He freezes, hands just below the bottom curve of my ass, and frowns. “What does he have on you?”
I shake my head, bringing my hands to his cheeks. The dark stubble lining his jaw is rough against my palms, and I smooth over it, trying to commit him to memory. “It’s not your problem.”
“Maybe not, but I want to help.”
“Why?”
“Do I need a reason to help a girl in distress?”
“First off, I’m not a girl, and I’m not in distress. I’m perfectly capable of helping myself.” My fingers walk up to his hair, unable to stay away. “Second, you don’t know me.”
“Do I need to know you to help you?”
“You ask a lot of questions, for someone who doesn’t answer any himself.”
“You haven’t asked me anything.”
“Nor do I want to. I’m not interested in getting to know you. If you want to help distract me from this god-awful party, be my guest. It’s the least you can do after hijacking my cigarette. If not, kindly leave me to sulk alone.”
Don’t leave. Please, don’t leave.
“Gesù Cristo. You’ve got quite the fucking mouth, mio amore.” His fingers skirt up and dig into my ass, hard enough to leave bruises. The slight bite of pain feels exquisite, like teetering on the precipice of danger and ultimate pleasure. He bunches my dress around my hips, exposing me in the dark alcove, and glances at the knife tucked into the waistband of my panties. One dark eyebrow arches.
I shrug, and a grin stretches across his face. He brushes against the handle, almost reverently, hooking his thumb in the crotch of my panties and yanking them aside. “Fucking perfect.”
Cool breath skitters across my bare pussy, sending a shiver through my veins, and his lips meet the inside of my inner thigh in an open-mouthed kiss. My back bows, fingers tightening their grip in his hair, holding him in place. “Fucking hell, you’re gorgeous. I cannot wait to destroy you.”
Coming down from the almost-high, I shake my head, trying to push him away. “No, we can’t do anything. Anyone could walk in—”
He sucks on the skin he just kissed, pulling it between his lips until my knees buckle. “That’s the point, baby. Let them come in and find me with my head between your legs. I bet dear old daddy won’t want to marry you off after you embarrass him.”
A squeak falls from my lips when his tongue makes contact with my clit, delving between my folds with little finesse. He dives in—a man on a mission—and takes what he wants. And while his determination turns me on, I can’t help but wonder if I’m making the right decision.
Still, no one’s ever done this to me, and it feels really fucking good. Elia uses his fingers to spread me, lapping at the bundle of nerves like it’s water, and he’s lived his entire life without a single drop. He grunts and huffs against me, the sounds of my arousal obvious in the small room we’re in, heating my cheeks and making my legs shake.
“It won’t work—”
One long finger swirls around my entrance, pushing in gently. Oh my God. I’m being fingered by a mob boss in my cousin’s house. Can it get any more depraved than this?
Sitting back on his heels, Elia curls his finger inside me, stroking against my front walls. A fire low in my belly grows, orange and red flames dotting my vision as the pressure mounts.
“Marry me, then.”
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, you’re getting married?” My younger sister, Juliet, asks from her spot on my bed. She tosses the Cosmo magazine in her hand to the wastebasket and sits up, crossing her legs. “I didn’t even know you were dating someone.”
Shrugging, I pull on a pair of pink, flannel pajamas with snowboarding dogs on them. I can at least find comfort in these old rags while the rest of my life feels like it’s spiraling out of control.
“Because you’re never home—too busy making sex tapes and getting tossed in jail for public urination.”
“Uh, intoxication, thank you very much.” She sticks her tongue out at me, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear, fingering the gold, heart-shaped locket draped around her neck; a present I gave her when she turned eighteen that she hasn’t taken off since. “And anyway, we have cellphones. We talk at least once a week, but somehow this guy’s never come up until now?”
“I don’t know, Jules. I guess maybe I just didn’t want to make a big deal out of the whole thing.”
“But it is a big deal! Daddy’s been trying to marry you off since you grew boobs!”
Inwardly, I cringe, because she’s not wrong. There hasn’t been much kindness from my father in the last ten years.
