by Hamel, B. B.
“Go away,” I groaned.
The door opened a crack. “Dean,” Bea said. “You need to get up. Mags is missing.”
That got me out of bed. I wore only a pair of boxer briefs and I quickly pulled clothes on. “What do you mean, missing?”
“She’s not in her room,” Bea said through the cracked door. “I checked and she wasn’t there.”
“Shit,” I said, pulling a shirt over my head. I grabbed the gun from my sock drawer, made sure it was loaded, and shoved it into my waistband. “Where’s my phone?”
“Nightstand,” Bea said.
There it was, next to the clock. I grabbed it, heart racing, and called Mags’s number. Bea lingered near the door, still not coming inside, as I paced along at the end of my bed.
She picked up on the third ring. “Hey, Dean,” she said, sounding casual.
“Where the hell are you?” I asked.
“Right okay, about that,” she said. “I might’ve stolen a car.”
“Stolen a car?” I asked, growling my anger. “What are you talking about?”
“Well, you have this big garage full of cars and their keys are right there, so I took one and—”
“Where are you?” I asked, interrupting her, my heart racing wildly.
“I’m in Rittenhouse Park,” she said. “Sitting on a bench. I come here when I need to think.”
I ground my teeth. Rittenhouse Park, the middle of the fucking city, the most visible place in all of Philly. Of course she’d go to Rittenhouse.
“Stay there,” I said. “I’m coming.”
“Wait, what?” She sounded more annoyed than anything.
The girl had no clue what was happening right now. “You’re in danger,” I said.
“No, I’m not,” she said. “I’m drinking coffee. I’m surrounded by people. What are you talking about, danger?”
I stormed to the door and brushed past a wild-eyed Bea. She skittered after me, eavesdropping the whole way.
“I’m at war with the Healy family,” I said. “And everyone knows about our arrangement. If anyone spots you and realizes who you are, you might have some trouble. Stay there, I’m on my way.”
“No, Dean,” she said. “I came here to get away from you.”
“Then I’ll keep my distance,” I said, frustrated. “Just let me find you and make sure you’re safe.”
“Dean—” she started, but I interrupted her.
“This isn’t a joke,” I said. “I don’t care that you stole a car, although I hope you didn’t take anything expensive.”
“It’s fine, I took the Tesla,” she said.
“Fine,” I said, running a hand through my hair. The Tesla was very expensive. “You can come and go if you want, but I need you to bring guards with you. Please, Mags, this isn’t a game.”
She let out a frustrated breath. “Fine, okay? I’ll stay right where I am. Asshole.” And she hung up.
I shoved my phone in my pocket, cursing the whole way as I hurried downstairs and out toward the garage. Bea kept close.
“Is she all right?” Bea asked.
“She’s in Rittenhouse,” I said. “The girl’s got no fucking idea.”
“Do the Healys know what she looks like?” Bea wiped her hands on her apron, her nervous gesture.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “They might not.”
“She could be fine,” Bea said. “If the Healys don’t know her face—”
“She’s on social media,” I said, groaning. “Of course they know what she looks like. Fuck, she’s got an Instagram. Colm Healy knows how to Google.”
Bea sighed as we walked out the back door, across the driveway, and into the huge detached garage. My father like to collect cars, and I had a penchant for it myself, though I kept my collection to a modest group of ten, one of which was missing. I selected a fast Mustang, grabbed the keys, and jumped in.
“Things were easier before Facebook,” Bea said, standing off to the side. She punched the garage door button and it slowly raised.
I started the engine. It roared to life, a lovely hum beneath me. I rolled down the window. “You’re damn right it was,” I said. “Hold down the fort. I’ll bring her back.”
Bea waved as I darted forward, flew down the driveway, and slammed out into traffic.
It was goddamn rush hour, but I drove as wildly and as fast as I could. Unfortunately, no amount of money would make Philly traffic at eight in the morning go any faster. I switched lanes, got honked at a few times, risked getting pulled over, but eventually took 676 to Center City, flew recklessly down the old, narrow streets, and found a spot not far from Rittenhouse. I parked, jumped out, and started jogging.
