Mafia Princess: An Arranged Marriage Mafia Romance (Valenti Family Ties Book 1)

by Selena

  I know how dangerous that is not just because someone could take her from me, but because I won’t be able to protect her from all the hurts that come with being a made guy’s wife. I can’t promise her I’ll always be here. I wasn’t there to protect her in the past when she was hurt, and I can’t protect her from the effects of her past on her life now. The truth is, I can’t even promise I’ll protect her if I’m here. I’ve failed before. How could she trust me to take care of her when the last girl I was supposed to protect ended up dead?

  fourteen

  Eliza

  King is quiet on the way back, as usual. I haven’t cared up until now. I haven’t wanted to talk to him, either. I didn’t want to risk getting close. But that’s all gone now. There’s no way to go back, to keep from freaking out when he touched me, to keep from spilling my dirty secrets to him. And there’s no way to feel distant from someone after telling them something like that, something you’ve spent your life hiding, and compensating for, and ignoring. Something you’ve never told anyone. I bared my soul, my shame, my brokenness. I don’t even know why I told him. Maybe some part of me recognized a brokenness inside him, and it called out to me that we are the same, that he could be trusted with this, that he could bear it.

  I glance at him every few minutes on the plane. I’m quiet, too, but I’m brimming with questions, worries. I don’t want him to go digging, to unearth the past. I don’t want him thinking he can be some kind of hero, save me from myself. I want him to leave it alone, to pretend it never happened, just like I do. But for the first time, I wish I knew him better, that I hadn’t spent the last few months keeping as much distance from him as possible, locking him out, telling him I hated him, that I didn’t want to know him.

  Because now I don’t know him, and I want to. I want to know what he’s thinking, planning, feeling. I want to know what is down in the depths of those deep, brooding eyes, what pain was reflected back when I shared mine. And on a more selfish note, I want to know if he sees me differently, if he can’t help but be repulsed by me and my fucked up trauma. Even more fucked up, now that I know he won’t see me as his sexy little wife anymore, that’s all I want. I want him to want me, to still think I’m desirable and fuckable instead of delicate and broken.

  Which is ridiculous, since I didn’t want him to see me as sexy or fuckable before he knew.

  I want to go back to that, though, back to what we had before. That wasn’t ideal, but it wasn’t scary like this. I’m vulnerable now. I’ve let him see too much, know too much. I need to know his secrets, balance the scales.

  But he doesn’t talk. We’re polite to each other on the flights. Things have definitely shifted, and not in a good way. I can tell he no longer thinks of me as just a bratty, spoiled princess. I’d rather be that than damaged and sad, though. How do I undo what I did, unsay what I said? How do I do damage control when the damage is so deep and irreversible I don’t even know where to start?

  I can’t.

  When we reach New York, I’m relieved. All I want is to go back to the way things were. Instead, King gets my bags and we head for his car in the same heavy silence that’s hung between us all day.

  “I like your car,” I try as he loads the suitcases into the Lotus.

  “Thanks,” he says, sliding around to open the door for me. “You drive?”

  “I know how.” I don’t have a car—most people in the city don’t—but I have a license and I’ve driven Dad’s car. He wanted to make sure I was capable in case our house was ever ambushed, and I needed to make a getaway.

  We leave the parking garage before I decide I’ve had enough of this weirdness. I’d rather just talk about it and clear the air instead of pretending last night never happened.

  I turn to King as he pulls out into the stream of taxis and other traffic. “Listen,” I say. “About last night… I know it’s not fair to ask you to wait for me to be ready. Even I don’t know how long it’ll take, or if I’ll ever want to. So, I think you should find a cumare.”

  He shoots me a scowl. “I don’t want a mistress, Eliza.”

  “I know,” I say. “You want a wife who isn’t a frigid bitch, as you put it. But unfortunately, neither of us got to choose that.”

  “I didn’t call you a bitch,” he says. “I called you a brat. And that was wrong of me. If I’d known…”

  I close my eyes and thunk my head back against the headrest in frustration. “See, that’s why I didn’t want to tell you,” I say. “I want you to think of me just the way you did. As a frigid brat who’s not sleeping with you because I hate you and I want to hold out on you and drive you crazy.”

  “Then why are you telling me to take a girl on the side?”

  “Because I know you need that,” I say. “And maybe I don’t hate you anymore. So, if I can’t give you what you need, then I have to be okay with you finding it somewhere else.”

  “I don’t want anyone else,” he says. “I want you, Eliza.”

  His words hang between us, heavier than the silence. The honeymoon was only a week, but it seems all that time alone together made this happen faster than either of us wanted.

  “I’m sorry,” I say quietly, guilt burning a hole in my heart.

  This time, he sighs, adjusting his grip on the wheel and reaching over to lay a hand on my knee. “No, I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have said that. I said I wouldn’t put pressure on you. And I don’t want to. I just mean, I only want my wife. No one else. So if I have to wait a month, or a year, or ten years, until you’re comfortable with me, then that’s what I’ll do.”

