by Selena
As long as I need. That sounds an awful lot like freedom. A thrill of triumph mixes with the shame I feel for manipulating him. I may be a horrible, fucked up person, but I do what I have to do to survive, just like everyone else.
“Let’s get you out of this dress, and you can sleep it off,” he says. “We can talk later.”
It’s all I can do not to get my drunk ass up and do a victory dance. Yeah, I cried in front of him and showed weakness, but hey, it’s worth it to keep this Valenti asshole off me. After all, I can’t just let him lay down the law and then follow it like an obedient little sheep. I don’t want to be someone’s property. I want to be an independent woman, free to follow her dreams, like my mom was after she left the yoke of marriage and domesticity. And the only way to do that is for me to lay down the law, to let him know from day one that I won’t be owned and controlled. I just did what it took to make that happen.
King peels off my dress and lays me down in the bed in my underwear, and a shiver races over my skin when he looks down at me. As I stare up at him, feeling every bit as exposed and vulnerable as I am, I notice again how fucking beautiful he is, all angular lines and dark shadows. I shiver, my skin prickling into goosebumps as his gaze moves over me. For a second, there’s nothing cold about him. His eyes are pools of melted chocolate, his gaze heated as it moves over my lace bustier and white lace panties.
I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, and something swells inside me, a weird sense of pride at having a man who looks like him look at me that way, like he finds me every bit as sexy as I find him. I’ll be damned if I’m ever going to love a heartless, sadistic bastard from the Valenti family, but it doesn’t mean he’s not attractive. It doesn’t mean that when his gaze strokes across my skin, I don’t feel sexier than I’ve ever felt in my life.
I can’t delight in the sensation, though. It should be nice to be wanted, even if it’s by a man I can never allow myself to want, but it’s not. It’s terrifying.
Because one day, he’ll be done waiting, and he’ll take what he wants. And there’s nothing I can do to stop him, or to stop that day from coming. After all, every day of my life belongs to this man. He became my keeper and my owner the moment he put a ring around my finger like a brand, and he can do whatever he wants with me. I don’t even get to be my own person, to keep my own name. I’m not even Eliza anymore. He erased my identity. Now I’m Mrs. King Dolce.
eleven
King
The morning after the wedding, I leave Eliza sleeping and join the families for brunch, ready to make excuses for my new bride and take the inevitable ribbing. I enter the Pomponio’s beach house through the back door, passing a handful of guards on my way. I’m still getting used to that part of the Life. Sure, Dad was rich, and we had a few crazies try to get to us, but we didn’t use bodyguards. He’s a businessman, not a celebrity. Now that I think about it, the mafia ties probably kept him safe. He’s not involved enough to warrant his own guards, but everyone knows what happens when you mess with Al Valenti’s most valuable associates.
“Where’s the bride?” my brother Duke asks, slapping my shoulder as we meet in the doorway of the dining room. “Don’t tell me you wore her out already.”
“Why not?” Baron asks. “We wore out our bridesmaid.”
They crack up and shove each other like the idiots they are, too immature and sheltered for their own good. I let it slide, though, because they’re the youngest, and they’re only sixteen, and if you can’t be an idiot at that age, you’ll never get the chance. I envy them, in a way. I never had the luxury of being so carefree. It’s a good look for them.
“What’s this I hear about the lady of the hour skipping her own brunch?” Uncle Al asks, appearing at my side. I can see my dad just about popping wood at the sight of me and Al getting close. He always knew I’d work for Al, but this is even better. Now, he’s really connected. I’m in with the Valentis and the Pomponios, and he hid none of his relish at the prospect of increasing his influence and standing when we talked before the wedding.
“I thought I’d let her sleep in,” I say to Al.
“You keep her up all night?” Little Al asks, joining us.
“She’s just not feeling too well this morning, that’s all.”
“I bet she’s not, you dog,” Little Al crows, slapping my back.
Anthony Pomponio is holding court at the head of the table, and he waves me over. “I expected to see my daughter here,” he says, gripping my hand with his big, hard one. His fingers are thick and rough around mine, squeezing like a threat.