When not doing his damndest to keep me dependent on him (only paying for college if I agreed to live at home, refusing to buy me a car, holding my relationship with my sister hostage), he dragged me along to fundraisers, galas, and other political events—desperate to pawn me off on someone.
Luca’s party was only one in a long string of attempts.
I know my father likes to believe I’m inept and useless, but that’s only because it’s the narrative I’ve been feeding him. Revenge is a lot easier to exact on someone when they don’t think you’re capable.
He’s in D.C. campaigning for a friend, but I can almost feel the anger resonating over state lines. News travels fast around King’s Trace, and when it’s about the Harrisons, the local papers hike into overdrive. When he hears about my engagement, he’ll freak. And I can’t wait.
I flop onto the bed beside Juliet and stretch out. “I guess I’m just not the kind of person you can set up.”
She eyes me, looking for a wall to break down. I hate to tell her they’re impenetrable, although my future husband put in a good chink. At Luca’s party, Elia just waltzed in and obliterated every visible defense—a Viking pillaging a European village. When he asked—no, demanded—my hand in marriage, it seemed like my only choice was to agree.
His scent, his body—all of it bewitched me, a sorcerer casting his spell, capturing his victim. It wasn’t until much, much later, as I came down from the high of having his mouth on me, that I worried he might be bad for me.
A man disguising venom beneath his custom-tailored suit.
But there wasn’t time to think with logic. My father’s decree to hand me off to the first pervert to clear his debt was already in motion; I could practically hear the ink drying on our marriage license.
If my fate is tied to marriage, the least I can do for myself is find someone attractive. Then, when our union inevitably goes up in flames, at least I can say I had a good-ass time.
And Elia’s mouth on my skin is the purest pleasure I’ve ever known.
“So…” Juliet says, dropping to her back beside me, bumping her shoulder against mine. “Who is it?”
“Who’s who?”
“Oh, Jesus. Don’t start.”
I can’t stop the grin from spreading, despite the turn of events my life has taken. “I don’t know if I should say.”
“Okay, well, you can’t just keep it a secret. How will that work at the wedding?”
Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I glance at her sheepishly. “There isn’t going to be a wedding.”
She blinks once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth, she shakes her head, as if dispelling some kind of fog. “I’m sorry, what? No wedding?”
“Nope.”
“You don’t want a wedding? Since when?”
It comes out accusatory, highlighting her contempt with me. I get it, because to her, I’m the golden child our father smiles down upon, but I don’t let her see the truth. She doesn’t know what he’s done to me—what he’d do to her if given the chance. Ignorance keeps her safe.
“Since now, I guess, Jules.”
“You’re eloping?”
“Yep.”
“Okay, this is officially insane. You always wanted a big wedding. I mean, Jesus, you even wanted to bake the cake yourself, like no one else in town would have the skills to please you.” Her
blue eyes, clear pools just like mine, widen, and she jerks backward, clutching the comforter. “Oh, my God! Are you pregnant?”
“What? No!” I whisper-shout, eyes flickering to the door.
Our mother’s just down the hall in her room soaking in her jacuzzi, pretending as if the outside world doesn’t exist—as usual.
“You totally are! Oh, God, this is hilarious. Miss Perfect-and-Responsible, having a shotgun wedding.” She starts laughing, the sound bouncing off the walls of my bedroom.
It brings a small smile to my mouth, but I push it down, clamping a hand over her mouth. “Would you stop? I said I’m not pregnant. That would require having sex.” Which I haven’t in a year.
She pries my hand from her mouth, one finger at a time, and shrugs. “Luca said you disappeared with someone for a while at his birthday party.”
“I had a cigarette,” I half-lie, clenching my jaw. I’m going to end up killing Luca, too, one of these days. “Would I do that if I were pregnant?”
“Maybe the baby-making came after?”
“No!” Huffing, I launch myself backward on the bed. The frame shifts, creaking under the sudden weight. “God, if I tell you who it is, will you shut up?”
“I make no promises.”
