to FaceTime him again the following day, we disconnect the call.

  Miss Millie must have been waiting for me to wrap up because no sooner have I put the phone down then she’s outside serving dinner. Tonight, there is a whole roasted chicken with potatoes and green beans.

  “This smells wonderful,” I say, inhaling. “But it’s a lot of food just for me. Is Stefan going to be home for dinner?”

  Home. The word weirdly sounds more and more normal.

  “He’ll be here later tonight, after dinner. You just eat what you like.”

  “You know you don’t have to wait on me,” I tell her.

  “I like it, Gabriela. It’s my pleasure. I’m just happy you’re home safe and sound. Now go on and eat. Let me know if you need anything and make sure you save room for dessert. I made you something special.”

  My smile is authentic. “I will, thanks, Miss Millie.”

  I eat on my own. I eat more than I think I will but that’s probably because the last few days, I’ve been eating so little.

  When I’m finished, I go into the library, take a book off one of the shelves and curl up on one of the armchairs.

  I’m so absorbed in the story that I only realize three hours have passed when I hear footsteps approaching and sit up, closing the book.

  It’s Stefan.

  The library door opens, and he stands in the doorway.

  My heart thuds against my chest as I look at him. He’s wearing a black V-neck T-shirt and jeans. His thick hair is perfectly in place, and the dark shadow on his jaw accentuates the sharp line of it.

  I look at his big hand on the doorknob and see that ring and I think about what he’s done with those hands. The violence he did to those men. The gentleness with which he held me.

  My gaze lifts to his forearms, the muscle beneath the dusting of dark hair. Something stirs inside me. Inside my belly. It’s like a fluttering of butterfly wings.

  I’m attracted to him. In spite of it all, or maybe because of it all, I’m attracted to him.

  He saved my life.

  But it could have been him to set me up, couldn’t it? Why would I rule him out? He’s the one who gave me the phone. Maybe it was like I thought. Maybe it was bugged.

  I shake off the thought. I don’t believe that. I just don’t. Maybe it was the look on his face when he took that wretched, vomit-stinking hood off me. Maybe it was the fact he climbed that ladder down and wouldn’t let me go as he carried us both back up, even as the rope tore. I don’t know, and although I’m sure he’s no saint, I don’t believe Stefan would do that to me.

  When I draw my gaze back to his, I find him watching me.

  I think about how he was when he came to get me. When he brought me up out of the well on that ladder. When he held my hand and swore he’d never let anyone hurt me again.

  When he came into my room drunk later that same night and warned me my reckoning was coming.

  The look in his hazel eyes tells me tonight is that reckoning.

  “Gabriela,” he says, coming into the library and closing the door behind him. Locking it.

  Why do I note that one act?

  He walks toward me and perches on the ottoman before my chair.

  I sit up and put my hands on my knees. “Stefan,” I say, because he’s not the only one who feels justified to a reckoning.

  “Doctor says you’re doing better, healing nicely.” He looks me over. When he reaches out to touch me, I pull back, making him pause for a moment before his hand is on my middle, my ribs.

  He’s feeling for the bandage.

  “It’s gone,” I say.

  “Good.”

  “Where have you been?” Thoughts of Clara cloud the edges of my mind, but I force them away.

  “I spent a few days with my uncle in Taormina. He’s the one who told me where you were.”

  “What?”

  “Rafa’s father, Francesco Catalano. Our relationship is…difficult, but I owed him a debt of gratitude.”

  “Rafa’s father?” Was he the man Rafa met with when we were out there? Why didn’t he tell me?

  “Yes.”

  “How did he know?”

  “Someone overheard something probably from the men on the boat bragging about what they’d done.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He studies me, stands up and walks across the room to look out the window into the dark night. “You don’t understand because people are duplicitous.” He turns back to me and when he approaches, I see his gaze momentarily drop to the photo album on the side table beside my seat before shifting back to me. “Only a fine line delineates between an ally and an enemy, and that line is constantly shifting.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Just be careful.”

  “Careful?”

  “Who here knows you understand and speak Italian, Gabriela?”

  I feel my face heat up. “Only you.”

  “Keep it that way.”

  He walks to a cabinet and opens it. I haven’t looked inside that one yet and I see now it’s a liquor cabinet. He takes out a bottle of whiskey and pours one. He turns to me and extends it.

  I shake my head so he closes the cabinet then returns to sit on the sofa across from my chair.

  “Who was the man you recognized?” he asks, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee as he sips his drink.

  “I didn’t recognize anyone,” I lie because I haven’t figure out how to handle this yet.

  “Don’t you want to find out who did this to you?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Come here, Gabriela.” He sits up so both feet are on the floor, and points to the space between his legs.