  “But… I don’t want you to have to do that,” I say. “I want you to have all your needs met. It’s just like… Like I don’t want to clean, so we’ll hire a maid. I don’t want to have sex, so you can hire someone for that. There’s nothing wrong with sex workers, King. Dad has a club where a bunch of them work. They’re really nice. I’m sure you can find one you like.”

  He gives me an incredulous look. “Are you fucking serious right now?”

  “Well… Yeah,” I say. “I know you think I’m setting you up or something, but I’m not. I may be inexperienced, but I know men. It’s in your biology. My father might have gotten me a human chastity belt, but he didn’t shield me from much. I’ve been sitting in on poker games since I was five. I’ve heard the talk. I’ve met the kinds of guys who do this job, and you need a way to relieve stress.”

  “Stop telling me what I need,” he grits out.

  “Sorry. I just mean, if you need sex… I’m fine with you getting it. Just don’t tell me all the details. I’ll look the other way.”

  “How would you like it if I was over here lecturing you on how much you need sex because it’s natural and biological... ”

  I shudder, wrapping my arms around myself at how close those words come to the ones I’ve heard before. “You’re right,” I say. “I’m sorry. That was really shitty of me.”

  We drive in silence for a while. At last, King moves his hand from my knee to shift, glancing at me from the corner of his eye. “Maybe we can work through it.”

  I snort. “I don’t think so.”

  We’re quiet for another minute.

  “Okay,” he says at last. “But if you want to work on it… I’m not going to be with anyone else. I want you to know that. Whenever you’re ready to try, I’ll be here. I’m here for you and only you, Eliza. I meant it when I said my vows, and I meant it when I said I’d wait.”

  I want to argue, but I can see the man has his pride, and his word is part of that. Still, it seems a waste. He’s so fucking beautiful. When I remember kneeling in front of him, looking up at his body… It was like some kind of marble statue come to life. By the time I’m ready to be intimate, it could be years. He’s in his prime, and I’m holding him back, smothering him with my demons.

  Shit. I’m his human chastity belt.

  “Well, I don’t mind doing what we did last night,” I say. “You can teach me to be bet
ter at it. And maybe I can give you a picture to look at for when you need to do it alone.”

  He clears his throat and glances at me. “I’d like that very much,” he says, his voice low as his long, warm fingers cover my knee again.

  I turn to the window, hiding the smile that’s found its way onto my face. Maybe I can be a good wife after all. I don’t have to be his maid or his sex slave. I can be… Something else. Something more than a friend but less than a wife should be. Something… More like a cumare, like I said I wanted. I know better than to think the feelings between a mistress and a married man aren’t real or deep, so I don’t have to pretend I won’t feel that for King. And maybe it’ll be okay.

  Our families want us together. If Dad can forgive the Valentis, why shouldn’t I? It’s not like I’m forgiving the man who killed Jonathan. I’m forgiving my husband, a man who was only a child when that happened, who wasn’t even part of the Valenti family at the time. I’m not betraying my family. I’m doing my duty to them, just like Dad wanted. And one day, surely I’ll be ready to have a baby. If I can’t have sex, maybe we can have a doctor help out as if I really were unable to conceive naturally. For all I know, I am.

  I know it’s not ideal, and maybe it’s even selfish. I know what people would say. It was a long time ago, I should just get over it. I should go to a shrink. I’m being selfish.

  But it’s more than a memory, more than something that fucked with my head. I don’t even think about it that much, but it’s always there, as if it sank into my being, became part of me. It lurks inside me even when I don’t feed it with attention or conscious thought. It feeds off me like a parasite, like a cancer, living in every cell that makes up my body. I can’t just forget about it, can’t get over it and move on, any more than someone with a disease can get over it by willing it away. All I can do is ignore it, not let it control my life, and live hard and outrageously, prove to myself that it doesn’t define me.

  It only defines one part of me, and that part is hidden and private, tucked away safely, never to be touched or awakened. That part made me a victim. If I don’t have those feelings, don’t acknowledge that part of me, it can’t hurt me, can’t make me a victim again. And I won’t be a victim. I’m strong now, coated in armor, dipped in the river Styx like Achilles. I have a chink in my armor, but luckily, it’s a lot harder to access than my heel. I’m stronger than Achilles, stronger than anyone knows. Strong enough that I don’t need sex, even if it is biology. I control my body, not the other way around. And no one controls me.

  fifteen

  King

  “You’re going back to work today, right?” Eliza asks, sitting at the vanity, her hair tumbling to one side as she tilts her head to watch herself put in a big, gold hoop earring.

  “Yes,” I say, standing behind her and adjusting my tie in the mirror above her head.

  We don’t meet each other’s eyes. Things have been a little different since returning from the honeymoon a few days ago. I can’t tell if they’re better or worse. There’s a wariness in both of us, as if we’re both watching the other from the corner of our eyes, waiting to see our partner’s next move. We tiptoe around the ugly topics, but we haven’t talked since the car ride. I don’t want to keep bringing it up, but how can I not think about it?

  What does she mean, it was taken care of? Did her dad find out and kill the guys? Or was he one of the guys, and she doesn’t want me to get myself killed?

  I want the bastard to pay. I want to rip out his intestines and shove them back down his throat until he chokes to death.

