Obsessed with His Bride: A Possessive Mafia Romance

by B. B. Hamel

  “All right,” Roger said. “Okay, boss. You’ve got the money. And my daughter. Boss, I’m so sorry, Dante. I swear, I’ll never fuck up again, I’ll never fuck up ever again.”

  I slipped my hand under my nylon jacket and pulled the Glock from the back of my waistband in one smooth, practiced movement. I stepped up to Roger, held the gun out, and pressed the muzzle against his forehead.

  He opened his mouth but nothing came out.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  And pulled the trigger.

  The gunshot burst out as Roger’s skull shattered and his body slumped to the blacktop at my feet. The sound of the gunshot ricocheted off the brick front of the school and bounced down along the avenue.

  Steven sighed. “You’re so dramatic.”

  “Yeah, I know.” I grinned at him and wiped the muzzle of my gun on Roger’s shirt before slipping it back into my pants. I could hear screaming from the car and Gino came out, cursing. He slammed the door shut.

  “Fuck, she’s flipping out,” he said.

  I shrugged. “Get the plastic. Let’s wrap this up.”

  He cursed and went around to the back of the car. He opened the trunk, pulled out a big roll of plastic, and carried it over. Together, we wrapped Roger’s body up, sealed it off with tape, then lugged it back to the car. Aida was curled up in the back seat, sobbing quietly on the floor. I helped shove Roger’s corpse into the trunk and slammed the door shut.

  We got back in the car. Gino hesitated before climbing in, then looked at the girl on the floor. “Don’t flip out again,” he said. “Seriously. Fuck.”

  She said nothing, just kept crying.

  Steven gave me a look then turned the car around. We left Roger’s car where it was. The police would pick it up sooner or later and dispose of it, but it wasn’t like that mattered. Nobody would miss Roger, or at least nobody that mattered.

  Only the girl on the floor of my SUV, crying her eyes out.

  “Drop me off at the bakery,” I grunted at Steven. “I’ll handle the body. You and Gino take Aida back to my place in Mt. Airy.”

  Steven frowned. “You sure about that?”

  “Lock her up, make sure she’s safe.”

  “Boss—”

  “Do it,” I barked.

  Steven just nodded and didn’t argue.

  I turned around and looked at her. She was curled up on the floor, like a tiny butterfly broken and hiding. I felt bad for her, but I really had no other choice.

  Vlas was the son of the Russian mafia’s boss. He was a Capo in his own right, and a powerful guy in the city. And we had a very deep and very mutual fucking hatred.

  Things hadn’t been good between our families for some time. There hadn’t been all-out war, not yet at least. The Leone Family could handle a war with the Russians if that was what it came to, and I knew that my boss and fellow Capos would be up for the challenge, but everyone agreed that war wasn’t profitable. Things were good, we were making a lot of money, and nobody wanted to start the blood flooding the streets.

  Once bodies began to pile up, that was when the cops came sniffing around, and cops were very bad for business.

  “I couldn’t let him go,” I said to the girl. “You had to know that.”

  She looked up at me, her eyes red, tears on her cheeks. “Fuck you. You didn’t have to take me. Fuck you.”

  I nodded once. “Yeah, I didn’t have to, but I wanted to,” I said. “You’ll thank me for it.”

  “Fuck you,” she said again and looked away.

  I sat forward and let out a sigh as Steven glanced at me, a frown on his face, but said nothing.

  Fucking Roger. Fucking Aida.

  I should’ve left her there in that parking lot. She was a liability, and I knew she would eventually cost me something more than I was willing to pay.

  But I didn’t have the heart.

  Maybe it was weakness, or maybe it was something else. But the idea of cutting her loose was worse than the alternative. She hated me at the moment, and I couldn’t blame her. I’d hate me too if I had done that. But she’ll come to understand why I did what I did, and maybe she’ll forgive me.

  Doesn’t matter either way. I killed her father to avoid further bloodshed. There was no getting around that one. He had to die, even if I personally would’ve forgiven the stupid bastard. Vlas wanted his head, and so Vlas would get the fucking head.

