Ruthless Saint: An Arranged Marriage Romance (DeSantis Mafia Book 1)

by S. Massery

  She nods, and he quickly repacks his bag.

  I follow him to the door, and he pauses.

  “What are your injuries?” he asks.

  I shrug. “Ribs, face. Ego.”

  He shakes his head. “Lift your shirt.”

  “It barely hurts.”

  He levels me with a look, and I roll my eyes. I’m pretty sure he considers Aiden’s and my health his personal responsibility. As if Dad would shoot him in the head if one of us got hurt.

  Well, more hurt than usual.

  Come to think of it, he probably threatened something along those lines when Dr. Matthews was hired.

  I raise my shirt and ignore the ache in my muscles. It does hurt, now more than ever. The adrenaline has officially left my system. Could be why I can barely keep my eyes open.

  “Blurry vision?” he asks, shining a light into my eye. “Decreased or double vision?”

  “No,” I say.

  He feels my ribs carefully, palpating my stomach with his hand. He must be satisfied, because he nods and sidesteps closer to the door. “Bruising, I suspect.”

  I smile. “That’s what I thought.”

  He grimaces. “I don’t know what you’ve been up to, but I suggest a few days off. Let your body heal. And your mind, too.”

  My smile drops fast, and he takes a step back.

  “Goodnight, Doc.” I close the door behind him and lean my shoulder into it. I give myself to the count of five to wrangle my emotions. Just another fucking reminder that Wilder is gone. Somehow, it was a lot easier to handle in a different country.

  Here, it’ll slap me in the face.

  Amelie, too.

  I spin around, but she’s gone.

  A new emotion emerges, this one stronger than my anger. Worry.

  Still, the apartment isn’t big. Two bedrooms at the back of the house and one just off the living room. One and a half bathrooms. I find her in my bedroom, sitting on the bed. She has an apple in her hand.

  I analyze her. Her tank top sits weirdly on her skin. The jacket was abandoned on the plane, I think, but neither of us thought to grab it. Her jeans are skewed. She’s kicked off her boots already. They sit a few feet in front of her, knocked over as if she flung them off.

  “I have clothes you can sleep in.”

  She dips her chin and takes another bite of the apple. Its scent hits me, and my mouth waters. We never got dinner. I escape into my closet and find a pair of basketball shorts and a t-shirt from one of the drawers in the back.

  I hand them to her, and she in turn offers me the apple.

  It feels like a trap, but I take it. She stands and puts her back to me. Curiosity nags at me, tangling in my stomach. She carefully removes her tank top and trades it for my t-shirt. It’s giant on her, covering her ass completely. And then her jeans follow—and her panties, too.

  I take a huge bite of the apple to keep from choking on my own tongue. There’s no doubt about it: Amelie is gorgeous. She’s taller than the girls I’ve dated in the past, with legs that seem to go on for days. Her skin is smooth and tanned to perfection—although that could’ve been wedding preparation.

  She shimmies the shorts up, then glances back at me. “Are you sleeping here, or am I?”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Didn’t explore the other rooms, did you?”

  “No.” She frowns. “Why?”

  “I don’t have another bed.”

  She scowls. “Great. I’ll take the couch.”

  I block the door before she can escape. “No. Take the bed, Amelie.”

  The fight leaves her, although her expression doesn’t lighten.

  “I have an extra toothbrush in the drawer.” I point to the connected bathroom, then return to the closet to find my own sleepwear. The sound of the bathroom door closing reaches me.

  I need a moment alone, bracing my hand on the wall and taking a few deep breaths. My ribs don’t hurt that bad—it’s manageable. I was able to carry Amelie around no problem… but I think that had more to do with the need of the situation.

  Keep telling yourself that, buddy.

  The problem is the sex. I haven’t ever felt the need to explore any darker side of it before. Most of the girls I’ve slept with were fine with being bent over the back of a couch or shoved against a wall. Rough, yes. But if I think of Amelie trussed up, on her knees, my dick gets thick.

