Modern Fairy Tale: Twelve Books of Breathtaking Romance

by Kristen Proby

  My heart sinks. There was already a small newspaper story about the Grand’s opening, including a picture of the statue. And then there’s my Instagram account. “Is that how you found me?”

  Sensual lips curve in a knowing smile. “I found you long before that.” He leans forward, the back of his knuckles brushing my cheek. His large hand falls to my neck. He holds me loosely, but the meaning is clear enough. “And I kept you hidden. But you wouldn’t have stayed that way for long. Someone else would have taken you if I hadn’t.”

  And so I brought this on myself. The one thing that kept me alive, the one thing that sustained me. And even this I can’t regret. Wonder is too sharp and bright to really feel anything else. “Oh, Gio. I thought you had died.”

  All my grief, all my longing comes out in those words. Torment fills his eyes, a deep pain that mirrors my own. He may think he’s changed, but I recognize the boy in those deep wells.

  Then his expression flattens. There’s no emotion there, only hard lines. “Giovanni Costas did die eight years ago. There was even a funeral for him.”

  A tear slips down my cheek, unchecked. “I believed you were dead.”

  He closes his eyes. When he opens them, there’s a new glint, almost cruel. “Then you understand. I’m someone else now, someone darker. Someone you don’t want to know.”

  I rock back on my heels, shock and horror rendering me speechless. All I cared about was seeing him alive. Even if he took me captive, he was only following orders.

  No one you want to know.

  “Who told you to take me?” I whisper.

  He shakes his head, and I already know the answer. No.

  “Who made you do this?” I demand, tears burning the backs of my eyes. “Who’s going to use me for their own gains? For power? For blood?”

  He swipes my cheek with the rough pad of his thumb, taking a glistening drop. His lips close around the thumb, sucking the salt of my tears. “No one made me do this, bella. I wanted to.”

  It shouldn’t have been possible. When I left, Giovanni was barely even of age—and they would have known he helped Honor and me escape. He would have been punished somehow. And even without that, he was the son of a foot soldier. He never would have risen this high, not in eight years, not in a hundred.

  Except there would have been a war when my father died.

  Lineage and money would matter, but only the most brutal would win.

  My eyes widen, and I scoot back across the soft limo carpet until my back touches the base of the seat on the opposite side. He’s telling me the truth. He really is a different man now, someone I didn’t want to know.

  He nods, a slight dip of his head. “That’s right. You’re mine now.”

  I make one last plea, one direct request. The old Gio would have given me this. “I want to go home. My sister is there, my friends. My school.”

  “And your boyfriend?”

  I look away, ashamed. I don’t want to talk about Shane.

  An almost feral undercurrent sharpens his voice. “You’ll never see him again.”

  The truth is I hadn’t planned on seeing him ever again. That relationship was a mistake. I let it go on too long. But I’m not about to tell Giovanni that, not when he’s keeping me against my will. “That’s none of your business. You don’t control me.”

  His lip curls into a cruel smile. “Don’t I?”

  And I finally understand in a soul-deep way: this isn’t the old Giovanni, the boy I met in the pool house. That Gio cared about me, about my family. My dreams. This man is a stranger.

  Chapter Eight

  My throat aches, dry from whatever drugs he gave me. As if he knows, he hands me a bottle of water. The seal is already broken. I give him a long look, full of suspicion and dark dread.

  The corner of his lips tilts up. “You’re thirsty.”

  “You’re drugging me.”

  “It’s a long way,” he says, not sounding apologetic in the least.

  Because he’s right, I take a sip. I am thirsty. And it’s a long way. Though most of all, I need those drugs to douse the raging fires in my mind—the joy, the pain. The fear.

  When the bottle is half-empty, I hand it back. Then I curl up against the leather, as far away from Giovanni as I can get. He’s the last thing I see before sleep claims me again.

