by S. Massery
“Welcome.” Her accent is thick, and it adds to her charm. She takes the seat across from me. “Are you from New York, Amelie?”
I nod. “Born and raised.”
“How was that?”
“Rose Hill is nice. It’s outside the city, so nothing crazy really happened there.”
“It’s a rich town,” Luca supplies.
“Right.” Glancing around, I have to wonder if being rich is a bad thing.
“Antonio,” Paloma barks, followed by rapid Italian.
He raises his hands in surrender and returns. “Excuse me,” he says to us. “You know how they like to ramble on.”
Paloma’s eyes go to the ring on my finger, and I swear… her whole fucking face lights up. “He gave it to you! Oh, it looks beautiful. Let me see.”
I extend my hand, and she grasps it. She turns it this way and that, only frowning a moment when it slips sideways.
“My fat fingers.” She sighs. “I’m sure it can be resized. I appreciate the thought you took to wear it tonight.”
I force a smile, although the fact that she’s elated about this can only be a bad thing. It feels like a nasty trick. Luca and I aren’t in love. We certainly aren’t happy. We’ve just fallen into a weird circumstance.
Antonio asks Luca something in Italian, and he responds in kind. He grins at his uncle.
I try not to let the lost feeling show, but Paloma is still holding my hand.
She squeezes my fingers to catch my attention. “It’s usually just me in the back. Would you like to see?”
I nod.
We get up and go into the kitchen. I can see the immediate appeal: it’s cozy. More like a real family kitchen than the sterile environment I was expecting. There are sprigs of herbs hanging from the ceiling, and a vase of flowers on the corner of the large island.
“Luca visited me this morning,” she says. “But he didn’t walk like he was in pain, and his eye was not swelled shut.”
I wince. “Right.”
“So?” She opens the oven and retrieves a casserole dish.
I cross my arms. “Mrs…” Shit, I don’t know her surname. “Paloma,” I continue, “you should know better than anyone that the DeSantis name carries some weight. That weight isn’t necessarily a good thing. I’m learning that faster than anyone.”
She grunts. “Matteo and Luca used to be close friends, before the awful mess.”
Before my dead husband-to-be knocked up a different girl—but she’s a bit too classy to say that. Still, the fact that they were friends is… horrifying, if we’re being honest. Luca shot him in the knee. Matteo…
I turn away. “That man is a monster,” I say carefully. “He would’ve…”
“He would’ve what?” Paloma suddenly stands before me, her eyes wide. “You met Matteo?”
I swallow. “He threatened me, and Luca…”
“Enough,” Luca booms from the doorway. He grabs my arm, drawing me to his side. He’s angrier than I’ve ever seen him. “Do you know what happens when you drag innocent people into family business?”
“She’s family,” I sputter.
“I didn’t think I would have to explain this to you like you’re five.” He’s getting louder by the second. “You keep your mouth shut.”
I open my mouth to retort, and he shakes me. Just once, back and forth, but my teeth clack together. The words get stuck in my throat.
“Go. Sit. Be silent.” He pushes me toward the door.
I’ve never been more interested in fleeing—so I go.
Except I don’t stop at the empty table. I fly outside and skid to a stop, gulping lungfuls of air. This whole freaking marriage was a mistake. Tears burn my eyes, and I swipe the back of my hand under my nose.
I’ve been silent about this situation for three years—and now he expects more of it.
“Are you okay?”
I sniffle and straighten my spine. God, Mom would smack me if she saw me like this.
A girl approaches slowly, her brow furrowed. “You seem upset.”
“I’m okay.” I exhale. “Just taking a break from…” I wave my hand back to the restaurant.
She laughs. “A boy? Or family?”
“Definitely a boy.”
Her attention goes to the ring on my finger. “Ah.”
I shove my hands into my jacket pockets. “Yeah, it’s not a big deal. I should go back inside.” Because standing out here is a little dramatic. Although Luca hasn’t stormed out and dragged me inside by my hair, so I suppose that’s a win.
