Marcello: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Mob Daddies Book 1)

by Alexa Hart

  But this night was for Marcello. And it certainly wasn’t taking place at Winston Elementary. I wanted to be memorable. Even if we never could make it work together long term, I wanted to inscribe my image this evening on his mind for the rest of his life.

  He had already stamped his on mine.

  Black silk hugging every soft curve of my body stopped mid-thigh in such an alluring cut that I smiled while dressing, knowing it was going to drive him insane and possibly shorten our dinner experience greatly. I had opted for strapless, which was a style of dress I had literally never allowed myself before. The cut was low, dipping between my breasts with a tempting v, and the slight shimmers of the silk as I moved gave me an all-over majestic feel. I had gone the extra dangerous step of adding strappy black stilettos, knowing they might be the death of me were I to misstep even once.

  The dress didn’t allow for a bra – so the only thing separating me from the entire world was a lacy red thong I had picked exactly for the way it matched my ruby necklace perfectly. I wanted to take his breath away.

  If Felicity had been there, she would have pumped me up with such an intense pep talk that I would have felt like a goddess by the time I walked out the door. But she wasn’t there, and she might not be there ever again. Not like before.

  Harrison arrived dutifully at 8:00. If I did look impressive, he showed no acknowledgement of it. He had a way of politely making me feel that I was a package to deliver wherever Marcello Morano had requested, and nothing more.

  I watched the city lights flying by as we drove, slipping into that dreamy state that so often overcame me when Marcello was involved. There had been pain, and fear, and so much frustration – but I loved Marcello deeply and tonight, I looked like a fucking princess.

  When I was finally shown to our table by the exuberant hostess, I relaxed a bit. The view of the city from our private little corner of the restaurant was extraordinary. Hypnotizing. I sipped white wine slowly, blanketed in a satisfaction I hadn’t ever known existed.

  I waited. The wine perhaps started going down slightly quicker as the minutes ticked by. Marcello was late. Alarms started going off in my mind and all throughout my body. I tried to drown them out with the clear, sweet liquid that the waitress kept kindly making appear in my glass like intoxicating magic.

  A half hour passed. Then an hour. I was drunk – there was no denying that – and Marcello was incredibly late. I looked at my phone. Nothing. I tried to focus on the skyline, which had become a slightly blurrier version of itself as the time ticked by and the wine went down.

  It had just reached 10:30 when Harrison appeared at the side of the table, nearly making me scream in surprise, and instantly sending dread through my veins.

  “There’s been a development. Please come with me, Miss Greene. Mr. Morano will not be joining you this evening.”

  Chapter 13

  If I had been capable of feeling anything other than my own heart breaking, I would have pitied Harrison for nearly having to carry me to the car. I certainly would have felt terrible for him when he actually had to carry me into my apartment. He had left, but I was under no ridiculous pretense that I was alone.

  It didn’t matter.

  I ripped off my stilettos, hurling them at the wall and stumbling to my kitchen. I didn’t need Marcello. I had the perfect date for the turning of the new year. His name was Johnnie Walker. I found the bottle of dark liquor sitting in the back of my fridge like a relic who had patiently been waiting for exactly this moment.

  Fuck Marcello. Fuck all of this.

  Collapsed in a pathetic, sob-ridden heap on my couch, half drained bottle still in hand, the last thing I heard before blacking out was the fireworks going off downtown.

  What a fucking beautiful night.

  Dawn was breaking when the pounding at my door started. I sat up slowly, woozily, still very much drunk and thinking that the long walk to the door was perhaps more than my wobbly legs could handle. I had just started to take uncoordinated steps in the general direction of the pounding, when it stopped and the door flew open.

  Marcello was rushing to me so quickly that I could barely formulate a reaction to his presence before he had me pressed to him, his face in my hair, nearly moaning, “Abby. Abby. I’m so sorry. Abby.” He was stroking my hair and I felt a surge of rage break through my reeling brain.