  Dreams filter through the drug’s heavy shadows like glimpses of sunlight through the leaves. I remember his smile, sometimes shy, sometimes pleased, in the pool house. Then the picture changes—his face grows harder, darker, scarred. He doesn’t smile, not anymore. Just a tilt of his full lips, an echo of the boy he used to be.

  I dream of his hands, once so gentle and sweet. He stroked my hair while I leaned my head against his thigh. He gripped my hips the last time I saw him, during our one and only kiss.

  The picture shifts again, and I’m being held down this time, arms raised above my head. I’m fighting him, but he’s too strong. Ruthless. His fingers bite into my flesh, and I know they’ll leave marks.

  Maybe that’s what he wants.

  I wake with a gasp, body shivering, resounding with remembered pain. Something is draped over me, something warm that smells like him. His jacket, the one that had been beside him. It’s now covering me like a blanket.

  His fingerprints still bite into me from the dream, and I hold up my wrists, almost surprised to find them pale. No bruises here. It was just a dream, and the real Giovanni sits across the limo, face still shrouded in shadow. I’m still wearing the silver dress from last night, now rumpled.

  I push the spaghetti strap back up where it had fallen. “How far are we?”

  “We’re here.”

  I peer out the window, eyes widening at the sight of the lush palms and lavish turrets that surround my father’s estate. No, not my father’s any longer. He’s dead.

  There hasn’t been much time to come to terms with any of this, but if I could have guessed, I’d have assumed that Giovanni moved elsewhere. Maybe some condo in a glass-walled skyscraper off the Strip, something closer to the action. The mansion feels a little too domestic, even if it is surrounded by an electric fence. It’s meant for a family, and Giovanni is a lone wolf.

  You’re mine now.

  Though he might not be alone anymore. If he wants me for my lineage, the only way to get it is to marry me. Against my will, if the drugs in the water are any indication. There are enough Catholic priests in the mafia’s pocket not to question my consent.

  And what about children?

  What about love?

  It sounds crazy to even think about those things with a man I thought was dead yesterday. I had a million fantasies about marrying him when I was fifteen, but in every one of them, we ran away together. In my fantasies we escaped a life of violence.

  The man across from me watches with a stillness I can only describe as lethal. Observing every breath I take, cataloging every point of weakness. Waiting to strike.

  The limo slows to a stop in the wide circular drive. Armed guards in suits step forward to open the door, blinding me with the bright Vegas sun. The mansion is thirty minutes from the Strip, technically in a suburb, but my father was the capo of the entire Vegas operation.

  Not my father anymore, I remind myself. Giovanni Costas.

  If I doubted his words, the deference the men show him proves he told the truth. Giovanni exchanges words with one of them over the black bow of the car door. I’ve seen orders given enough times to recognize it now. The other man nods and heads into the mansion.

  We aren’t unguarded though. One man still stands by the door, manning his post. The driver of the limo steps out and waits by the front door. I have no doubt that both of them are armed. I have no doubt that they’ve killed before and wouldn’t hesitate to do so again. My blood runs cold.

  But would they kill me if I made a run for it? I’m under Giovanni’s protection now.

  Under his control.

  He stands outside the door and extends his ha
nd. “Clara.”

  His tone says he expects me to obey. To be the good mafia princess I was raised to be. For a long time I tried to be that person, so it’s easy for me to take his hand. Easy to stand with practiced grace. Easy to school my face into one of complacency instead of fear.

  Giovanni doesn’t release my hand. Dark eyes search my features. Whatever he finds, he doesn’t like.

  His hand tightens around mine; his expression darkens. “Are you afraid?”

  I’m afraid of this mansion, afraid of him. I’m afraid of being the girl I was raised to be. “Are you going to hurt me?”

  He cocks his head to the side, considering. Which isn’t the most reassuring response. “You’ll be my wife.”

  It hits me then, like a fist to my stomach. This is his proposal, no whispered words in the dark. No sweet promises. It’s right that I spent years mourning his death, because the boy I knew is truly gone.