A thousand scenarios ran through my mind, but I kept reminding myself, over and over, that she was probably fine. As I got closer, a block away, I tried her cell. But she didn’t answer.
She was probably fine. Maybe Colm hadn’t Googled her name yet. Maybe they didn’t find her Instagram, where she had multiple selfies posted. Maybe he wasn’t smart enough to show her image to every guy in his crew, even though that was exactly what I’d do in his position.
I reached Rittenhouse and looked around wildly. Most of the benches were taken, and a busker was out already, juggling away into the early morning sunlight. I hurried east, down the center of the park—
Then spotted her standing between two very large men.
“Fuck,” I whispered and reached back for the gun, but hesitated. There were too many bystanders. I relaxed my grip and walked fast.
Her face was screwed up in fear and anger. One of the guys reached out to grab her wrist. He was tall with a shock of red hair spouting out from beneath a backwards hat. The other guy was stocky, dark hair, button-down shirt tucked into slacks like he was going to a business casual meeting in a few minutes.
Hat Guy yanked at her harder. “Don’t make a fucking scene,” he said. “You don’t want to make this hard on yourself.”
“Our boss only wants to talk,” Business Casual said. “Colm’s a nice man, once you get to know him.”
“Let me go,” Mags said. “I don’t know who you are. I don’t care about who your boss is, just let me—”
“There a problem here?” I asked as I got closer, smiling my best, most disarming grin.
Hat Guy turned around, glaring hate at me, prepared to tell me to fuck off, but didn’t get the chance.
I smashed my fist as hard as I could into his mouth.
He released Mags and dropped. I turned to Business Casual as he reached for something in his waistband.
Stupid asshole. Too many witnesses for that. I went at him hard, lowering my shoulder and slamming it into his chest. I was bigger, and I was good at fighting, and fucking hell, did I enjoy it. Business Casual crumpled as I slammed my fist into his gut then socked him on the jaw, knocking him back. As he smashed onto the pavement, I jumped him and ripped he gun he was reaching for from his waistband. I kicked it away under a nearby bench.
People stared. One young mom out with her baby in a stroller held her phone up to her face. I grabbed Mags by the arm. “Come on,” I said.
“Dean,” she said, warning me just in time to dodge a knife from Hat Guy. He staggered to his feet and lunged at me a second time, and might’ve skewered me if Mags hadn’t alerted me. I shoved her away and managed to twist aside as Hat Guy came at me again. I ripped the gun from my waistband and held it by the barrel, but seeing a pistol was enough to make Hit Guy pause.
I slammed the butt of the gun down on his wrist then stepped forward and smashed my forehead into his nose. He grunted and tried to cut at me again, but I blocked it with my gun and kicked him hard in the knee. He dropped, gasping. I kicked him again in the chest, knocking him down to the ground.
I shoved the gun away and pushed Mags in the direction of my Mustang. “Go,” I said. “Go fast.”
We ran. Too many witnesses, too many phones. I didn’t know which ones were making calls, or if any of them were tak
ing video. I didn’t need to see myself on social media beating the shit out of two goons. That wouldn’t be a good look for the family.
Mags was gasping for air when we reached the Mustang. She climbed inside and I got behind the wheel. “What about your car?” she asked.
“I’ll send someone for it.” The engine roared to life and I pulled out.
She stared at me without speaking for a while. I was breathing hard and buzzing from the fight. Adrenaline ripped through me like a drug and, fuck, I loved tangling with guys like that, loved riding that edge of danger and death and pain, loved hurting men that deserved to get hurt. I couldn’t suppress the giddy smile that split my face as I wove through traffic, going too fast.
“Why are you smiling?” she asked, and sounded almost sick.
