I travel with my mug into my bedroom, my eyes darting to the bed with longing as I force myself to go into my closet instead. All I want to do is sleep this shit off, but I cannot. My family needs me, and I will come through as is my duty.
I choose a white button-down and a pair of nice jeans. I do not want to look sloppy in front of my father, but I do not need a suit to go into a hospital. Not only does it draw unneeded attention, I just don’t want to give the impression to my mother that seeing she is alright is a business trip. I think my father fails at those little things sometimes. He is a strong man but not nurturing in that way, so anything I can do to make her smile and feel like we love her is a blessing to me.
The way I think of my parents makes me ache a little for Carla. I do not believe she has the same close relationship with her own family that I do with mine. I have been able to look past my strict upbringing and my mother’s past transgressions to get to the heart of the matter.
We are blood, and blood sticks together for life. Might as well learn to enjoy it.
The way Carla seems so different in front of her parents, I do not know if they even realize who she truly is inside, and that is a shame. It also worries me to think that I may have a hard time getting in there to see what she is really like as well. Is there something in between the party girl and the silent, sweet, weak Italian girl who does everything her father tells her to?
Maybe if I just reach out to her and keep control of my tongue, I will nurture her to be the real her with me. I wouldn’t want to try and fall in love with any less than that.
I finally come out of hiding, the tea warming me up and dulling the headache just a little, though it is still there, pulsing in the background. I ask my men to have a car pulled around in a few moments as I check over my security systems and tuck my wallet inside of my pants.
"Can we stop to pick up some flowers on the way?" I ask the driver as I climb into the backseat of the simple, dark tinted windows, black car that is my escort on every outing here in Munich. It will be the same for Carla as well once I get to call her my wife.
If that day ever comes. It feels much further away than it did when I first hopped on the plane to Seattle.
My driver obeys my wishes to stop at a small flower shop on the way to the hospital. I don’t know the names of all the flowers, but I see a beautiful bouquet of various purple flowers mixed with some white - I believe those are baby’s breath. My mother happens to love the color, and I know she will love them. I take them without a second thought and climb back in the car with a small smile on my face. I don’t know what it is about doing things for others, but sometimes that is the only thing that makes me feel alive. Today I need as much of that as I can get considering I can almost feel the skin under my eyes aging. I know I will crash hard tonight without the aid of any alcoholic substance.
The hospital is a looming large facility in the middle of downtown. I have never had to be admitted myself, but my mother has been here a few times for various reasons. Twice for her addiction problems when we were younger so that she could detox, and they could monitor her liver.
There is something about hospitals that no matter how cheery they appear to be or how nice, there is always the sense of depression and sickness. It is even a smell, though some might think I am crazy if I were to say that out loud. I only come when I need to, even though I have never experienced some traumatic loss in a place like this. All the losses I have had have been people going in their own home or being killed for their mafia status. But my security team is almost flawless as is my father’s. Those occurrences are now rare, and that is one of the reasons Carla’s father found her marrying me appealing. All the men in her family seemed to want her protected in a way only someone like me can do.
I speak with the receptionist, and she directs me to go up to the fifth floor where my mother has been moved into a private room - no doubt thanks to my father’s insistence. He probably has staff paid to only look after her as well. He is an efficient man that way and only allows the best for his family. It is why even though he is not always caring, I do not knock him for it. He cares in the way he knows how.
I ride the rickety elevator up wondering when the last time it was maintenanced. I think I need to donate specifically to some new elevators or at least a repair budget.
I get up to the fifth floor and find that hers is the first room on the corner. The door is open, and the lights are all on as if the brightness alone will be healing for her. I roll my eyes at my father’s strange rituals before plastering a smile on my tired face and walk in with the flowers in hand. My security team stands outside the door just in case.
"Philippe!" she says brightly, and I breathe a sigh of relief hearing her voice and seeing that she is sitting up. I can see some nicks and scratches on her but nothing else immediately catches my eye other than the monitors they have on her. "I didn’t know you were back in Munich!"
I lean down and hug her before letting her sniff the flowers. "They are lovely. We will have to have someone fetch a vase," she says, and Father stalks off as if to make sure it happens. Like the world will end if there isn’t a vase for her flowers.
"Mama, I was so worried. I came straight away," I tell her, sitting on the edge of her bed.
"Oh, you shouldn’t have left Carla for a silly accident," she chastises me, but I can tell she is glad to have me here. We have always been close, even during the bad years.
"It didn’t sound silly, but Carla understood." I try to keep my face neutral so she can’t read me one way or another. things are still on shaky ground, and the last thing I want to do is worry my parents that this could fall through. They are counting on this as much as anyone else.
"That’s good to hear." She places her hand on mine and pats it for a moment as my father comes bringing with him a nurse carrying a vase. I stand to take it from the poor woman and get the flowers and some water inside, setting it by the window for my mother to admire.
"So, what’s the verdict? How long will you be here?"