  “Why?”

  “Because I said so.”

  I get up, walk over to him.

  He takes my wrist and pulls me closer so I’m standing between his wide-spread legs. He leans back against the couch, sips his drink and watches me.

  “Take off your dress.”

  “Why?” My heart pounds, blood throbs lou

d like a drum in my head.

  “I want to see you. See if you’re ready.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “You know what,” he says.

  I do. Time for a reckoning.

  He sets his drink down and stands.

  I try to take a step backward, but the backs of my knees hit the ottoman and I almost fall, but Stefan catches me easily and holds tight to one arm, his expression hardening. He’s so close, I feel the heat coming off him, smell the scent of him and some part of me, it wants to curl into him. To have him hold me again like he did when he carried me out of that well. Out of that house.

  But what he does is so opposite.

  With his free hand, he unzips the dress and strips it off me.

  “Step out.”

  I look down and realize what he means. Step out of the puddle of the dress. I do and he shoves it aside. I cover my breasts.

  He sits back down and picks up his drink again, casual as his gaze glides over me.

  “Bra off.”

  “Why?” I ask again, beginning to shudder a little.

  “You ask a lot of questions.”

  “I don’t see why you need me to take my bra off.”

  “Don’t make me get up again.”

  He’s seen me naked before. He’s touched me. Why is this hard?

  “And don’t make me repeat myself.”

  “I just don’t understand—”

  “I’ve coddled you,” he says, setting his drink down again. This time, instead of standing, he tugs me down by my wrist so I’m leaning into him. He reaches around to my back to unhook the bra. A moment later, it’s falling onto his lap.

  He releases me and I cover my breasts again.

  He looks at the bra, then sets it aside. “Arms at your sides.”

  “Stefan—”

  “Arms at your sides. And whatever you do, don’t fucking cry. Don’t be a baby.”

  I swallow back my tears, bury the twisting inside me, that feeling of betrayal.

  Why do I feel betrayed, though? He is my enemy. Why do I seem to constantly forget that? He only rescued me because I’m not worth anything to him dead.

  I let my arms drop and I force myself to stare at him, my hands fisting, even as he blurs with the build-up of tears because I can’t just stop them. Emotions don’t work that way, but he wouldn’t know that because you’d have to be human to know and he’s made of stone.

  “Good,” he says.

  I swipe the back of my hand across my eyes, wipe away those stupid tears.

  He looks me over, pausing on the healing bruises as if taking inventory. He reaches to take my wrist.

  I try to tug it away, but he holds tight and just gives a shake of his head.

  He pulls me down so I’m sitting on his right thigh. I cover myself again with my free arm. He takes that wrist too and holds both in one hand, turning them upward. And when he touches me, trailing his fingers from wrist to elbow and back, it’s with a feather-light touch and it’s so soft, the contact makes me physically shudder.

  “I can be gentle, Gabriela. And I want to be gentle with you.”

  My nipples are hard, and I want to say it’s because I’m cold. He sees too and having him here fully dressed and me in my underwear, it makes me feel exposed and wholly vulnerable.

  He shifts my wrists so they’re behind my back, keeps them in one of his giant hands. His eyes are locked on mine.

  I can’t read him. Can’t read what he’s going to do. I just know he’s going to do something.

  “But if you don’t deserve gentle,” he starts, cupping his free hand around the back of my head, fingers massaging my scalp for a moment before they make a fist in my hair.

  I make a sound as he tugs. His expression remains level. Hard.

  “Then you force me to be rough,” he says, slowly pushing me down over his other knee so my face is in the seat of the couch and my legs are trapped between his thighs, my ass in the air.

  He releases his grip on my hair and I feel his hand on me, feel him slide my panties between my butt cheeks, exposing me fully. Then, as if to demonstrate what he means, he gives me eight sharp spanks on one cheek.

  I don’t know if it’s the shock or the sting or the sound of it, but it takes me a moment to find my voice, to cry out.

  “Stop!” I try to free my wrists, but he’s got an iron grip around them and I’m not even sure it’s taking any effort for him to keep me pinned like this.

  “Do you remember my warning from the other night?” he asks as he begins to rub the spot he just spanked. That part feels good, him rubbing out the pain.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, turning my cheek into the couch so I can see his face.

  He drags his gaze from my ass to my eyes.

  “Getting the truth out of you.”

  Keeping our eyes locked, he raises his hand and brings it down again, just once on the same spot.

  I grunt. It stings. “Stop, please.”

  “Are you ready to tell me the truth?”

  “What truth? What are you—”

  He delivers eight more smacks on the opposite cheek and I’m whimpering, gasping for breath by the time he’s done.