“She’s fine, sir,” I assure him, though I’m not too sure. “She just wanted to sleep in.”
“I should probably warn you,” he says with a slight smile. “Eliza’s used to getting her own way. I’ll admit I was lenient with her growing up. After losing a son and a wife, I wanted to give my little girl everything. Raising a kid’s hard—you’ll know that soon enough. But raising one by yourself…”
He breaks off and shakes his head. I don’t say anything, but I’m thinking, how the hell am I going to have a baby and bring our families together when Eliza won’t even let me touch her? I didn’t expect her to love me, but what’s the point in joining the families by marriage if we can’t have a baby? And yeah, maybe I’m a dick, but I expected sex. I’m not into the whole mafia lifestyle that lets a man have a mistress on the side. When I took a vow to be faithful, I meant it. If I can’t fuck anyone else, then I damn well expect to be fucking my wife.
“A man’s not cut out for that work,” Anthony says. “Not when it’s as much work as that girl. For the sake of all of us, you’d better pray for a son.”
He laughs, and I swallow the bile that wants to rise in my throat. My veins feel cold and slow, like they’re filled with the ugly frozen slush left after snow begins to melt. How can I tell him there won’t be any sons or daughters either?
I can’t. It’s that simple. Eliza will just have to find a way to get over her hang-ups at least until she’s pregnant. And then what? I’m supposed to live like some kind of monk while sleeping next to my beautiful, irresistible wife? I guess I was a dumbass to think we’d treat our marriage as a business. She’s a woman. She probably wants love. And that’s the one thing I promised I would never do to her.
“Life’s short, you know?” Anthony says, releasing my hand and clapping me on the shoulder. “You never know when that day will be their last. I spoiled my little girl. She’s got some growing up to do, but I’m sure you kids will figure it out together. Just don’t you be afraid to show her who’s boss. A man’s gotta run his own family.”
Run my own family. How do I do that when my own wife is scared of me? Or is she just fucking with me, trying to avoid me because she hates me? Is she scared I’ll find out she’s been fucking that guy on the beach, or whoever it is she’s been with? If I tell her I don’t care if she’s a virgin, will she relax and give us the son we need to unite our families?
When one of Anthony’s brothers slides in at his other side, I move away with relief. I find my way to the next table and take a seat next to Little Al. “Don’t have too much fun on the honeymoon,” he says. “You’ll think that’s what’s coming for the rest of your marriage. Trust me, kid, it don’t happen that way.”
“Sure,” I say.
“Just a fair warnin’,” he says. “But guys like us don’t have to worry about that, am I right? There’s plenty of pussy out there. You don’t have to marry it to fuck it.”
“I think I’m pretty set,” I say, glancing at Little Al’s wife, who is making her way toward us, a baby on her hip.
Al follows my gaze and turns to more wife-friendly topics as she reaches his side. “Don’t be gone too long,” he says to me. “I got jobs piling up startin’ this afternoon.”
“I could probably do a couple this afternoon,” I say. “The flight doesn’t leave until six.”
“Forget about it,” he says, putting an arm around his wife. �
��Go relax with your honey.”
“I’ll do it,” I say, frowning. “As long as I’m back in time to catch the flight.”
My things are already packed and back in the boat if Eliza hasn’t thrown them overboard. Now that she’s unburdened me of the delusion that sex could be a perk of an otherwise empty marriage, a honeymoon seems even more ludicrous. I don’t know why we’re even going through with it, other than my mother already planned the whole thing. I have no interest in a fucking vacation, but I don’t want to make Eliza’s family think I’m not making an effort, that the marriage is as meaningless and hollow as our words on that altar. So, we’ll go through with it, even though neither of us have any interest in each other.
If there’s one thing our families won’t let go of, though, it’s tradition.
I wait until we’re on the way to a job before broaching the subject with Little Al.
“You’ve been with a lot of women, right?” I ask, knowing full well that he has. If I’ve learned anything by working with the guy for a month, it’s that he loves women just as much now as he did before his marriage.