"Two more days," my father interrupts. I can tell by my mother’s pursed lips she isn’t happy with that.
"The doctors said I could go home if I wanted to this evening," she says quietly, not truly trying to fight him. She usually doesn’t. It’s useless once he has set his mind to something.
"You have a concussion. They can get serious in an instant even when it was nothing to begin with," my father scolds.
Well, a concussion wasn’t so bad along with a few scrapes. She got off lucky, it seems.
"Don’t worry about me," she whispers with a wink. I smile at her and also feel happy that it means I can go back to the States since she is alright. I don’t have any time to waste in making this work with Carla. We don’t have a ton of time to fall for each other, and we are nowhere near close enough for that now.
The ring still weighs heavily in my pocket as I think about how difficult I have made this for myself. But I will not settle for my heart not being in this in some way.
Chapter 16
Carla
I look down at my phone as a text message comes through.
I am having brunch at this fancy uptown Hispanic restaurant where the mimosas are the best part, and Phoebe clicks her tongue at me to let me know that she does not approve of the interruption. I am out with just her because Nicola is out of town, visiting her sister and her mother after the birth of her niece. Phoebe had to stick around for work, so she is lonely and using me as her crutch since I am also alone too. Well, not that I am so broken up about it, but there is a certain emptiness not having Philippe here to ask me more questions about my lifestyle or to tell me what I'm doing wrong.
On the phone when we talked, he sounded apologetic, calmer now that he has had some distance. I guess I know that I could have gone easier on him too, easing him into who I am. But I am still trying to grasp at the straws of my freedom, and now that I have a strand or two, I am not going to let go for anything. Philippe
is going to have to get used to the way I am because I can't change, and I don’t know how much longer I can put on this mask in front of those that can't handle the real me.
I know that he comes from something traditional. I don’t know a lot about him personally, and I haven’t tried either. Which is my fault. But I can guess at what it was like growing up for him; a Romanian family in Europe and an only son taught how to be the heir to the Sala Clan. I do know enough about The Clans from my brothers' dealings with them to know how they work. They are traditional misogynistic assholes, almost as bad as us...ALMOST. But still not quite as bad since their queen has equal footing as their king. Though, from what I understand, that has not always rung true.
"Bae?" Phoebe asks in a mocking tone, and I look up long enough to glare at her, and then I think better of it, looking back down.
She’s right - not about the bae thing but about me looking at my phone right now. I say I want freedom, so there is no reason to respond to Philippe’s message immediately.
Or at all.
"It was my fiancé, yes, just telling me he landed."
I take a swig of the hot drink Phoebe ordered for me. It's some kind of coffee. I don’t really have the stuff much, and when I do, it's almost always black with tons of sugar. But I felt like while I was here with her I would try something but let her decide what.
I look around thoughtfully as the warm liquid drains down my throat into my stomach. "Hmm," I tell her, catching some hints of cinnamon and vanilla. "Not bad. But probably not something I would have on a daily basis."
She snickers. "That’s because you have enough bitch in you to keep going all day without the caffeine spike," she teases, and I just grin at her. Not only is she right, but I pride myself on it. While my mother and father thought they were raising a proper, virginal princess they were really raising a monster in their image.
I have my mother's sexuality and selfishness and my father's temper and sense of justice. They created someone that could rule and make people suffer the way they can, but instead, they expect me to walk around with my head down and my legs spread.
That's not me at all.
"Thanks," I tell her with a dark laugh before diving into my salad, loaded with the works. No need to sacrifice flavor just because I am eating something good for me.
“So, you’re actually going to go through with this whole arranged marriage thing?” she asks, sipping at her own coffee, her eyes closing for a moment as if the flavor is orgasmic. It reminds me a little of when she cums.
“Yes, of course, I am,” I tell her in between bites. “What choice do I have? I have to get away from my father and all his rules.” Nicola and Phoebe are both from old Italian families as well, though Phoebe is only half. Her father shocked everyone by marrying an Irish woman, but that’s a story for another day. So, they know at least some of the way our women are treated and the expectations, though they know little about what my brothers and father actually do. That part will always have to be a secret. But this is the only reason they haven’t told me to run for the hills from this arranged marriage.
“Well, I hope you know what you’re doing there. He seems pretty uptight,” she says, but I can tell she will support whatever I do, even go as far as being in the wedding if I want her to be. Though, I think I will wait to ask since Philippe and I just barely got over our fight and what he said to me. I don’t need to bring up a sore subject like the women he caught me in bed with.
We chat a little longer as we finish our meals before I go to the apartment where I can only assume Philippe will be waiting for me. It’s been long enough that even if traffic was bad he must have made it by now. Unless he is planning on not staying with me this time around.
When I get there, walking inside, I stop dead in my tracks. I look around and realize there is mood lighting. Only the dining room light glows, and there are candles in a few places. It smells like lavender, but underneath is a hint of cleanser like the place has been cleaned in the last hour or so. We actually have a maid that takes care of things once a week, but this is not her day. So, this could only mean one thing.