  “Does that bother you?” I ask Eliza, my voice sounding so normal you’d never know I was considering murdering her father.

  “Of course not,” she says. “I know how much you men love your work.”

  I don’t know what she means by that. Hurting people is not exactly a job I’d say I loved, but I am dedicated to my work, it’s true. I have to be.

  “What about you?” I ask, lingering to watch her even after I’ve checked my reflection. Looking the part is important. Appearances reflect on a person’s character, family, and everything else. Eliza is beautiful with or without makeup, but I like that she puts herself together to go out in public, that I’m the only one who sees her bare face.

  “I’m not sure,” she says, lightly.

  “No plans?”

  “Look, I’ve always done whatever I wanted,” she says flatly. “My mom followed her dream, and I’m following mine.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  She stares at me, her lips pursing as she swallows. “For what?”

  “That your mom’s not around,” I say. “That she didn’t come to the wedding.”

  Eliza drops her gaze and messes with the makeup on her vanity for a few seconds before lifting her face and shaking her hair back, leaning in to powder her skin with a brush. “My mom’s my hero,” she says. “She risked her life to be free and follow her heart. Not many women have the balls to stand up to a mob boss.”

  I want to say I’m sorry again, to insist it still sucks for Eliza, but then I hold it back. “She sounds brave,” I say after a second.

  “She is,” Eliza says. “And I won’t have any man controlling me, either. I did as my family wanted and married you, and I’ll do what you want when I need to. But no one is going to tell me what to do. I’m going to keep doing what I have been, whatever the fuck I want, and you can’t stop me.”

  “Okay…”

  “I mean it,” she says. “If you mess with me, if you hurt me, you’ll see just what my father is capable of.”

  My stomach turns at that threat. Is he capable of hurting a child the way I suspect, his own daughter no less?

  “I’m not interested in being your surrogate father or telling you what to do,” I say. “You’re an adult. We’ve been over this. Act like a married woman when you leave the house, and you can do whatever the fuck you want the rest of the time.”

  “Good,” she says. “I just wanted to make sure we’re still clear about that.”

  It’s the closest we’ve come to talking about what happened, and I don’t want to push it. After what happened to her, she’s slow to trust, but I’m going to keep showing up for her, showing her that I’m not going to hurt her. Eventually, she’ll learn that I’m a man of my word, that she can let her guard down and let me help her heal. I may have failed the last girl I had to care for, but it won’t happen again. This time, I’ll save her.

  I’ve held her the last few nights, but nothing more has happened. It’s funny how I’ve begun to notice other things now that sex is off the table. When I know it’s not coming later, I can relax and feel physical pleasure apart from sexual pleasure. It’s almost deeper, the pleasure I take in her soft, small body curled against mine; the heat and weight of her head when she rests on my arm as I fit my body around hers at night; the buttery smoothness of her skin under my calloused hands. Touching her feels fucking amazing no matter where it is or where it’s leading.

  But during the day, things are still uncomfortable between us. It’s easy at night, when we can talk with our bodies, in the dark. During the day, she’s guarded, watching like she’s not sure what move I’ll make next. I’m no better. I want to take care of her, but she won’t let me, and I never know when I’m going to piss her off or what she’ll do if that happens. Her father could end my life with the snap of his fingers.

  “Well, enjoy your day,” I say, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. It’s one of those gestures that wasn’t planned, but after I do it, it makes something behind my sternum tighten into an ache. That’s something a man would do with a wife he’s comfortable with, a wife who loves him, who cares whether he comes home that night.

  I can’t help but want to take care of her, but that doesn’t mean the feeling is mutual. I need to remember that and be careful.

  When I get to Al Valenti’s, his guards check the car, including the trunk and underneath it, as if someone could be clinging to the
bottom of the Evija. I almost laugh.

  “Gotta check everyone,” the guard says, giving me a friendly salute. “Can’t be too careful.”

  “I know,” I say, saluting back before heading around to park. Little Al’s car is there, too, and after being stopped by two guards at the back door, I’m allowed to enter.

  One more guard is stationed outside the dining room where I find Uncle Al, Little Al, and Al’s consigliere having lunch.

  “There he is,” Little Al crows when he sees me, dropping his hoagie and holding out a hand for me to slap. “You been working on your tan?”

  I shrug. “I’ve been at the beach for a week.”

  “How was Bora Bora?” Uncle Al asks, looking up from his food and fixing those watchful eyes on me. The guy doesn’t miss anything.

  “You better not have seen any of it,” Little Al says, winking at me and biting into his sandwich. “Why were you on the beach, bro? You should have spent every minute in your hotel room.”

  I’ve had about enough of this conversation, so I steer it in a different direction, though I notice Al Valenti watching me like he knows something’s up.

  “What’d I miss?” I ask, taking a seat and scooting in next to Little Al.

  “Nothing important,” Uncle Al says. “I’m meeting with Anthony Pomponio tonight. If that wife of yours hasn’t checked in with him since the honeymoon, make sure she does that.”

  My stomach clenches at the unspoken threat in those words. Make sure she gives him a glowing report of our marriage. Of me.