Sucking in a deep breath, I close my eyes and envision his perfect face, the sharp contour of his cheekbones, and the harshness in his gray eyes that makes my stomach somersault. “Elia Montalto.”
Silence beats down around us, thick in the air. Suffocating. I roll to my side and prop my head on my hand; Juliet stares at the ceiling, unmoving. Pressing my finger beneath her nose to check her breathing, she snorts and shoves me away, finally coming to life.
“Sorry, I thought for a second I’d died and gone to Heaven. It sounded like you said you’re getting married to a mafia boss.”
I don’t say anything.
“What the hell? Daddy tried to pawn you off on dozens of men, but you pick the most powerful one in the entire state of Maine? Are you insane, or do you have a death wish?”
A little of both.
“I don’t know, Jules, it just kind of… happened. It was an impulsive decision, but there were no other determining factors, I swear.” My heart presses painfully against my chest at the lie, hating that I can’t sit and explain how my decision protects her. How I wish I didn’t have to marry anyone and that our father would just keel over, but I can’t.
Not yet.
“Well, all right.” She shakes her head, twirling a lock of hair around her index finger, lost in thought. “Can I at least be a witness in the ceremony?”
“It’s not going to be anything super special, you know. Just us at the courthouse.”
“I know. I’m okay with that. You do need witnesses for that, right? You won’t cut me out of that part of your life, too?”
Tears well in her eyes, and I grind my teeth together, wishing she knew why I hide myself. Wishing I could confide in someone. But telling her risks her safety, and I won’t let our father get her, too. Elia promised he’d make her off-limits. I’m sure that involves the exchange of money in some capacity, but if it means my dad doesn’t get to touch her, I don’t give a shit.
Up until I hit puberty, Juliet and I were connected at the hip, our souls intertwined and inseparable. Only three years younger than me, she was the closest person I was allowed in my life, and she mirrored everything I did. It felt good to be able to go through things first, like I was conquering demons and showing her how to handle them.
In the years since my father started dragging me around with him for appearance purposes, we’ve grown apart. My allegations of abuse, pleas I made with my mother to open her eyes and see reality, went unheard, and Juliet always sided with them. She never knew any better.
Distancing yourself from the people who are supposed to show you unconditional love is hard when the evidence is covered up.
Eventually, an invisible wedge formed between us; me instead just trying to shelter her from the pain I endured at our father’s hand, her acting out any way possible.
My best friend Liv says I have a hero complex, that I want to save those around me, even if that means sacrificing myself in the process.
Juliet calls me a martyr.
Neither of them knows the truth.
I lean down and wrap my arm around Juliet’s waist, pulling her slight body into mine. Laying my head on her shoulder, I tap my fingers on her side. “Of course, you can be there. I can’t imagine it without you.”
We meet my father at the airport when he arrives home. He’s livid when he sees me; news in D.C. must really travel fast. His face turns beet red, jaw tightens, and he grips my bicep harshly, fingernails ripping into my skin through the long-sleeved t-shirt I have on. It’s early, and my mother and Juliet have gone to grab coffee, so there’s no one around.
But it’s not the abuse I focus on—not this time.
Over a week has passed since the last time I saw Elia, and my nerves are starting to get the best of me. I gave him my number, so why hasn’t he called or texted? On my end, it’s been complete and utter silence, as though he forgot who I am or rescinded his proposal.
The thought of being sold to someone else makes me nauseous. The prenuptial agreement I got in the mail yesterday with a note reminding me of our court date did little to appease my fears.
Even as my father shoves me up against the wall in an isolated corner of the airport, his hand curling around my throat in a grip meant to rob me of all my air, my brain is on Elia—wondering what he's doing and who he’s doing it with. Jealousy prickles low in my belly, fierce and unwarranted.
Jesus, he’s not even my husband yet, why should I give a shit what he’s doing?
“Are you even listening to me, you stupid fucking tramp?” My father spits in my face, and I close my eyes, trying not to laugh at the ridicule. Like he hasn’t been trying to pimp me out to the people funding his campaign since I was a teenager. “Do you have any idea how much shit you’ve fucked up for me?”
