192: A Dark Mafia Bodyguard Romance

by Nikki Belaire

  Who tantalizes me more than I can almost stand. Somehow I managed to keep my hands to myself during dinner last night much to my cock’s very obvious annoyance. Especially when she clutched my hand and giggled her glorious carefree laugh when I shared embarrassing stories about my fuck ups while building this house. Or when her thigh skimmed against mine while I showed her how to measure corn meal and water for the muffins. Or, she leaned on my shoulder as I washed the cast iron soup pot, gliding her slim fingers through the bubbles to find the ladle sinking to the bottom.

  Fuck even her bare feet made me rock hard while I walked her to her bedroom door and gave her a peck on the cheek like a fucking middle school punk on his first date. But the bed and shower and mirror were too damn close. I’d never be able to resist her if I followed her inside. Otherwise, I’d only been able to think about taking her in all three places. Again and again until she taped out. I wouldn’t have even wanted to stop then because I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get enough of her.

  I power down my laptop to ensure she doesn’t catch a glimpse of my screen. The reminder of the results from my research last night crushes my burgeoning erection in a heartbeat. I know fucking Google doesn’t replace a real psychiatrist but when you find the same information multiple times that seems to match her situation, there has to be some kernel of truth embedded in the suppositions.

  As much as a comparison can be made I guess. Plenty of depressing situations describing the behavior of girls orphaned at a young age. Not quite as many scenarios regarding girls whose parents are murdered and she’s kept isolated for six years and then abused by her fucking mafia crime lord husband for another three.

  My fury erupts again. Should have been fucking zero if I’d realized sooner what the fuck was going on. Both her father and me to blame for that. He may be gone, but I’ll fucking spend the rest of my life making that mistake up to her.

  Piecing together everything I’ve read boils down to one sad, simple fact. She has no confidence in herself because she has no confidence in anyone else. Including me. Yet.

  Desperate for approval and affection and attention because the people who were supposed to take care of her couldn’t, and the man who could have, fucking didn’t. Bastard.

  So I have to accept the fact my naïve plan is a fucking horrible failure. That I’ve gone about the situation all wrong. She can’t accept freedom until she feels safe. Until she believes in the unwavering foundation I create for her. Until she trusts in me.

  My entire career —hell my entire life —I’ve had to flex. Deviate. Improvise. Implement plan B and C and D because crime bosses and drug lords and victims themselves don’t always act rationally or as expected. I can do that now with her. Keep my focus on the end game. Regardless of what she throws at me. Because no matter what she’s going to be my wife. My children’s mother. My happy ending.

  Okay, now that I’m done fantasizing like a bitch ass pussy, I need to check on my sleeping beauty. I miss her. Fuck, I really am a fucking pansy bitch. I’m still chuckling as I slowly push open her door. Not wanting to startle her if she’s not awake yet.

  My humor fades with my laugh and disgust burns my chest. She’s awake. Sitting on the side of the bed. Dressed and ready. With a gorgeous smile that lights up her face. Ecstatic to see me. While I’m devastated to see her trapped in here by nothing but her own fear. Fuck.

  “Good morning!”

  “Good morning. What’re you doing, angel?”

  The mattress flexes from her eagerness. Bounding with energy, yet she doesn’t rise. Not without permission. “Waiting for you.”

  Calm and patient. She doesn’t know until I explain it to her. Doesn’t need to endure my exasperation from that bastard’s irrational constraints on her. “You didn’t have to wait.”

  She points toward the entryway, confusion pinching her eyebrows closer together. “But you shut the door.”

  Good damn it. I should rip the damn thing off its hinges. “That was my mistake. You can leave this room whenever you want. You can go any place you want in the house. Nothing’s off limits. Okay?”

  Disbelief. Disapproval. Disappointment. Her grip on the comfort loosens despite the uncertainties spinning on her face.

  “Okay.”