  “NO!” I pushed him away from me – hard – and he let out a low yelp, actually falling back a few steps.

  I attempted to focus then, completely alarmed by that sound – pain, he’s in pain! - and searched his face until the doubled lines blurred back to one and the charcoal eyes were truly there. A sharp gasp escaped from my throat as I saw the swollen, nearly closed left eye that sat above a dark purple, bruised cheekbone. His forehead sported a giant bandage, with the blood just barely showing through its thickness. His bottom lip was cut badly, and nearly double its size from the swelling. Peeking out from beneath his coat I could see the white wrapping around his ribs.

  I wanted to hold him, to comfort him, to fix him. But I didn’t move. I just stared. I had the gripping realization that I would never be able to fix Marcello. No one could fix this.

  He was rambling then. “There was a deal... it went bad... I was only there for legal purposes... but it went bad... It went bad, Abby. I got to you as soon as they released me from the hospital, I swear. Abby you have to forgive me... This will never happen again... I swear it! Rossi wouldn’t allow it – ”

  At the sound of that name escaping his badly beaten lips, I saw red. The mixture of the whiskey and the shock and the disappointment and the anger momentarily gave me a frightening inner strength that I hadn’t known I possessed.

  “ROSSI is the reason this happened to you! How can you not see that? It WILL happen again – it WILL! You can’t just do this over and over – I can’t - I WON’T be a part of it, Marcello! Get OUT! GET OUT NOW! JUST GET THE FUCK OUT!” I was screaming – shrieking – wanting to kiss his wounds and simultaneously inflict my own. “GET OUT!”

  He was coming to me then, protesting with his eyes and just repeating “No, no, no” over and over while he tried to pull me back into his embrace. I violently broke away from him, no longer caring that he was injured.

  “I SAID GET OUT, MARCELLO! GET! OUT!” I stumbled towards the door, holding it wide open and feeling my legs sway unsteadily at the exertion.

  He walked slowly towards me, eyes piercing mine as he did, begging silently. Tears. He’s crying. Abby, he’s CRYING.

  “Abby, you can’t do this. I love you. I love you, Abby. I NEED YOU,” he pleaded, still trying to bring me to him with desperation dripping from his voice.

  I put my hand out, warning him to advance no farther. I fought a miserably strong physical urge to hold him, kiss him – let it be okay. Make it be okay. But it wasn’t okay. It wasn’t ever going to be okay.

  “Get out,” I repeated, quietly now, and refusing to meet his eyes.

  He conceded, and every slow, slightly unsteady step until he was out of the building seemed to be screaming “PLEASE” with its echoes. I waited until I was sure he was completely gone and then ran to the sink and began vomiting violently, wishing I could just die.

  But more than anything, I realized that I truly wished I had never met Marcello Morano.

  I did three things that day. I cried, I slept, and I stared out the window from my couch. I was still in my New Year’s Eve dress, which was in ridiculous disarray. I hadn’t looked in the mirror, but I knew the torrents of tears that had emerged from my eyes could only have done wondrous works of abstract art with my makeup by now. My hair smelled like whiskey. Everything smelled like whiskey. And still I just lay on the couch, bundled in a blanket, crying or sleeping or staring.

  Marcello had called at least ten times by sundown. Eventually I turned the ringer off and slid my phone under the couch. There simply wasn’t anything to talk about.

  I thought that by the end of the day I had figured out whic
h cars were Marcello or Rossi’s security guards. They were always in four-door cars, some shade of gray, and parked just far enough away to appear completely disinterested in my apartment building. You would never find them unless you were trying to find them. I even began to time their shift changes, and started offering my middle finger in salutation anytime one of them emerged from a vehicle.

  I knew the severe hangover was in other ways dulling the emotional hell screaming inside of me. Tomorrow – physically – I would be much better; and mentally, I would be destroyed.