  I tear my mind away from the image floating in my head and change, then slip back into the bedroom. I trade places with Amelie in the bathroom. Finally, I reenter the bedroom and cross to the bed. She’s curled up on one side, and she rolls halfway over to stare at me.

  “I thought…”

  “I won’t touch you,” I promise. It could be a lie—I’m not sure, yet. Depends on how we feel in the morning, I suppose.

  To my shock, she doesn’t put up an argument. She just nods slowly and resumes her position with her back to me.

  I climb in and stretch out, groaning slightly. Nothing beats the feeling of your bed after being away from it. I click the light off, and we’re plunged into darkness. All I can hear is her light breathing.

  “I’ve never slept with anyone,” I say. “If I crowd you, just…”

  She doesn’t answer. Not that I expect her to. I flip onto my side and shut my eyes, matching my inhales and exhales to hers.

  Sleep, I try to tell myself. The problem is, I don’t want to dream of my brother. There’s a reason I’ve been hesitant to close my eyes. Nightmares plagued me as a child, and I fear they will come back now.

  “I can hear you thinking from over here,” Amelie says.

  She rolls to face me. I can barely see her in the darkness, just the faintest reflection of the street light outside coming through the cracks in the shade. Her eyes are open, on my face.

  She extends her hand into the no-man’s-land in the center of the bed.

  “It’s okay,” she says.

  I don’t expect comfort from her, but I slide my hand into hers. She squeezes once, then relaxes. Her eyes close again.

  And I do the best to mirror her calm.

  17

  Amelie

  I sleep like the dead. Something wakes me, though. A loss.

  I crack my eyes open and catch sight of Luca climbing out of bed. My hand is still extended into the center. I’m still on my side. I don’t think I shifted the whole night… and I wonder if he didn’t, either. If his hand leaving mine was what woke me.

  The thought is uncomfortable, so I draw my arm back to my chest.

  He cracks the shades, and more light fills the room.

  He’s a graceful mover. It’s weird, since he’s a lot taller than me—and strong. He was able to carry me around the city yesterday. But his footsteps barely make a noise, and he retrieves clothes from the closet. He closes himself in the bathroom, and the shower starts.

  Taking his hand last night was a risk. I wasn’t lying when I told him I could hear him thinking—it was like he was projecting worry into the air. The fact that we fell asleep quickly after that is probably just coincidence.

  And now I’m the worried one, because I sit up and immediately groan. The room whirls around me, and I fall back onto the pillows. I cover my eyes and concentrate on my breathing. It could be a concussion, I suppose. I’d felt a bit like a ragdoll being flung around the bathroom.

  I’d never experienced turbulence like that.

  “It’s okay, Ames,” I say to myself. I need to calm down.

  The panic lives just under my skin, and as much as I try to control it, I can’t. My breathing is short and fast, wild even in my own ears. I’ve been having more and more panic attacks. My heart races.

  I used to get them in middle school, and then again when I was sixteen. It was the idea of being tied down, I think. And now I’m here. Brooklyn isn’t so far from Rose Hill. But I can’t leave if I can’t stand—and that’s my issue.

  Mom knew how to bring me back.

  She’d put her hand on my chest and push, tryi
ng to control my breathing. To match the pressure, the rise and fall.

  She’s not here now.

  I push on my own chest, counting to three in my head for each inhale and exhale. I raise the number until I get to eight, and my chest unlocks.

  “What happened?” Luca asks.

  “Just dizzy,” I manage. I drop the hand from my eyes and blink up at him. “I tried to sit up, and it did me no favors.”

  “Your head.” He touches my cheek. “It’s just as well that you stay here. I’ll grab you Tylenol.”

  “Stay here?” I sit up slower. I can manage it if I stay focused on one thing—namely, Luca.

  He ducks into the bathroom and reappears with two tiny pills and a cup of water. “When’s the last time you ate? Besides the apple.”

  I grimace and swig back the pills and water. “I had a few granola bars on the plane while I was waiting for you.”