  Bastard dug his own grave. That wasn’t me.

  We drove through the silent, rain-slicked Philly streets, and I thought about what it felt like to lose my own parents, their blood sticky thick in my memory.

  2

  Aida

  I woke in a strange bed in a strange room tangled in light blue scratchy sheets. I was still in my jeans and tank top, and I kicked away the blanket as I sat up and stared at my surroundings.

  The walls were white and bare. There was a small closet with an old brown door in one corner. A nightstand sat next to the bed with my phone on top of it. There was a dresser with chipped gray paint and one missing drawer. A fake sunflower sat in a vase on top of it. I stared at the fake flower for a long moment as the memories of the night before came creeping back.

  I saw Dante smiling at me, moving closer, his lips nearly brushing mine as he whispered in my ear. I felt the thrill run down my spine as that handsome monster moved closer. He was tall, muscular, hair casually swept back, light blue eyes almost smiling, almost laughing. His full lips never quite pulled into a full grin though, always a sideways approximation.

  Then I heard the gunshot again. I saw them wrapping Dad up in a sheet of plastic.

  I shut my eyes and tried to push it away.

  Slowly, I got out of bed. My sneakers were on the floor nearby. I walked over, picked them up, and grabbed my phone. I tested the doorknob, found it unlocked, and stepped out into the hall. The hardwood floor creaked as I moved, and I winced with every noise, but I tried to move as quietly as I could. I passed a bathroom on the right, another bedroom on the left, and came to a set of stairs that led down. I hesitated, listening, before creeping down them as slowly as I could.

  When I got to the bottom, I could see the front door. A big half-moon window sat at the top, covered with a light blue curtain. It was painted red, the knob was gold, and it looked like it was new. I took one step toward it before I heard a noise and looked over my shoulder down a short hall.

  Standing framed in a doorway was Dante.

  I wanted to scream. Instead, I squared my shoulders and looked at him with all the hate I could muster, which was a lot in the moment.

  I didn’t love my dad. He’d barely been around when I was growing up. I was raised by my mother until I was sixteen. She died of cancer that year, and at the end of her life, my dad began to show up more and more. He wasn’t a good person, was drinking half the time, and high the rest of it, but he was there for my mother emotionally at least. He talked to her when she was afraid, soothed her when she was sick, and held her hand at the very end. I hated him growing up, but in that moment, I gained a little bit of respect for him.

  And then he moved in and took everything my mother left behind.

  Bit by bit, he sold it all, blew through her money, and left me with nothing but the few things I could lock away in my room and keep from him.

  He drifted in and out of my life for years after that. I took care of myself, got a job after school. I was lucky that the house was paid off, and my aunt helped out as much as she could. I took some classes at the community college and got a job as a secretary for a law firm downtown, and things were looking okay for me.

  Until my father came to me in the middle of the night three days ago and explained that if I didn’t help him, he would die.

  I don’t know why I agreed. Maybe it was the memory of him holding my mother’s hand, stroking her hair, whispering soothing words in her ear. Maybe it was the way she looked at him and cried, and the way he didn’t pull back from those tears, but embraced her.

&nbs
p; So I agreed to help him. I knew it might cost me everything, but I had to try, at least for her. I knew she’d want me to.

  “Morning,” Dante said.

  “Where am I?” I asked in a rush.

  “My house,” he said, tilting his head to the side. “Do you remember last night?”

  I nodded once. “I remember you killing my dad.” I choked on that last word and felt like an idiot, but didn’t turn away.

  Dante looked at me for a long moment. He wore a tight black shirt and black gym shorts. His hair was pushed back, but there was a sheen of sweat on him, like he’d just been working out. I hated myself a little bit but my eyes roamed his body and I couldn’t stop the thoughts that ran through my mind.

  His lips on my skin, his teeth biting my nipples, his hands gripping my ass.