  Knocking again. Followed by Felicity’s voice. “Abs? Abby? You in there? Can I come in?”

  It had to be nearly noon the next day, well over 24 hours since I had kicked Marcello out. I was still on the couch, still in the dress, exploring the new levels of emotional pain that had never touched my life before now. At times I felt someone was choking me. Often, I wished someone actually would.

  I slowly stood, steadier than the day before, but lifeless – like an extra in a zombie movie – and went to the door. I sucked in my breath, trying to pull my insides together, and opened the door.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” Felicity spoke quietly. I could see the alarm and concern on her face, and I wanted to tell her to stop. I was fine. I was just in a different world now where this was the new normal, and I was going to die on my couch, by choice. It was fine.

  I started sobbing almost immediately.

  Felicity came in, shutting and locking the door, ushering me back to my new home, the couch, and pulling me into a silent hug. She held me and I cried for what seemed like forever. When I had reached the level of hiccups and complete surrender, she held me back slightly. “We’re going to get you in the shower. Then we’ll talk.”

  I stood stone-still while Felicity ran the water, grabbed a towel, and gently removed my clothing. She helped me into the inviting warm stream like I was an elderly woman, handing me shampoo, bodywash, and conditioner in turn. I was a robot, a ventriloquist's dummy, an incredibly jacked-up barbie doll – anything but a human. The water felt foreign hitting my cheeks, as though it were an entirely new sensation. I was crying again, and I wanted to apologize – to explain that I didn’t know how to make it stop. I didn’t say anything, however. I went through the motions, let Felicity dry me off and dress me, and ended up back on the couch with a fresh blanket and wet hair.

  Felicity had busied herself with clearing the coffee table, loading the dishwasher, rinsing out the kitchen sink, and then taking out the trash. When she returned, she came and calmly sat on the couch, facing me.

  “Marcello called me. He said I should check on you – that you weren’t answering his calls. And then you didn’t answer my calls. So, I just came,” she explained, carefully looking me over as she spoke.

  “Thank you,” I replied hoarsely – the first words I had spoken since she arrived. Marcello called Felicity?

  “He gave me a brief rundown of what happened. So, if you don’t feel like talking right now, you don’t have to, Abs,” Felicity consoled, putting a hand on my arm gingerly.

  I met her gaze, an instant flood of fresh tears coming from my swollen eyes, and shook my head. “You were right. You were right about everything.” I put my face in my hands. “It’s over. It just has to be over.” I was whimpering now like a wounded animal, and I hated the sound of my own voice.

  Felicity put an arm around my shoulders, letting me weep. “If it’s over... I can’t say that I think that’s a bad thing, Abby. That life – Marcello's life – I don’t see how that ever could have worked out well for you. How he ever could have made you happy... And what kind of best friend would I be if I didn’t want you to be happy?” She paused then. “I wasn’t right about everything though.”

  I looked up, hearing her voice falter. It was rare to ever hear any tone in Felicity’s words other than confidence. She sounded sad. She sounded sorry. I raised an eyebrow at her, waiting.

  “After speaking to Marcello...” Felicity closed her eyes, as though what she was about to say caused her great effort and pain. “After talking to him, I can’t say he’s a complete piece of shit anymore, okay? And believe me, I want to – more now than ever. But I can tell...” She paused again, and looked at me sincerely. “I can tell he actually does love you. He really fucking loves you, Abby.”

  I know.

  And the sobbing continued.

  I had exactly one day after Felicity’s visit to pull myself together before returning to Winston. One. Day. In spite of Fel’s advice to get out of the apartment, I spent yet another day on the couch. This time, at least, I was trying to go over my lesson planner.

  I knew the first day back would be hell. I knew that every day for a long time would be hell. I didn’t know that seeing Gia would feel like someone stabbed me through the heart and then asked me to act normal.