“Because I can’t help it,” I said, glancing at her. I forced myself to slow down and my hands trembled slightly from the neurotransmitter overload that coursed through my brain. “Nothing’s better than hurting a man that deserves it.”
She sucked in a breath, but said nothing on the drive back to the mansion. By the time we got there, I was calmed down. She got out and stormed up the front steps and disappeared inside while I parked and follow.
I found her in the kitchen. Bea was making tea.
“You got anything to say?” I asked Mags.
Bea glanced at me with a raised eyebrow. I knew that look. She thought I should take it easy, but fuck taking it easy.
I was mad. And still a little buzzed from that fight, though I’d mostly come down.
“No, I don’t,” Mags said. “All I wanted to do was sit in the park. Those guys harassed me.”
“Those guys wanted to drag you back to Colm Healy, one of the most despicable and violent men in this city. Do you have any idea how much danger you were in?”
“Clearly, I didn’t,” she said, throwing up her hands. “This is pretty new to me and I don’t need a lecture.”
Bea silently left the room. Good old Bea.
I stepped toward Mags and took a calming breath. “You’re not a prisoner,” I said.
“I feel like one,” she snapped back.
“You can come and go as you please,” I said, ignoring her comment. “You only need to make sure you have guys to keep an eye on you.”
“That’s bullshit,” she said. “And that’s definitely not freedom.”
“Were you free before?” I asked, coming closer. She backed up until she ran into the countertop. “When you worked for your dad at that strip club? When he’d come home and hit you?” She opened her mouth to argue, but I talked over it. “Don’t fucking deny it,” I said. “I saw what he did the other day. I know what men like him do at home.”
She clenched her jaw and her face turned red. “Only when he drank,” she said quietly. “And I hit him back when he tried.”
“Good,” I said, and tilted her chin to look at me. She glared with pure defiance. “You weren’t any more free with him than you would be with me. At least if you live here, you’ll get something from it.”
“Yeah?” she whispered. “What do you think I’d get?”
“Money,” I said, leaning closer, my lips brushed past her cheek. “Power. Sex, if you want it. Pleasure.”
She sucked in a breath. My other hand lingered on her hip.
“I don’t know what I want,” she said.
“Marry me,” I said. “Be my wife. I’ll make you happy. And if I don’t, maybe my money will.”
I held her there, pinned to the counter. I pulled my lips back along her cheek and she met my eyes, and I saw the hurt and rage there, the uncertainty, the longing, the frustration. She wanted to be free, but was trapped at every turn.
I’d give her what she wanted. Only, she didn’t know what she needed, not yet at least.
“Marry me,” I repeated, and gripped her chin, then moved my hand back to grab her hair. “Marry me,” I said, lips brushing against hers.
“God,” she whispered, “yes, I’ll marry you.”
I pressed my lips against hers, drinking her in, tasting her perfect plump tongue, berries and wildflowers, ash and chimney smoke. Her body pressed against mine and she sucked in a breath but she kissed me back, a slight moan in her throat, a gorgeous groan that set my heart racing and my cock half-hard.
Goddamn, she was wild and right and I wanted her, wanted to break her, wanted to build her back up.
Wanted to leave her dripping wet and moaning my name, begging me to come back, come back, to give her what she needed. To make her free.
To make her come.
I broke off that kiss and stared into her eyes. “Tomorrow,” I said. “I’ll bring the priest. You’ll wear my ring.”
“Okay,” she whispered. “Tomorrow. But I need a dress.”
I kissed her cheek. “I’ll take care of everything. You just stay here for now.”
I left her there alone and stalked back to my office. Bea was in the hallway, frowning at me as I passed.
“She’s doing it?” Bea asked.
“She’s doing it,” I said. “Call Father Giovanni. And get Mags a dress.”
Bea said nothing as I closed my office door behind me and sat down in the large leather chair to survey my domain.
6
Mags
Bea looked almost shy as she held the dress up. “I think it’ll look good on you,” she said. “I know it’s very last minute, but at least it was expensive. Considering Dean’s paying for it.” She smiled, almost girlish. I wondered if she used to be pretty when she was younger.