  I set the cup aside, and we both go silent. I don’t know how to do this—it’s clear he doesn’t, either. His eye looks worse today. Less swollen, but the inner corner is an angry purple. He was used as a punching bag. I wonder if he only owns dark colors. The shirt I wear is navy. The one he picked is black.

  His gaze sweeps down, from the bandage on my head to my eyes, nose, lips. Lower, over my throat and the collar of his shirt.

  I tug at it, suddenly hot.

  He spins away. “I’m going out. I need to see my father and Aiden. I wasn’t planning on being away from my job, either. You just stay here.”

  I stare at him. He’s going out, and he wants me to what? “Stay here?”

  Apparently I’m a fucking parrot.

  “Yes, Amelie. Stay.”

  I scoff and slide out of bed. “I’m not your servant. You can’t order me around.”

  He doesn’t even glance back at me.

  The room tilts, but I persevere. You can’t just walk away from someone in the middle of a discussion. Okay, an argument. But still. He doesn’t wait for me, and I have to put my hands on both walls to manage the hallway without feeling like I’m a pinball.

  I glance around for something to throw at him.

  I’m just so mad. I’ve never been angrier, I’m sure. Not at my parents or sister or Wilder. He’s going to leave me here to rot, just like I predicted.

  “When will you be back?” I ask through my teeth.

  “Later today. I’m sure you’d like to rest, right?”

  “Fuck you.”

  I stop at the top of the hall, where it breaks out into the large living room. Kitchen to the right, dining area in front of it. It’s all pretty open, which is unusual for these types of houses. The arched doorways feel like remnants of the original home.

  He yanks his shoes on, glaring at the floor. “I’m trying to be nice,” he says. “You’re dizzy. You want to have a full day touring the DeSantis properties? Answering questions about Wilder? Smiling and accepting condolences for his murder? It’s been two days. What do you think my family is going through?”

  Something must’ve switched in his brain last night. Like a reset. Being back in New York has brought back out the ruthless version of Luca I’d always heard rumors about. For a minute, in Italy, I thought it’d be different.

  But now his eyes are cold.

  I’m separating from reality a bit, because it seems as if he forgot everything I told him. About being stuck. Trapped. And now he’s watching me like he doesn’t know who I am. He woke up to a stranger in his house, in his bed.

  I regret every touch. Every nice word.

  “Go, then,” I say, unable to hide the defeat from my voice.

  He does.

  And I stay in my cage like a good little bird.

  18

  Amelie

  How many ways can a girl exhaust herself before she goes completely mental?

  Asking for a friend.

  Ha.

  In direct opposition to Luca’s sneering comment before he left, I do not want to rest. So I don’t. I pace the house. I clean the kitchen, even though it doesn’t really need it. I dust the bookshelves and pull out a few that catch my eye, but immediately return them when opening them cracks the spines.

  I won’t find anything useful in the books Luca keeps here if they’re just for show.

  And I continue on, even as my headache grows worse. If I let myself think about Italy—any part of it, or the plane ride home—my stomach flips. Nausea curls my toes, and I do end up puking twice.

  The sky grows dark, and Luca doesn’t return. I consider food. I’ve been iffy on hunger lately, not quite ready to commit to a full meal, but I finally peek in the fridge and freezer. The tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream brings a smile to my face.

  If anything, I can handle that.

  It’s eight o’clock when I finally flop onto the bed. I was unsuccessful in driving myself crazy, but everything aches. The entire house is clean. I’m clean, and unfortunately smelling a bit like Luca. I’ve been in his clothes, using his soaps. Eating his food.

  And yet, he is not here.

  I close the blinds and crawl into bed, facing the wall. I promise myself I won’t react when he comes back.

  And I’m right. I wake to light streaming into the room, and I am triumphant… until I realize he never returned.

  The ache that bangs around my chest surprises me.

  My head doesn’t hurt as much, and I inspect the stitches in my forehead in the bathroom. I tie my hair up, letting the wound breathe. He’s not back, but I refuse to stick around for another moment.