  Only my hand offered to her lifts her up to her feet. “We’ll grab a quick breakfast and then go shopping. I wasn’t sure when I would get you back, so I don’t have a lot of perishables in the house.”

  Her feet don’t follow me when I step forward. “You were planning this?”

  “I wasn’t going to leave you at Dante’s mercy that’s for damn sure.” She flinches from my tension and my terse tone. Reminding me to hide my fury from her. Only concentrate on freeing her for the future. Not trapping her to the past that binds her. “I staked out the church every day waiting for you to return. I wasn’t giving up on you.”

  “I knew you cared about me, but I never imagined…”

  Her body leans into me to me. Almost involuntarily. Drawn toward me and the devotion I convey to her. “If you didn’t go to church, then I would have stormed the house. There wasn’t anything I wouldn’t have done to get you.”

  “You could have been killed!”

  Now it’s her turn to be upset. Worried for me. Which is fucking hot to see her concerned about my safety. “So could you. That’s why it was my last resort. I would never willingly take a chance and endanger you. I would never hurt you.”

  “Not like Arturo.”

  “No, not like Arturo.” I need to know what else I’m protecting her from. “Not Dante either.”

  The mention of his name dims the remaining light in her expression. Replaced with fear. Damn it. Incapable of stopping myself from asking her what I suspect. “Did he touch you?”

  “No.”

  Thank fucking god her single word whisper reflects what I hoped. But something else frightens her. From what she implied at the diner. My patience has run out. Unable and unwilling to ignore any longer the impact that motherfucker has on her. The bastard’s proclamation of love not enough to sway her from being troubled from the other things he said to her. “He did something to scare you? Something he said?”

  She nods. Responding immediately without prompting after hearing the dominating voice. I’m a sick bastard for manipulating her. For wielding this power over her but I can’t have her reluctance keep her from being honest. There’s too much danger, too much at stake, for her not to tell me everything.

  “He was having a special room built in the house. He said he loved me, and that he would show me how his greatest pleasure would come from my greatest pain.” Her perplexed cocoa eyes finally meet mine. “But I don’t think that’s love. Do you?”

  Good. So fucking good she’s knows the difference. “No I don’t. Not at all. That’s why you’re here with me and not with him.”

  Well him or with anyone else. Because you’re mine, and this is permanent angel. I hold out my arm yet she still hesitates. Tugging on the sky blue cable sweater she pairs with black leggings and crisp white tennis shoes. The college-age girl at the boutique recommended them to me when my confusion was more than obvious. Abundantly clear that I had no idea what the hell I was doing. Except I’m well aware it’s too damn cold for the thin dresses and high heels she normally wears.

  “This is all I could find after you told me to put on the clothes you left for me. Are they okay?”

  “Do you like them?”

  She smiles, running a small hand over one of the thick cords again. “Oh yes. Very much.”

  “Good, then they’re okay.” This time she accepts my arm as well as me leading her over the threshold into the hallway. Another small triumph as she navigates her new life. “You look great too.”

  A charming blush spreads over her raised cheeks. Both of us smiling now.

  “Thank you.”

  In the kitchen, I motion toward the closest stool at the table in the alcove and yank open one of the birch cabinet doors,
the smooth wood polished to almost a golden sheen. Although the virtually empty interior isn’t quite as pleasure inducing. “Sorry my choices are limited angel. I’ve got protein bars in two flavors: seeds and sea salt or granola drizzled with honey. What would you prefer?”

  “You don’t have newspapers for me?”

  I spin around from the question to my question. She twists herself, searching the countertops, table, and bookshelves tucked above the small wet bar. “No, I’m sorry I don’t. But if you want them, I can get them. It’s your choice to read them or not.”

  Now she scans me just as thoroughly. Probably wondering why I keep deviating from her normal routine.

  “Your rules are so different from Arturo’s.”

  I slowly sit the boxes on the granite. Fighting once again to keep my expression neutral and my words about us. “I don’t have any rules.”