His free hand comes up and wraps around my neck as well, squeezing hard. This isn’t a new dance, but the force with which he’s applying pressure is amplified—probably exacerbated by my defiance.
A smile works its way through my mouth; I can’t stop it. I love seeing him like this. So powerless after the last decade of being in complete control. And there’s not a thing he can do about it.
Except kill me. Although he’d be doing me a service by freeing me, I’d only be failing my sister.
“Guess you’ll have to find someone else to do your bidding,” I grit out, barely able to inhale enough oxygen to speak. My vision explodes with light at the corners, heat slamming into my head, as his grip tightens.
“Yeah? And what’s to stop me from using that bratty little sister of yours?”
I bare my teeth at him. “Touch Juliet, and I swear it’ll be the last thing you do.”
“You’re going to get us all killed.” With a nasty grunt, he releases me, and I gasp, my lungs trying to refill as quickly as possible. My hand flies to my throat, rubbing at the prints I already feel forming, and he turns away from me in disgust. “I always knew you were a bitch, but I didn’t think you were stupid, too.”
As he walks away, not stopping even to see if I’m able to come after him, my heart shatters. What did I do to make you hate me?
The kid in me aches, unsure of what changed between the point that I hit puberty and everything that came before. He wasn’t always like this—angry, violent. I know there was a time when he read me bedtime stories about princesses slaying dragons and let me fantasize about my dream wedding, saying no man would ever be good enough for me. Normal dad things, and all of a sudden, they were gone, replaced with an evil determined to destroy me.
With no way to distinguish what I did, what exactly caused him to act this way, I’ve been forced to absorb it, internalize it. But I never stopped wondering why me. Worst of all,
I can’t stop wishing he’d come back. Be my dad again.
Parents have that ability; they create you, and in return, you spend your whole life craving their approval, even if they don’t deserve it.
Especially then.
I scramble to my feet, glancing at myself in the window reflection. Red fingerprints bloom on my skin, evidence of my father’s rage. Digging into my purse, I pull out a bandana and quickly tie it around my neck, enough to at least cover half the bruising. Running to catch up to where my father now stands with my mother and Juliet, I can see the question in my mother’s eyes, but she doesn’t say a word.
She never does. That’d mean facing the monster she married.
My pain feels invisible, like a tiny shard of glass embedded into your skin. Something stepped on and absorbed, but otherwise imperceptible to the naked eye. It’s not, though. It’s real, and it splinters inside of me each time no one notices. But there’s nothing I can do about it.
Yet.
THE LITTLE REDHEAD sits back on her heels between my thighs, freshly manicured hands gripping my knees through the black slacks I wear, mouth dangerously close to my dick. It comes to life, twitching beneath her hooded, lustful gaze, and I clench my jaw to steel myself away from the thought of taking her a third time.
“Is something wrong, Elia?” Siena’s piercing green eyes peer up at me from fluttering lashes, fingers squeezing me. She’s completely naked, her pale, freckled body on display in my office, even though Orlando Montalto sits across from us, gaze trained on the wooden surface. Not my fault he came in while I was busy.
I ignore Siena, staring daggers into my father’s hollow face. His fingers tap on the large oak desk in my office, nestled in the upstairs corner of Crimson, the club we’ve owned and operated since our arrival in King’s Trace. He leans into the leather wingback chair, crosses his ankle over his knee, and cups his jaw.
Waiting. Watching. A made man through and through, several times over.
The speculation is killing me.
Our nightclub, Crimson, is basically a dirty front for mafia business; this town is a massive tourist town because it’s so small and nearly off-the-grid, so rich folk from Quebec and Portland like to vacation here and party hard during their visits. We set up deals in the back alley during the day when we’re less likely to be raided, and at night they come back and pump money into cover charges, over-priced drinks, and sex in our VIP lounge, occasionally with strippers.
Sweet Surrender: A Dark Mafia Enemies-to-Lovers Romance (King's Trace Antiheroes Book 1) Page 2