They must be having quite the conversation.
“You want a smoke?” The girl holds out a pack.
If there was a bad habit I could secretly get into in high school, I did it. I drank and smoked and managed not to kill myself at summer parties. Because for a while, I just didn’t give a shit.
And I’m starting to feel that way again.
I take one and lean in for her to light it. The pull of smoke into my lungs, the slight deprivation of oxygen, is an immediate rush. I let my breath out slowly and close my eyes. Nicotine bombards my system. Inch by inch, I release the anxiety.
“Thanks,” I say, reopening my eyes.
But the girl is gone, and a face I never wanted to see again has replaced her.
Matteo.
A crutch supports some of his weight, tucked under his arm. His leg is in an air cast.
Honestly, I’m surprised he’s standing.
I freeze. Now would be the perfect time to scream—and definitely a good time to run—but my muscles lock. The memory of him going to unbuckle his pants has fear paralyzing me.
He takes the cigarette from my lips and puffs on it. He blows the smoke in my face. “Quiet, little DeSantis bride. You’re a curious creature. I don’t think you’re quite what you seem.”
I ignore the fear and square my shoulders. “How’s that?”
He shrugs. “You could’ve dashed back into the restaurant and been safe.”
My gaze goes to the door, which is now blocked by the girl. She leans on it, staring down at her nails. She’s got the same wildly curly hair as Matteo.
“Oh, shit.” Recognition dawns—and then dread.
She’s not a random girl offering a cigarette. She’s Wilder’s ex-girlfriend, almost-baby-mama, and the Costa princess. Mariella.
13
Amelie
Matteo chuckles. “DeSantis told you?”
I grimace. “Yes.”
“As I said,” he murmurs, staring at me. “Curious.”
“I don’t…”
“Come,” he says to his sister. He stubs out the cigarette beneath his shoe and motions for me to turn around. “Let’s see dear Luca’s reaction to this.”
He wraps his arm around my shoulders and shows me his gun. Mariella takes the crutch, and Matteo leans on me. He puts pressure on me, indicating that he wants to go inside. The gun pokes into my ribs.
This is not going to end well.
“Are you going to kill him?” I ask.
He grunts. “Haven’t decided, honestly. Might be easier to kill you.”
Great.
We enter the restaurant. Luca and Paloma must still be in the kitchen. Antonio stands at the bar with his friends. It takes too long for him to realize we’re here, and when he does…
He pales.
“Everyone out,” Matteo orders.
There is zero hesitation. It’s actually impressive. Mariella hugs the wall behind us as the patrons filter out, and it’s just Antonio left.
“You, too, old man,” Matteo adds.
“If you put bullet holes in my restaurant, your brother will be the one paying for repairs.”
I close my eyes. He’s going to get himself shot at this rate—but Matteo just laughs. He’s unbothered by Antonio’s vinegar. He replies to Luca’s uncle in Italian, then shoves me forward.
“Mariella,” he calls. “Go.”
The door closes behind her.
Murmuring comes
from the kitchen, loud enough to pick up the tone, but I have no idea what Paloma could be saying to Luca, or vice versa.
Matteo shakes his head. “What do you think, Amelie? Did his uncle go around and warn them? Is that what you were hoping for?”
I shake my head. “I wasn’t hoping for anything.”
“I was.” He leans on me more. “I was hoping for any excuse to gut him.”
The door opens, and Luca and Paloma come out. Paloma has that hot dish in her hands, pinched between two oven mitts. She gasps, lurching backward.
It’s interesting to see Luca in action. He takes a second to process it—his gaze going from my face to Matteo, then the gun pointed at my side. He seems to check over the rest of me, too, but his expression stays completely blank.
Cold, even.
I strive to be more like him in these situations… but wasn’t I just saying how I was frozen? Maybe this is the same. He’s liquid nitrogen and I’m simply ice. Both frigid, but we’re just… different forms.
Way to nerd out, Ames.