  “Let’s get these out of the way,” he says, shifting his grip to drag my panties down, releasing me from the trap of his thighs only momentarily as he lets them drop to my ankles so I’m naked. Naked and bent over his knee.

  I turn my face into the couch and tug at my wrists. I try opening my hands when I can’t free them to cover my ass because I’m sure he can see everything.

  “Look at me,” he says.

  I shake my head. I’m embarrassed and hurt, and a part of me hates him for doing this to me.

  “Gabriela, I said look at me.”

  I suck in a shuddering breath.

  In reply he brings his hand down in the center of my ass, making me arch and twist in my effort to get away from him.

  “Look. At. Me.” He’s not even a little winded and I think he can do this all night long. He probably enjoys it.

  I turn my cheek into the couch and force myself to meet his eyes. “Why are you hurting me?”

  “Because you force my hand.”

  “I don’t…I—”

  “I can make you feel good. I want to make you feel good,” he says, rubbing my butt again. He makes circles on one cheek, then the other. I calm down a little and his hand slides to the tops of my thighs.

  I bite my lip, holding my breath because this touch, the look in his eyes, it’s different.

  He never shifts his gaze from mine while his fingers travel to my center, to touch me lightly, like he’s testing. I realize then what I feel against my belly, it’s him.

  He’s aroused.

  And as little sense as it makes, so am I.

  His hand is gone for a moment, wrapping around the inside of my thigh and I feel wetness from his fingers—my wetness—as he guides my legs apart, just a little, just enough.

  I press the balls of my feet into the carpet. I don’t move as he shifts his gaze to my ass. His fingers slide up along my pussy, through the wet folds and up, just touching my other hole before sliding back down. My back arches involuntarily when they brush my clit.

  “Gabriela,” he starts, and I realize I’ve closed my eyes. “Look at me, Gabriela.”

  I shake my head, eyes tightly shut.

  He slides a finger back up to my asshole and holds it there. I’m mortified and turned on and I can’t seem to breathe.

  “Open your eyes and look at me.” He brushes his finger over tight hole.

  My face burns as I open them to find his eyes on me, darker now, pupils dilated.

  He slides his fingers down to my pussy again, rubs a moment longer. Him touching me, it’s different than when I touch myself. Better. He softens his hold on my wrists, lets me slip them from his grip.

  “Put your hands underneath you and don’t move.”

  I should fight him. Push him off. Tell him to go to hell. But instead, I put my hands underneath myself like he said and watch as with his free hand, he rubs one cheek, then spreads me open.

  I’m embarrassed and aroused as he shifts his gaze down and his fingers are moving in my folds, circling my clit.

  “You’re beautiful,” he says, drawing his hand away, turning me, sliding me to the floor between his legs so I’m kneeling there.

  He cups one hand on the back of my head to draw me up. He kisses me while he slides his other hand down over the seam of my sex to cup me, to rub. When he bites my lip, I open my mouth and my breathing comes in gasps as he slips his tongue inside my mouth and his finger inside my sex and I think this is the most intimate, erotic thing. This. Connected like this. Him and me. Close. So close.

  His thumb circles my nub, presses against it. The finger inside me hurts a little but then it’s gone and he’s rubbing my clit and I think I’m going to come.

  He shifts his mouth to my ear and my hands are squeezing his thighs, my body arching into his palm. Moving against him.

  “That’s good, Gabriela. Like that. You’re so wet.”

  I tilt my face up. I want to kiss him again. I want him to kiss me.

  He must know because he smiles down at me and when he does kiss me it’s more a sucking of my lower lip than a kiss. I close my eyes and taste him, and I hear myself, my gasps and sighs. And when I slide my hand up along his thigh, I can feel him.

  “I want to taste you,” he whispers, and my eyes flutter open as he draws his hand from between my legs and lifts me to lay me back on the ottoman. He spreads my legs and drops down between my knees. With his fingers on either side of my pussy, he opens and looks at me for a long time and him looking at me like this, it makes me feel so strange and all I can do is watch him as he takes me in.

  “Stefan,” I start, but I stop because I don’t know what I’m going to say.

  “You are so beautiful,” he says.

  He runs his chin over my clit, making me gasp at the rough feel of stubble and the instant his mouth closes over it, I gasp, the sensation foreign, his mouth wet and soft and when he begins to suck that hard little nub, I cry out, reaching for him, gripping his hair to pull him closer as my thighs squeeze around him and I come. I come hard, harder than I’ve ever come and I think I’m saying his name. I think that’s me saying his name again and again and again, gasping it, desperate, like I’m gasping for life’s breath.

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