He cracks up, and I immediately realize I sound like a fucking virgin, and he’s about to give me shit. “Dude, you going to ask me how to fuck a firecracker like your wife?” he asks at last, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.
Ignoring him, I get to the point. He’s not a guy who needs a delicate approach. “You ever been with someone with… Issues?”
“All women got issues,” he says, grinning like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.
I frown. “Then maybe some kind of trauma.”
He snorts with laughter. “Eliza Pomponio’s had dudes guarding her pussy since before there was hair on it. She’s got trauma like my ass got trauma. And that’s to say, none.”
I don’t say anything. I’d thought of that. I just don’t know what else would make a girl so fearful about sex. She called it punishment, for fuck’s sake.
Suddenly, a thought makes bile rise to my throat. She’s only eighteen. The only person punishing her up until now would have been her father. That frozen, slow, ache builds inside my chest again, like it’s filled with the dirty slush after a snow is scraped off the roads. Anthony Pomponio looked right into my eyes and told me I should handle his daughter with a firm hand.
And bodyguards don’t protect a girl from her own father. Especially when that father is a mafia king who pays their salaries. Chances are, even if they found out, they’d look the other way out of fear for their lives. Just like I will, like a fucking pussy. Because there’s not a goddamn thing I can do about it except sign my own death warrant by trying to kill the bastard. I’d probably fail, anyway, seeing as how the guy has about six bodyguards. Then she’ll be right back where she started—at his mercy.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. There were other people in her life. Uncles. That boyfriend she was on the beach with last night. People who work for her father.
“What if one of the bodyguards did something to her?” I ask.
Little Al just shakes his head. “Dude, her dad’s a don. Anyone touched her, he’d have them and their whole family executed with a quickness, you feel me?”
“I guess.”
“Look, Kid, I don’t know what she’s trying to get out of it, but she’s pulling one over on you. She may be smarter to the Life than some of the daughters, but that girl’s so sheltered she may as well have lived in a bubble growing up. No way she’s had any trauma besides reaching the credit limit on her AMEX.”
“Yeah,” I say, staring out the window without seeing. “You’re probably right.”
But I know what I saw. Eliza was upset. She cried. I saw her tears. I heard her words on the shore with her friends. She wasn’t lying.
Was she?
*
“So, this guy Luigi, he’s behind a few payments,” Little Al says as we stop in front of a walk-up apartment. “You gonna take out his kneecaps, or should I bring a baseball bat? I got one in the trunk.”
“I’ll handle it,” I say, getting out of the car without waiting. My blood is still churning funny in my veins, like it hasn’t quite thawed from the thoughts that hit me in the car, the ones I can’t shake. Al is probably right.
But if he’s not…
It had to be her dad. Al’s right about that part for sure—no one else would dare touch her.
When we knock on the door, a woman answers. Two little kids peer around her wide hips. She gasps and steps back when she sees us, tries to shut the door.
I wedge my shoe in before she can slam the door in our faces. My chest knots up when I see the scared eyes of those little kids, so I tear my eyes away. “We’re here to talk to Luigi.”
“H-he’s not here,” she says.
I glance at Little Al, wondering if we should come back later. I don’t want to hurt a guy in front of his family.
Al nods, telling me to go ahead.
“Mind if we come in and confirm that?” I ask.
I hear a noise in the background, the squeak of a door or an old window opening. Without waiting for the lady to answer, Little Al shoves past her and charges in. The window is open, and a guy is silhouetted inside the frame like a picture as he gets ready to go down the fire escape.
I push past the lady, too, racing to grab the guy and help Little Al wrestle him back inside. He twists like an eel, wrenching free of our grip only to lose his balance and go sprawling on the floor on his back.
“Where’s the money?” Little Al barks, his voice deeper and fiercer than I’ve heard it before. He grabs the guy by the collar and pulls back to punch him. The guy does the usual groveling and begging, making excuses. The first time, I had to convince myself that I could stomach it even while thinking, what would it hurt to wait one more day for the payment?