The dress was gorgeous. Strapless, fitted at the top, structured ever so slightly to hug my hips in gorgeous patterned lace with small pearls at the end of each flower pattern, then cascading down in layers of simple white, a wide princess dress. I held it up to the light and it almost shimmered.
“I love it,” I whispered.
“Good,” Bea said, sounding pleased. “Father Giovanni is waiting out back with Dean. I’ll help you dress, if you need it?”
“I think I’m okay,” I said, glancing at her. She wore a simple pantsuit and looked almost elegant. “Is my dad here?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t think you’d want it.”
“What about Uncle Roy?”
She hesitated and sighed. “He’s here,” she said. “He insisted as part of the deal.”
I nodded once. “That’s okay,” I said and tried to smile. “This dress really is amazing.”
“And you’ll look amazing with it on. Go ahead, get dressed. I’ll be right outside.”
Bea disappeared into the hallway and shut the door with a soft click.
The bridal suite was just my room with a new vanity brought in. Bea spent the morning helping with my hair and makeup. She was surprisingly good and gentle, and as I stripped off my clothes and slowly tugged the strange dress up over my hips and breasts, I marveled at myself in the mirror.
I never thought I’d get married. That seemed like something for other girls, for girls with stable lives and good families and boys that cared about them for something more than just fucking. I was the daughter of a cheap mafia asshole. I was a bartender at a freaking strip club. I didn’t know a thing about marriage or about having a stable relationship.
But as I zipped the dress and stared in the mirror, I felt that maybe it could be okay.
Maybe it could work.
“And if it doesn’t work, ten million dollars,” I whispered to myself.
That was my mantra for the day. Ten million. Ten million. Enough to change my life forever. Ten million.
I stepped out into the hall. Bea beamed at me and put her hands to her mouth. “Oh, honey,” she said. “You look incredible.”
“I have to admit, I am very impressed,” I said, adjusting the top slightly. “This fits me. I mean, really fits me.”
“I paid a woman to stay up all night making alterations,” Bea said. “Wasn’t cheap. But Dean’s paying.” She laughed and shook her head. “Come on,
he’ll love you in that dress.”
I blushed a little, thinking of my future husband.
Dean Valentino.
“Am I going to take his name?” I asked as we descended the back steps.
“I suppose so,” she said. “The Valentino family isn’t very progressive, I’m afraid. I think he’d want that.”
“Maggie Valentino,” I said and it sounded wrong to my ears. “I’ve never been anyone but Mags Paganini before.”
“You’ll get used to it,” Bea said, patting my arm.
“Were you ever married?” I asked.
“Once, a long time ago,” she said. “He was a nice boy, but he died too young.”
“I’m so sorry.”
She waved a hand. “It’s ancient history now. Robert died and by the time I felt ready to marry again, I was an old lady working in this house, and I suppose it just never happened for me. Not that I mind, terribly. I helped raise Dean like my own son, and I suppose that’s more than a lot of people can say.”
I looked at her and tried to imagine what life must have been like for her, working in this house after losing a husband at a young age, raising a child that wasn’t her own, but it didn’t seem so different from my own situation. The world forced people to make decisions, and we chose whatever would help us survive. It wasn’t always the ideal path or the prettiest life, but survival wasn’t always about that.
We paused down in the kitchen. “Wait here,” Bea said, and disappeared out the back door. It smelled like cooking steak and baking bread. The chef was a small man in white and black trousers and he grinned at me and winked. I smiled back awkwardly. I didn’t think he spoke English, but then again, I never heard him speak at all.
“Okay, come on out,” Bea said, waving a hand.
This wasn’t how I pictured my wedding growing up. When I was a little girl, before life broke me, I imagined flower petals, organ music, pews packed with friends and families. As I got older and reality set in, I pictured a courthouse, an old judge and some meth-head asshole that got me pregnant.