  Frowning as she mulls that over. Before slowing nodding. Her face smooths in acceptance. “Except one.”

  She’s got me. So fucking perceptive and smart. “Yeah, that’s right. You stay here with me.”

  “To keep me safe.”

  God that fucking whisper. That pure expression. Fuck breakfast. All I want to do is lay her back on the table and feel her sweetness surrounding my cock. “Always princess.”

  “I’ll take the granola please.”

  Yes, focus on eating food. Rather than her naked and drenched in honey for me to lick off. I hand over the bar, brushing her fingertips with mine. Confirming all is well between us.

  She peels back the wrapper and pulls off a small bite, nodding with approval after she tastes the oats and almonds. “I heard noises early this morning. I thought maybe you were boxing.”

  I love the way she hints that she wants me to work with her again. Still too timid to ask but I definitely didn’t forget. Especially her damn self-loathing. That I’m going to eliminate for her. “No, I was running on the treadmill. You don’t think I’d glove up without you, do you?”

  Dread flickers in her face, misunderstanding my teasing, and she carefully lays her food on the counter. Smoothing down the wrinkled foil. Her body tenses, and she scoots back against her seat. Preparing for anger from her inquiry. “I—I’m sorry. I know I’m not supposed to question you or what you do. It’s not my business.”

  A creepy robotic quality to her tone that steals my appetite too. Apologies on repeat from more of Arturo’s fucking bullshit. “You can ask me anything. I was just going to say I’m sorry if I woke you up. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  Her shoulders soften from my exoneration that she doesn’t need but desires just the same. “Oh no, you didn’t. I was awake already.”

  “Good.” I tap her nibbled breakfast to remind her to eat. “And tomorrow when you get up and leave your room whenever you want to, then we’ll box again.”

  I’m rewarded with a huge smile that eliminates my tension too. Finally some progress.

  Our cart isn’t very full for two people with empty cupboards and a barren refrigerator. Milk, rib-eyes, bundle of asparagus, and a double container of strawberries. All chosen by me since she only responds with agreement to whatever I want. When what I really want is to give to her whatever the fuck she wants.

  I check my frustration. This is the first time she’s even been to a super market. Proven by her immense fascination with the registers, endless aisles of boxes, bottles, and cans, and the rich smells of frying chicken, baking donuts, and brewing coffee wafting through the air. Much different than reading about grocery shopping in books.

  Grabbing bananas and a bunch of red grapes, I nod toward the crates of melons. “Don’t forget your cantaloupe.”

  A frown lines her forehead, and her cute nose pinches up. But her lips remain pursed together. Finally I get a reaction other than deference to my suggestions. A fucking grand improvement I love. “It’s okay. You can speak up. What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t like cantaloupe.”

  Every day. Every single god damn fucking day for the three months I was there. And probably for the years before I came. I’m sure I know the answer but I still have to ask. “Why didn’t you tell Arturo?’

  She strokes across the cuff of my jacket sleeve. Piled next to her coat in the child seat. “I did.”

  Motherfucker. I force a smile because god damn it this bastard will not ruin something as mundane as buying food. “Then what would you like instead?”

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so shocked. Her sweet mouth actually opens almost as wide as her eyes.

  “I—I can pick something?”

  “Princess, you can have anything and everything you want.”

  Her gaze swivels across the shelves. Slow and intense. Scanning every single item in view before she turns back to me. “May I have some brownies please?”

  Fuck me. She still asks. Refusing to just take. Her low voice wobbling with angst and distrust. That would probably break with flustered apologies for asking if I denied her. Which I will never fucking do. “Sure. Let’s head to the baking section.”

  I swear to god she practically skips alongside me. Almost childlike in her excitement. Which is how she seems sometimes. Making me feel like a dirty bastard. Older in years and wiser in experience, I’m practically preying on someone so young and ingenuous. Rare guilt flows through me. But not enough to make me change my mind. Never enough to make me let her go.