Now, I barely hear him. I know what it would hurt. Our reputation, for one. If we give one guy a day, he’d be asking for a week, a month, a year. If we did it for one guy, we’d have to do it for the next. They all have the same story, some sob story. Our job isn’t to listen to their sob stories. It’s to collect. That’s it.
But when I look up, I see three pairs of terrified eyes watching. I put a hand over Little Al’s fist, stopping him.
“Tell your family to wait in the bedroom,” I say to Luigi.
“No,” he sobs. “They need to see what you monsters do.”
“You don’t like the business, don’t be in it,” I say. “Now tell them.”
“No,” he howls, probably thinking we’ll go easy on him in front of his wife and kids.
I turn to the wife. “Go in the bedroom and don’t come out until you hear the front door close,” I tell her. “You don’t want your kids seeing what’s about to happen.”
The little boy is already crying and clinging to her leg. The girl is just staring with big, silent brown eyes that remind me too much of my sister’s. Maybe she needs to see this. Maybe protecting her from it will turn out as well as protecting Crystal turned out for my family. Her family is in this, and at some point, she’ll have to face the hard truth.
But I can’t do it, and not just because she’s only a child, and there are things no child should have to see or know. Maybe that’s why I shielded Crystal for so long, too. I didn’t want her to have to know the truth about our family, but more than that, I didn’t want her to know that I was capable of something like this. That I was the bad guy.
“Go,” I bark at the woman when she looks uncertain. Luigi keeps telling them not to move, but the woman is smart enough to want to protect her kids, and after a last, longing glance at her husband, she hustles her kids into a bedroom down the hall.
I grab Luigi by the front of his shirt, and when I look into his face, I don’t see him. I see Anthony Pomponio, who probably ruined my wife. I see Devlin Darling, who my sister fell in love with and died with. I see my father, selling the services of his unborn son to a crime lord. I see the face that looks back at me from the mirror ea
ch morning, so ordinary you’d never know it belonged to a man whose job is to make other men suffer.
I pull back and punch him in the face. I can feel his nose give way, and he howls in pain, flopping around and trying to hit back. I don’t feel his blows that rain down on my shoulders, my head. I don’t even feel my own fist connecting with the bones in his face. Little Al helps pin him while I hit him again and again and again, until blood splatters the floor and my arms, my hands, my face.
After a while, Little Al pulls me off. “Remember, a dead man can’t pay his debt. We made our point. Let’s go.”
I stand up, stumbling back. Blood drips from my battered fist. My skin is peeled back from my knuckles, already swelling and turning dark beneath the red. Luigi lies motionless in a pool of blood on the floor. Not Anthony. Not the man responsible for my sister’s death. Not my father.
Not me.
“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s go. I have a plane to catch.”
*
As I predicted, our honeymoon is anything but romantic. That’s fine with me. I’d rather be at home working with Little Al than going through with this empty tradition. Still, I try to engage Eliza in conversation a few times, only to have my questions met with resentful silence or hostile glares. Apparently, sex is not the only thing we won’t be having.
I suppose that’s fine, too. I did tell her she only had to be my wife in public. Conversations aren’t part of that.
Still, it’s hard to spend a week in a room in all-inclusive resort without getting to know someone a little. Despite her sullen attitude toward me, Eliza isn’t unhappy. She participates in the activities at the resort and excursions with excitement. She’s got a big personality that can’t be dampened by my presence. She makes friends with the boatmen, the dive guides, the waitresses.
And she’s never sloppy with herself. She gets up each morning and puts on nice clothes, ones befitting whatever excursion my mother planned for us. She’s meticulous with the scant amount of makeup she wears, her hair, her clothes. She obviously respects herself and isn’t going to let herself go or try to discourage my attraction by making herself unappealing. Her clothes are obviously expensive but on the alluring side—a silk shirt without a bra, a flowing dress that clings to her curves when she walks, tiny shorts that show every inch of her strong, toned legs.