  I close my eyes. “You wouldn’t be the first capo to raise his hand to his wife.”

  Giovanni brushes his thumb over my knuckles. In comfort? “I’m not your father.”

  He knows what my father did to my mother. Everyone does. In fact it was widely believed that he killed her until Honor revealed that she escaped instead. She was still beaten and used by my father.

  Maybe that should excuse the fact that she left his daughters, but it doesn’t. Bad enough that she left Honor to whatever fate the mafia had in store. But I wasn’t even my father’s blood daughter. He didn’t feel any restraint when it came to me, no loyalty.

  Not even Giovanni knows the full extent of the price I paid.

  Back then I was afraid to tell him, afraid that he might do something to protect me. Afraid that he might get himself killed. Now I won’t tell him because he doesn’t deserve to know. The boy I loved is dead. This man is the embodiment of everything I’ve grown to hate.

  I lift my chin. “Are you sure about that? He didn’t care what I wanted. He only cared how he could use me. You’re no better than him.”

  Something flickers in those dark depths. Respect? Pride? I don’t care because I’m not his pretty little princess to dress up, to parade around. I will never be that girl again.

  The quirk of his lips offends me, that mocking expression on a face I used to love.

  I raise my hand, my intentions clear. I’m going to slap him.

  Except he catches my wrist, his expression unforgiving. My breath stutters. His fingers press marks into my skin, just like they did in my dream.

  His other hand brushes down my cheek. “I didn’t get where I am by being weak.”

  “No, you got here by killing. By hurting people.” My voice breaks because his hand is hurting me. And because maybe I did want to test him, to see if he really is the hard man he claims to be.

  He twists my arm behind my back, bending me over the trunk of the car. My breath comes faster. This position. No. Black spots dance in front of my eyes. My muscles lock up. “Please. Stop.” I barely get the words out.

  “Don’t push me, bella. You won’t like what happens.”

  His fingers open, releasing me. I stumble away from the car over the smooth slate tiles on the drive. If that was a test, then he passed with flying colors. He really is a ruthless bastard.

  He turns his face up, the hot Vegas sun drenching his features in startling light. Then he looks back at me, his eyes flat once again.

  “Come inside, bella,” he says mildly. “We don’t want you to burn.”

  * * *

  He gives me a tour of the mansion where I grew up, as if to drive home the point.

  The point is that he is in charge here, and I am at his mercy.

  Maybe he thinks that will shock me. When I was the daughter of the capo and he was the son of a foot soldier, he had to show me deference. I lived in this mansion, while he lived in a small complex set behind the property.

  What he doesn’t realize is that I never had any power between these walls. On this antique sofa or in the glass-domed greenhouse. I definitely never had any power in the office.

  Most of the rooms look the same. The office too.

  Leather armchairs gather around a heavy stone fireplace. It always seemed silly for a place as hot as Vegas. Then again, nights get cold in the desert. My father’s desk is ornately carved with naked men and women, arms raised to support the thick slab of wood on top.

  The only difference is the leather armchair with wide wings. It’s empty.

  Every other time I’ve come here, I was summoned. Escorted here by one of the armed men, usually while my sister was at ballet practice. My father would be waiting in that seat, framed by the tall window at his back. My heart beats faster, muscle memory feeding the same fight-or-flight response I had back then.

  The touch of Giovanni’s hand snaps me back to reality.

  With two fingers, he turns my face to look at him. “You’re upset.”

  “I never expected to see this room again.”

  “Are you sad that your father is dead?”

  His words are blunt, without sympathy. He might as well be made of rock for all he seems to understand grief or pain. “He deserved what happened to him.”

  “Because he tried to force your sister to marry.”

  And because he hurt me. That information is too private. It hurts too much to share with stone.

  “There’s only one way out of the mafia,” I say, repeating words I’ve heard a hundred times. When my father whispered them to me, they were a threat. They still feel like a threat, now that I’m here again.