  “Come on, I made coffee and juice.”

  I didn’t move. “I don’t want anything. I just want to go home.”

  He nodded. “I get that. And I’ll let you go. But the orange juice is fresh, just squeezed it myself.”

  I snorted. “You squeeze your own juice?”

  “Sure. Better that way.” He gestured with his head. “Come sit with me.”

  He walked away, disappearing into a back room. I got a glimpse of a kitchen counter and a living room beyond that, a big brown leather couch, and a flat-screen TV mounted above an antique fireplace with old-looking patterned green tiles all around it.

  I turned and looked at the door. It was right there and it wasn’t locked. I could open it and run. Maybe he could catch me, drag me back kicking and screaming. Or maybe not, maybe I could get away. I could get to the bus, or call an Uber. I could stop at home, grab all my things, pull the money out from the back of my closet where I’d been hiding cash for the last few years, and move to some new city.

  I could start over, away from the ghost of my mother, away from the specter of my father.

  Instead, I turned and walked down the hall and stepped into a spacious open floorplan room.

  On the right was the kitchen. It was modern with dark green granite countertops, a deep bone-white farmhouse sink, and all stainless-steel appliances. To the left was the living room, with that big brown couch and television. The decoration was simple, just a few thrift store paintings on the wall. I couldn’t help but frown at them as my eyes swept across the room and stopped on Dante.

  He was drinking from a glass of orange juice. On the counter were more oranges, and a pitcher full of juice was next to them. I couldn’t help but shake my head when I realized that he really had squeezed his own orange juice.

  “Try some,” he said. “It’s good.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “I have coffee too.” He gestured at a silver drip machine.

  I hesitated then nodded. I sat down at the island on a wooden stool and put my shoes and my phone on the smooth granite top. He poured me some coffee in a mug and looked back.

  “Cream, sugar?”

  “Milk,” I said.

  He nodded, got some whole milk from the refrigerator, and poured in a splash. He stirred it and put it down in front of me. For a second, I felt absurd. A mobster just got me some coffee and meticulously stirred in some milk like it was no big deal.

  I took the coffee, sipped it, and met his gaze.

  “We should talk,” he said.

  “Why am I here?”

  He smirked and stretched his massive, muscular arms. I noticed colorful tattoos move up his skin and disappear into his shirt. I couldn’t get a good glimpse at them, but I thought I saw a moon and a lion together, but I couldn’t be sure. “I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to be my wife, right?”

  I flinched. “No. That was just… that was just my father trying to save his own life.”

  “Ah,” he said, tilting his head. “So you don’t want to marry me?”

  I met the monster’s pretty eyes. “No. Because you killed my father last night. Or do you not remember?”

  “Oh, no, I remember,” he said softly. “I delivered his body to my rival, actually. Do you know who my rival is?”

  I shook my head and stared at my coffee. I felt sick but took another sip anyway, hoping the caffeine would clear my head.

  “My rival is an important member of the Russian mafia. And do you know what your father did to piss them off?”

  “No,” I whispered.

  “Your father stole from him. Apparently, your father learned the combination to a safe Vlas keeps in the back of one of his strip clubs. How your idiot old man got that combination, I’ll never know, and I don’t give a fuck. He stole over thirty grand from Vlas, and that sort of shit is tantamount to declaring war.”

  “But what do you care?” I asked, slamming my palm down on the counter. I glared at him as he tilted his head to one side, a little smile moving across his handsome lips. “My father didn’t work for you.”

  “Actually, that’s where you’re wrong. I’m the Capo assigned to take care of Girard Estates, which means any thief not working for the Russians is working for me. Your father paid me tribute, and in return I provided the occasional work and protection.”

  I stared at him and felt the true horror of what he was saying wash over me. I knew my father was a bastard. I knew he was a junky, an alcoholic, and a thief. He’d been arrested before and did some serious time a couple years back for stealing a couple cars and trying to sell them. Of course my father tried to sell them to undercover cops.