  For one, I have no clothes of my own. No possessions, even. I’d set out with Ricardo and hadn’t even thought to bring my phone. Yesterday, it occurred to me that it’s with all my suitcases at the house. What’s shocking is that I didn’t miss it until the early afternoon.

  But in my hunt, I did find a wad of cash in one of the kitchen drawers. I couldn’t say if it was emergency money or what, but I do know it’s my ticket home.

  Literally.

  I tug my boots on, taking a deep breath after I rise. My head pulses, then the throb slowly fades. Armed in a sweatshirt that engulfs me, and my jeans and boots, I feel a bit better. I stuff just enough cash for a cab in my pocket and the rest in my boot.

  It’s a bit weird to be cut off from technology. I open his front door and take a deep breath. It’s June. People will be leaving the city soon. College students and the like. I should be part of that, going home for the summer, running around with the kids I went to high school with. We’re still young enough that it’s a throwback to the good times. Before responsibilities.

  I let myself out of the gate, then pause on the sidewalk.

  Immediately, I’m weirdly overwhelmed. Not because of the clothes, or the neighborhood. Skyscrapers are visible in the distance, reminding me that Manhattan isn’t far. No, it’s deeper than that.

  It could be me.

  I’m the one different, irrevocably changed after… what, seventy-two hours?

  But the air sits differently on my skin, and an intense loathing sweeps through me. I wanted to go home—but now I’m thinking anywhere but there would be better. A friend’s house, maybe, if I hadn’t isolated myself from everyone after graduating high school. It was too painful. I wasn’t allowed to go to college. I was barely allowed to dream.

  I brush away those intrusive thoughts. I cut off my best friend because she was allowed to have a future I never had a chance of. And it hurt. Yet… I couldn’t tell her why.

  My chest tightens, a pressure I can’t will away. The first step to freedom is reconciliation… I think.

  The real question is: which way to the closest metro station?

  “You look lost,” a woman calls.

  I spin and immediately regret it. My vision lags, and I’m left clutching the gate.

  On the second-floor porch, an older woman leans over the railing. “Amelie Page?”

  I wince. “Yes.”

  She just smiles. “Rosalie DeSantis. Luca’s cousin.
I didn’t attend the wedding, but I heard what happened. I’m—”

  “Please don’t,” I blurt out. My skin crawls at the idea of an apology. “I’m sorry, I just…”

  “Death is an oddity.” She nods to herself. “You’ll deal with it in your own way, I suppose.”

  She straightens and backs up a step, clearly done with the conversation.

  “Wait,” I call. “Can you point me to the closest train station?”

  She considers me for a moment, then spits out directions and estimates it to be a ten-minute walk. And maybe that’s a bit too much people-ing for her, because she backs away from the railing and disappears into her apartment.

  Who am I to judge?

  I’m almost at the station when I see someone I recognize coming down the sidewalk.

  And it isn’t a good someone.

  “Amelie Page,” an old classmate calls.

  “Kaiden West.” I cross my arms.

  His friend nudges him.

  “It’s Kai now, actually.”

  “Ah.”

  The extent of our relationship was… well, actually, I think I might’ve made out with him at a party one time. It’s a bit blurry. He was a soccer star, a year or two older than me. He used to deal drugs, I think. He’s handsome, though. Everyone at school had a crush on him.

  He had a way of making girls feel special.

  And he’s a West.

  My stomach swoops. I’m an idiot.

  By the time I was arranged to marry Wilder, Kai had graduated. And it wasn’t until later that I learned about the feud between the Wests and DeSantises. Kaiden West was barely a blip on my radar.

  “I’m Colin,” the other one says, extending his hand. “Amelie is an unusual name.”

  I warily step forward and take it. “It’s French.”

  He chuckles. “At least you didn’t say Italian, right?” His grip is firm, moving my hand up and down.

  I slip it away as soon as I can.

  “Stop messing with her,” a soft voice says from behind them.