“How’s the leg?” Luca asks.
Matteo grunts. “I’m not here for payback.”
“Oh?”
“Paloma, dear, go outside. This way.” He gestures behind us.
She sets down the dish and moves slowly past us, and I grit my teeth. She meets my eyes and nods once. The door closes behind her, and then only the three of us remain.
“What do you want?” Luca asks.
Matteo laughs. “What I want are my friends back.” He’s suddenly quivering with rage. A switch thrown in an instant. “But that’s not what my brother wants.”
Ah. A family matter, then?
“He wants to see you,” he continues.
Luca barely suppresses his irritation. “He could’ve called.”
Matteo grins, baring his teeth. “Why? He’s here.”
That gets a rise out of him. Luca takes a step toward us, scowling. “Matteo—”
“If you’re about to appeal to my good graces, DeSantis, just remember how that went for you this morning.” He jams the barrel of the gun into my temple. “I made a promise to this pretty little one. I think we should see it through.”
My heart seems to want to burst out of my throat. The promise to test out my mouth and break my jaw? Luca wouldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t.
But I can’t control my fear. I wasn’t born into this life. I’m not hardened to it yet. In two days I’ve seen more death and blood than I could’ve ever imagined. My parents didn’t prepare me to be courageous. They taught me how to swallow my thoughts, how to set a dining table, how to talk to politicians.
These men are as far from politicians as we can get.
Luca’s eyes narrow, and he glances once at me before returning his attention to Matteo. If he thinks I can silently communicate what the fuck Matteo means, he’s sorely mistaken. If he’s going to break my face in, the least I can do before I go is bite his damn dick off.
That’s a promise.
And the promise of pain, too, whispers at me.
The kitchen door opens behind Luca, startling him—and me. He puts his back to the bar—the only decent wall, really—to try and keep Matteo, me, and this newcomer in his sights. We’re desperately outnumbered, him and I.
“Cristian,” Luca greets him.
As if this night—screw that, the whole week—couldn’t get any worse.
Cristian Costa smiles, and it’s downright sinister. I shiver. Today was a bad day to try and test karma. The kickass black clothes and boots I pulled on earlier, feeling invincible? I should’ve gone with something sweet. Something less tempting.
“Bring him in,” he calls. His attention comes back to his brother and me. “Put that fucking gun away, Matteo, and take a seat before one takes you.”
Matteo doesn’t respond, instead shuffling us sideways to the first table. He shoves me into a chair and slides into the one next to me, extending his injured leg.
“What do you want?” Luca finally asks.
Cristian raises his hand for silence. In the kitchen, something crashes to the floor. The door swings forward, knocked open by body weight. A man slumps to the floor. He hits it face-first.
Luca lurches, like he wants to go help but doing so would be detrimental.
I wince, turning away.
“Don’t like blood?” Matteo asks me. “And you married a Mafia man. That’s quite the problem you’ve got.”
“It hasn’t been an issue until now.” I cross my arms to keep from revealing my trembling. I’ve got to be going into shock or something. “Did the Costas have something to do with Wilder?”
He snorts. “What has Wilder done now?”
Oh god. They don’t know.
I press my lips together. What do I do? Do I tell them? Use it as a bargaining chip to get away? Somehow get us out of this mess?
Mariella steps over the man, wiping her hands on her jeans. The kitchen door can’t even close because his legs block the way.
“Did you kill him?” Cristian asks her mildly.
“He got handsy.” She glares down at him, stepping on his splayed fingers.
The fallen man emits a loud groan, and it sort of whistles.
“That’s what you’ll sound like,” Matteo whispers. His lips brush my ear.
I stay perfectly still. Fear and loathing take up equal parts, and they’ve turned me to ice.
“That whistle? It could be a number of things, but I’d be willing to bet they broke your guard the same way I’m going to break you.”
Horror fills me—not for his words, but because it’s Ricardo on the floor. They found Luca’s friend and hurt him just for this display of power?