  She seemed slightly less enthusiastic than usual, and I could tell she was really trying to pull even that much off. She smiled at me. No hug. But she was wearing the locket. I didn’t know what she knew – what he had told her – but she knew enough. I gave her my most encouraging smile, and pulled a hall monitor into the classroom so that I could retreat to the supply closet and cry as carefully as possible into folded up Kleenex.

  By the end of the day, I had nothing left. The January air was frigid and cutting, but somehow that felt appropriate. I walked. By the time I got home, my hands were numb and my face stung. It didn’t matter. I was going straight to bed, and I could lose multiple fingers for all I cared.

  I had barely put my things down when there was a quiet knocking at the door. I hadn’t checked in with Felicity before I left, and that was probably a mistake. Considering that I still wasn’t taking phone calls, I should have figured she would stop by to make sure I wasn’t slitting my wrists.

  It wasn’t Felicity. It was Marcello. He literally must have been waiting outside for me to arrive home. Three days had improved his wounds slightly, but he was still scarily battered. I didn’t invite him in, and refused to open the door any wider than was necessary for me to see him.

  “Abby. Abby, please let me talk to you,” he pled. My body nearly shook from the intense desire to embrace him.

  He loves me.

  I shook my head. “There is nothing to talk about, Marcello. Please leave.”

  “Abby. You can’t end this. It won’t just go away. You’re not alright with this. I can see you – I can watch you at school. You’re not okay. You love me. You need me,” he stated all of these things calmly, but I heard the desperation edging every word. He was heated and focused, and I knew if he were to grab me – kiss me – I would surrender.

  “You should really stop. Stop. Watching. Me.” I returned, growing angry. “And call off your fucking security dogs. I don’t need your protection. I don’t want your protection. Leave me alone.”

  His eyes went hard, and he shook his head slightly. “You know I won’t do that.”

  Now I was borderline infuriated. How – how could I ever heal with Marcello’s life hanging over my own every single goddamn day? And didn’t I at least deserve that much – didn't I at least deserve the chance to recover?

  My hands went to the ruby necklace that I had still worn that day like a pathetic addict, tucked quietly beneath my shirt. I yanked it, breaking the clasp and freeing myself as though it were a shackle. I held it out to him, and I could see the pained, surprised expression overtaking his face.

  “I will be okay. I don’t need you.” I paused. “And I'm not fucking yours.”

  I saw the tears pooling in his eyes, his misery mixing with anger and desire. I swiftly dropped the necklace, closing my door and locking it – even the deadbolt for good measure. I didn’t wait to hear his tortuous descent out of the building. I nearly ran to my bedroom and smothered my face in a pillow, screaming violent sobs that wracked my body and left me limp and numb by the time they had subsided.

  I won’t be okay. I won’t ever be okay.

  Chapter
14

  The next morning, I had gone to work early – packing a hammer in my purse. I wasn’t sure what goddamn switch controlled Marcello’s feed, but I knew it was on the thermostat, thanks to good-old-probably-dead Charlie. I went straight to the small contraption and swung the hammer. Once. Twice. Three times. The box hung off the wall by several multi-colored cords. I decided those should be cut.

  It was one of the most satisfying things I had ever done in my life – momentarily, that is. I had apparently really fucked up the actual temperature control for my classroom; and when Principal Sanders had asked me in extreme exasperation “Why?!”, my only answer had been that I was trying to fix it. I had nearly burst into insane laughter after I said it, and I quickly earned my second warning for the school year.

  After that incident, I had done my best to appear mentally sound. School was a required performance – and I was playing the part of Miss Greene, first grade teacher. I had no idea if Marcello’s camera feed had been repaired – or if I had ever even interrupted it to begin with. But I knew that whatever image of me he saw would be pulled together, pleasant, and fucking fine.

  There was plenty of time to close the curtains and weep every evening when I arrived home to my dark, camera-lacking apartment – alone and very fucking aware of it. I was beginning to wonder if I was the one who would end up surrounded by gnomes and cats.