  “I’d watch Mrs. Wilson make them sometimes, and I always wondered if they taste as good as they smell.”

  She’s lit up like she’s won the fucking lottery over fucking baked goods. Not realizing at all that she should already fucking know exactly what fucking brownies should taste like. My fingers ache from clutching the metal handle so tightly. No one deserves the fucked up life she was sentenced to.

  I wheel into the desserts area, bypassing the cookies and cake mixes. Still leaving a good twenty-five options for her to choose from. Her steps slow, and she scans each box, carefully reading the labels. The choices too overwhelming as her eyes roam from dark chocolate to salted caramel to blondie. Fuck that shit. My girl deserves everything she wants. “How about one of each?”

  Her pleased little gasp jolts my balls harder than the Taser used on me during the break in at that Columbian drug lord’s compound searching for the judge’s missing daughter. I grab all three flavors and chuck them into the basket. “Any others you want to try?”

  “We can’t Roan! It’s too much!”

  I ignore the twinge of disappointment from her calling me by my alias name. I can’t spoil the fun because I’m a pansy ass with hurt feelings. “Hell no it’s not too much. You can never have too many brownies.”

  Giggling from my wink as well as my teasing, she glances back to the shelf. Her gaze flicks to the butterscotch but she holds back. “Get it angel.”

  Another shopper strolls past, grabbing a package without even stopping. Not sure if it’s my encouragement or his nonchalance, but Viviana snatches up the family size container and clutches the treat to her chest as if someone will yank the goodies away from her. They’d have to fucking kill me first before I’d let that happen.

  “Thank you so much.”

  I like to think I’m a hard ass but her shiny eyes fucking slay me like a bitch. To be that excited —that emotional —about choosing her own dessert. Probably the first time ever in her entire twenty-one years. “You’re welcome.”

  I wait for her to toss her prize into the cart but she doesn’t. Just cradles the red and gold box as protectively as a mother with her newborn child. Almost in disbelief to have something so precious in her arms.

  We spend the next fifteen minutes shopping. Well I select items, and she nods. But that fucking glorious smile never leaves her beautiful face. Shining even brighter when I show her how to scan our purchases at the checkout and drop them into the cheap ass plastic bags that either won’t separate or rip too easily.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever had so much fun.”


  Fucking sad buying groceries is this exciting for her. I hand her the sacks with the brownies inside them, loving her thrilled expression when she peeks at the boxes one last time while I finish paying. “What about the galas and balls you went to. I know you said you liked to dance.”

  “That part was nice. But Arturo always had so many people to talk to, most of the time I was by myself waiting for him to come back.”

  Unease spikes in my gut as we venture outside. From her words as well as not being able to touch her, with both our hands occupied with toting our provisions. I should have thought this through better. I hate being vulnerable, hate fucking exposing her to any risk. My plan was flawless. I couldn’t have asked for the execution to go any smoother. But I scan the parking lot anyway. Fairly empty for a Wednesday morning. A frazzled woman with three little kids jumping all around vying for her attention, and an older couple, the wife checking off her list while her husband shuffles beside her, leaning heavily on his black cane.

  The lack of apparent danger does nothing to alleviate my agitation, and I scoot closer to her. So close her bag bangs against my leg while we walk, and she questions me with a perplexed expression. Unwilling to worry her, I keep our conversation going. “What about the people at your table? The other women?”

  “They didn’t like me.”

  All I can see is her long dark hair as she climbs into the Jeep, but I’m sure her face is as impassive as her flat tone. So numb to the heartache that would devastate anyone else. A coping mechanism I hate, and experience with her too damn often. “Why would you say that?”

  “They never talked to me. Just to each other. Even in the ladies room. They would be talking and laughing at the sinks. But then it would get quiet as soon as I stepped inside. When I came out of my stall they were always gone. I chased everyone away.”