For the fear, my father says. For your fear.
I squash it down. All of it. I can’t afford to be horrified or scared. Wilder probably wouldn’t have put me in this sort of situation, but I didn’t marry a blossoming politician. I married his brother. The ruthless one. The dark one.
If anyone can survive this, it’s him.
My gaze burns into Luca, searching for a sign that he knows how to get out of here.
Matteo’s hand creeps up my thigh. He, too, stares at Luca, until the force of it catches Luca’s attention. Matteo touches me through my jeans, and I close my eyes. I thought I had escaped this, but here we are.
My stomach is in my throat. Bile burns the back of my mouth. I’m not an ice queen. I can’t control my revulsion.
“Don’t you fucking lay a hand on her,” Luca growls.
He lunges, and Cristian catches him mid-stride. We’re so outnumbered.
Mariella’s gaze is glued to the floor.
Help me, I want to scream.
“Now, now,” Cristian says. “We’re all friends here. Maybe this is the price you have to pay for us to leave you alive, hmm, Luca?”
A tear slips down my cheek.
I’m the price.
Funny—I haven’t seemed to stop being the price people pay for what they want. Money, our lives. I’m worth everything and nothing at the same time.
Matteo’s hand slips into my jeans, and there’s nothing I can do to stop him—what can I do, if Luca can’t? I can’t face reality on this, even as it becomes crystal clear. We’re probably going to die. This is payback for every fucking mistake I’ve made in my life.
I push at him, but he just slams my hands to the table.
“Don’t fucking move,” he whispers. He licks my ear. “Or I’ll take out my anger on you. And maybe once I’m done with you, I’ll go pay a visit to your mother? Perhaps a sister?”
The tears won’t stop, even though I try to rein it in. I shudder when he reaches between my legs, prying me apart. His fingers are rough on my skin, little blades slicing me open. He curls his finger inside me, and nausea rises in my throat.
Luca’s gaze burns into me.
Make it stop, make it stop.
“Stop,” I beg. “Just stop.”
“Say please,” Matteo s
ays, jerking his finger.
I ball my hands into fists. “Please.”
His free hand comes up and grabs my hair. He yanks, and I suddenly have a view of his lap. His erection straining at his pants. I nearly fall out of my chair at the force of it.
“Louder.”
Bargain with them. It isn’t Matteo calling the shots—it’s his brother. And his brother is letting this happen to torture us.
“I can give you Wilder,” I choke out.
Matteo stills, but it’s Cristian who answers me.
“Why’d you do that?” he asks.
Lie, Amelie. Seems to be something I’m good at. “Because he’s the one who started this, isn’t he?”
“Matteo,” Cristian grunts.
His younger brother releases me and withdraws his hand. I almost fall over in my attempt to get away from him. I practically climb over the table, falling to my knees on the other side. It’s Mariella who helps me stand, clutching my arms. She’s a beautiful woman—I can see how Wilder would’ve been attracted to her as a teenager.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Her eyes harden. “He was nearly the death of me.”
I dip my head. “Me, too.”
She squints, puzzled.
“Amelie,” Cristian prods. “I’ll confess that I’m not the most patient man. How will you give us Wilder?”
Forgive me for what I’m about to do, I think in Luca’s direction.
“He’s vulnerable,” I say. “Jameson wanted to get him out of New York because weakness isn’t allowed.” I meet Cristian’s gaze. “You should know that best of all.”
His face betrays nothing. “So he’s leaving New York.”
“If I tell you where he’s going, you have to let Luca and I go. And Ricardo,” I add. I don’t even know if he’s alive or not, but I can’t imagine abandoning him with the Costas. “We’re leaving Sanremo. We won’t return.”
Cristian’s eyes light up. “You won’t return?”
I straighten and narrow my eyes. “Only when Wilder is dead.”
“And what about my baby?” Mariella asks. “Wilder took me to a private doctor and forced me to get an abortion. He ruined me, too. I can’t…”