I follow the flow of the candles into the light of the dining room to see that Philippe is sitting there, the table set and several open but otherwise untouched boxes of food sitting in the center of the table. “Is this a date?” I ask him, not sure on how to handle this. I still don’t know him well enough to decipher whether this is some grasp at control, my number one worry with taking on this relationship and marriage with him, or if he is genuinely trying to make me feel good about being with him. I know that mafia men can disguise cruelty in romance very skillfully, and even though he has been mostly kind beyond misunderstanding my lifestyle and who I am, it could be based on trying to make a good first impression. I feel that people only show their true colors after given enough time and comfort.
“It is a nice dinner between us. Whether or not it is a date is up to you,” he says, standing up and pulling out a chair for me. I eye him suspiciously, mostly because men don’t treat women like this in this day and age, not unless they want something. Not that I wouldn’t be happy to see what’s under all that pomp and circumstance of his and unwrap him like a Christmas present, but he doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who would be wanting only one night from me. And I am unsure if I can commit to more just yet.
A contractual marriage and a lifetime of making love are two very different things.
I sit down and let him push my chair in before digging right into the food family style and then passing it over to him. It is a comfortable silence that passes between us while we eat, which is fine with me. If we can’t have witty, sexual banter, then I would prefer this to any fake conversation about the weather or news. We at least seem to have that in common. Though, I do wonder how his mother is that he was able to come back so soon. She must be alright, but I am curious as to the details of it all.
Surprisingly, he eventually brings sake to the table. Even though he clearly has a problem with my lack of sobriety, he does know a good drink when he sees it. But one bottle between us I suppose will do little but take the edge off of life and all the bullshit. Maybe I do use the shit as a crutch sometimes, but my father’s voice is still in my head even now whether I like to admit it or not. And some days I just can’t stand to hear one more word of it.
I let the warm liquid slip down my throat leisurely and finally break the silence. “I am glad your mother’s okay,” I say, putting the feelers out there.
He nods at me, his eyes piercing mine for a moment. He is so buttoned-up, his hair cut close to his head, totally ordinary other than his very clear and piercing eyes. So, I choose to focus on those and pretend there is something there already that there’s not because I am reminded yet again how important it is that this works out for me. It is my only way out of my father’s clutches. And no matter how judgmental Philippe is, he can’t possibly be worse can he?
“She had some cuts and scrapes and a mild concussion. She seemed in good spirits. My father simply had her stay in the hospital as an abundance of caution,” he says dismissively, and it makes me wonder about the dynamic with his father.
“Is he a dramatic man, or is it something else?” I ask with a scoff.
“Something else,” he says and nothing more. I roll my eyes and flick a scrap of food at him, laughing when it hits his suit and he looks stunned. Like he has never once done anything silly at a dinner table before.
“C’mon, you’re the one who wants to fall in love here, and you can’t tell me more than that?” I tease him, licking the fork I used to flick the food at him teasingly. He is tense, but his face goes stoic.
“This is a designer suit,” he tells me, and his mouth turns up at one corner. I can’t tell if he is playing my game or not, but it’s all the encouragement I need.
“Oh, don’t tempt me,” I tell him as I climb up onto the table, crawling to him like a cat on the prowl. Then, I dangle my legs over the edge in front
of him, my knees spread just a little. I only hesitate for a moment, long enough for him to wonder what the fuck I am about to do. See, this is the fun part about being me. I can scare the shit out of someone as much as I make them want me.
Then, I reach out and yank his tie so that he almost face plants into my lap, and I lean down to his face, licking my lips. My dress has food scraps all over it, and if anything, it is fuckin’ funny as hell.
“You have no idea what I can do to a designer suit,” I growl at him through gritted teeth. And then I prove it, his tie ripped to shreds in a moment. His eyes go wide at me, but even if he is shocked, as I slide down into his lap like a fuckin’ kiddie ride, I can feel I’ve made him hard. Maybe he has a dark side after all. It’s just hiding somewhere underneath all this judgmental bullshit.
Before he can protest or take over, I slide his jacket to the ground and rip out all the buttons on his vest and his button-down shirt so that it reveals what’s underneath. I look in his eyes and challenge him in silence, daring him to make me stop as I slide my fingers up and down his pecks and the manly patches of hair on his upper chest that diminish to a trail going all the way down to the top of his tailored slacks.
I grin as I let my nails trail back and forth across that line like a sinister dance. I am just waiting for him to tell me no. To get angry and judgmental again, but when I press into him a bit more, I can feel how damn hard he is against me and know that after all, he is still a man. The likelihood of him making me back down in this area is slim to none.
I hike up my dress to my waist while he watches before taking advantage of my practically standing position to unzip his pants, his cock already unfurled from his silk boxers. I waste no time rocking my body against him, forcing a tight moan out from his throat. I can tell by how tense he is, he didn’t mean to give it.
Ruthless (The Clans Book 8) Page 8