  “Did you think you had escaped?” Giovanni’s tone disturbs me, detached and curious. His expression disturbs me too. He looks as if he’s inquiring about the timetable of some business takeover, something with a foregone conclusion. Something he will no doubt win.

  In the face of his cold regard, tears prick my eyes. “I should have escaped. God, you helped me escape. You risked your life to help me, and now you’re the one to bring me back? Why, Gio?”

  He studies me, his eyes dark and tumultuous. “That newspaper article. I couldn’t let anyone else take you.”

  I won’t let him off the hook that easily. “Then why not warn me? I could have run.”

  His head shakes slowly, almost regretful. “I let you go once because it was the only choice. The only thing I could do to keep you safe.”

  “And I’ll be safe now?”

  Violence flashes across his face. “Anyone who touches you will die. I’ll kill them myself.”

  A shiver racks my body. “Then who will keep me safe from you?”

  Chapter Nine

  The tour ends upstairs, in my old bedroom.

  Everything is exactly where I left it, down to the pink ruffles on the bed and haphazard makeup on the cream wood vanity. I wasn’t allowed to actually paint the walls, but I had four large canvases hanging that must have twenty coats of paint each.

  Giovanni hasn’t spoken to me since we left the office. Now he turns to face me in the center of my room. “You’ll stay here until I can trust you. The door locks from the outside.”

  I know very well that the door locks. My father had the key.

  There’s one way I can leave, though.

  Gio’s dark eyes flicker with amusement. “The window’s bolted shut.”

  Of course he knows about that. It was the only way I could meet him in the pool house. My eyes narrow. “And what happens when we get married? Am I still going to sleep here?”

  His expression is impassive. “I won’t force you to sleep with me.”

  Anger rises up in me at how casually he discusses our marriage. It should be something sacred, something beautiful. Now it’s depraved. “So we’ll be husband and wife in name only.”

  He takes a step toward me, then another. I’m backing up before I can stop myself, shoved flat against the door. Somehow it’s closed. We’re trapped in here together, and my breath is coming too fast.

  His broad shoulders block the light, c
asting his face in shadows. “We’ll consummate this marriage. After that it will be your decision.”

  My throat tightens. “It should always be my decision.”

  He runs his hand up my arm, sending shivers over my skin. Inexplicably my nipples tighten beneath the cups of my bra. “You’re right, bella. But that isn’t the world you grew up in. You were bred for this.”

  As if I’m a horse. An animal. “You don’t own me.”

  “Ah, but I do.” He sounds almost sad. “No one is coming for you. Not your sister. Not your sister’s husband. Not even the owner of that club you were at would dare to touch you now.”

  I shove at him, but he doesn’t move an inch. Instead my palms encounter hard-packed muscle covered in thin white fabric. “You can hold me captive, but you’ll have to use that lock forever. I’ll never stay.”

  “Good,” he breathes, his lips inches from my temple. “You shouldn’t trust me. You shouldn’t let me in.”

  “I won’t,” I say, but the moment has shifted, altered. It’s intimate when he’s this close to me, when my hands are on his body. It feels like I’ve already let him in. Like I already trust him, even though that’s impossible when he’s keeping me against my will.

  For a breathless, tense moment I think he’s going to kiss me. His gaze is on my lips, head bent close. Somehow my chin turns up as if to meet him. This is crazy. This is dangerous…

  A sharp bark echoes through the room, and I jump.

  Slowly Gio lifts his head and steps back. His eyes are hazy with lust, and as I watch, his focus returns. It should be a relief. I don’t want his lust. I don’t want his attention in any way.

  But I can’t shake the feeling of loss when he’s back to his stoic self.

  “What was that?” I manage, my voice uneven.

  He inclines his head toward the door to the bathroom, which is closed. “See for yourself.”

  My stomach fluttering, I push away from the wall and edge around him, careful not to touch. He’s like a flame, hot enough to burn. I open the bathroom door in time to see an orange and brown blur streak by me.