  But I didn’t know he was involved in organized crime. I always thought he was just some small-time loser that couldn’t do anything right. Turned out, he was exactly that, except he was also involved with the real criminals, the real bastards that ran the city from the shadows.

  “You still didn’t have to kill him,” I said, feeling hot with rage and embarrassment. My father was a loser, a junky loser, and there I was trying to defend him to this young, handsome Capo like a moron. I hated my father for putting me in that position.

  I hated him even more for getting himself killed.

  He let out a sigh and shook his head. “Yes, I did,” he said. “And you must realize that. If I wanted to avoid war with the Russians, I had to kill your father and return the money he stole. I’d expect no less from Vlas if one of his people ripped off one of my places.”

  “You could… you could’ve just…”

  He smiled. “Gone to war?” he asked.

  I didn’t answer. I just glared down at my coffee and wondered if I could throw it in his face

  “Maybe,” he said after a short silence. “But I’m not in charge of the Leone family. In the end, that sort of decision isn’t up to me, and I can tell you right now that the boss would never agree to go to war with the Russians over the life of your pathetic father. I’m sorry if that hurts, but it’s the truth.”

  I clenched my jaw and nodded. “Fine.”

  “Fine?” he asked softly.

  I met his gaze and tried to force my anger away. I did a very poor job of it. “Fine, you had to kill my father. Fine, you couldn’t go to war just for my dad’s life. But that doesn’t mean I have to thank you or like you. It doesn’t mean I have to stay.”

  “You’re right,” he agreed. “You don’t have to stay.”

  I opened my mouth to protest then shut it again. “Really?” I asked. “I thought… I thought you brought me here. To… you know. Keep me.”

  He laughed. “Keep you how? Did you think I was going to marry you?”

  I felt my face grow flush. “No, asshole,” I snapped, although I knew I probably shouldn’t push the Capo of a crime family, I just didn’t care. “I thought you’d force me into some… some… I don’t know, some job.”

  He snorted and turned away. He walked to the coffee machine and topped off his mug. “Truth is, we do deal in that sort of shit,” he said. “We’ve got girls that work for us all over the city. Most of them come to it willingly though, despite what you might think. A lot of girls from the Ukraine, for example, come over h
ere with nothing but a pretty face and a little English. We set them up, let them work off some debt, then cut them free. Some stick around and keep working, some disappear.” He shrugged a little and sipped his coffee like what he said wasn’t absolutely horrifying.

  “You just described human trafficking,” I said.

  “I know.” He shrugged again and his face betrayed nothing. “Reality isn’t always so clean, little Aida.”

  “Don’t call me little,” I snapped.

  He laughed and sipped his coffee again before leaning back against the counter. “All right, little Aida. I take it from the way you’re looking at me, you think I’m some kind of monster.”

  I sat up straight and crossed my arms. “You killed my father last night.”

  He inclined his head. “Fair enough. But I don’t kill for no reason. And I don’t take what isn’t up for the taking, or isn’t offered freely. I don’t force girls to fuck for me, and I don’t kill men that don’t deserve it. Whether you like it or not, your father deserved his fate. And I’m not going to force you to fuck for me, unless you ask nicely. And even then, I think I’d rather keep you for myself than share you.”

  I felt that flush come back to my cheeks again and hated myself for it. I hated the way he made me feel, confused and excited, angry and disgusted and full of pure, unabashed lust. The man was sex walking, with a handsome face, muscular arms, and a dangerous mystique about him that drove me wild. I wanted to get the hell out of that house, but the way he stared at me, the way he drew me in with his eyes, wouldn’t let me go.

  “What do you want with me then?” I asked, trying to keep my anxiety out of my voice, and failing. I picked up my coffee mug to try and mask the look on my face.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “Then I can just leave,” I said. “I can get up and leave.”

  “You can. But truth is, you have nowhere to go.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “My apartment. I can go home.”

  “No,” he said, his voice soft, almost apologetic. “You can’t.”

  “What are you talking about? You just said—”