Mafia King

by CD Reiss

  “I am sorry for your loss, Violetta. I am truly sorry.” He reaches down to help me up.

  I don’t want any part of this anymore. How did I even get trapped here? I don’t want grief. I want to be as mad as I deserve to be.

  I take his hand and let him help me stand. He leans his face close to my head. My scalp tingles at the closeness of his lips, but I remain ramrod-straight, my own lips tight and my body unyielding. I expect a kiss, but it never lands.

  Instead, he whispers, “Forzetta.”

  He pulls something out of his pocket and lays it next to my plate. Its glass is a shimmering mirage—a portal back into my old life.

  My phone.

  “I know you’ve been lonely,” he says. “This house isn’t meant to be a prison for you. But make sure Armando is with you.”

  “For my protection.” I touch the hard glass. It responds by lighting up. The wallpaper is of me and a stranger I once knew named Scarlett. He’s kept it charged.

  I look up at him. He seems hopeful, like a dog offering a thrown stick and expecting pats on the head or a big sloppy kiss. But he’s just returning what’s rightfully mine. I cannot arrange my features into the look of gratitude he’s hoping for. I can’t even thank him.

  A few months ago, I would have already been texting Scarlett and calling the Zs, eagerly scrolling through Instagram to see what everyone had been up to in my absence. Now the phone feels as though it belongs to someone else—the carefree American girl I was at the beginning of the summer. She’s gone. But I’m not the fulfilled Italian wife either. I’m stuck somewhere between, and this phone won’t do a damn thing but remind me of who I’m not, and never will be again.

  There’s a long, awkward pause as all my apps glow under my fingertips, crying to be the first one open. I can’t bear it.

  Santino rakes his gaze over me, and for an instant, the heat between us returns. I remember with aching clarity why I gave myself to him, and the tidal force with which he took that gift. Will I ever be strong enough to withstand the riptide of his eyes?

  He did a decent thing, but that does not mean he is decent. A kind gesture does not make him good. A kiss from him does not mean he is loving.

  Just because he is Santino does not mean I have to revere him.

  No matter how badly my body wants him. How badly it wants to rip him out of that fancy suit and beg him to pleasure me as punishment for the horrible things he’s done.

  I turn the phone glass-side down, tap it, then push it away a few inches. “Anything else?”

  “Celia will be out tonight,” he says. “So you will make dinner.”

  Was this supposed to be the bargain? Giving me my phone so I’d cook for him, like this marriage is something other than blasphemy and parody?

  He doesn’t wait for me to agree, because I don’t have a choice.

  Every step he takes to the foyer is a poem to grace, power, and desire.

  I hate him and I want him, because I am a profoundly fucked-up woman.

  3

  VIOLETTA

  The phone gives me no joy. The emails are all business, internships I can’t apply for and opportunities for other students. Social media makes me sad. Scarlett and the few other friends I have are far away. None would understand.

  If this were a different marriage, preparing a traditional dinner for my husband would be one of my great joys. But how can I square that with my desire to never give Santino pleasure of any kind, ever again?

  My zia taught me how to stem herbs, string braciole, and balance a sauce. On our last day together in the basement kitchen, surrounded by friends and family, the comfort of our hearts, she knew she was about to lose me. She made a feast anyway.

  And I think: I will do this for me, and the countless Moretti women who have loved men who can only love darkness.

  Maybe my mother thought this too. Maybe—without options—she never had to think of it at all.

  I get lost in practical tasks. Mixing and pinching and chopping and stirring, I make everything from scratch. Santino doesn’t deserve it, but I want it, so I will have it. Everything I want that it’s possible to have, I shall have.

  Upstairs, I thumb through the closet, looking at the shapeless, matronly clothes Gia picked out for me because I’m a wife, not a whore. I try on a green striped dress, but my own reflection makes me flinch. He already knows I’m not the beautiful one.

  The meal I prepared got me out of my head and back into my body, so I put on a pretty blue dress I bought on Flora Street the day I was almost kidnapped.

  Better. And it’s what I want. If it’s what Santino wants too, or if he likes what he sees, that’s none of my business.

  Is this how I will live from now on? Doling out pleasure to myself and keeping it from my husband? Starving myself in the hope that his hunger kills him before he kills me?

  The front door alarm chirps to let me know someone has entered the house. I quietly make my way into the kitchen and pull on oven mitts.

  “You’re here,” Santino says in a tone touched with surprise.

  “Didn’t you tell me to make dinner?” I snap open the oven and take out the eggplant parmigiana.

  When I stand with it, I find him staring at me with a curious expression. Part surprise. Part relief. A little of something like muted triumph.

  “Si,” he says. “And you did.”

  I almost laugh when I realize he thought I was going to use the phone to escape. As if I’m some kind of child, jumping all over myself to go from frying pan to fire.

  “You thought I was going to leave you hungry?”

  “You’ve starved me of everything else,” he says with a shrug.

  “Boo fucking hoo.”

  He smirks as if he’s enjoying my utter lack of sympathy for the pain I’ve caused.

  Passing close to him, I take the hot pan to the dining room, where I’ve laid out the settings. The wine breathes in a decanter next to the bread and butter.

  Santino sits and shakes out his napkin. Like a good wife, I pour his wine and fill his plate before I sit. His mood is high and his manner is relaxed. He’s in exactly the element he expects. Everything in his world is in its place.

  “This smells good.” He picks up a fork and waits for me to say something. He thinks this meal is an olive branch. He thinks I’ve forgiven him.

  I put my hands in my lap and stare out the window, where the sky dims from blue to orange. When he finally begins eating, I do as well.

  “Is this Celia’s recipe?” he asks.

  Back into my lap go my hands. I say nothing.

  “Of course not,” he mutters as if apologizing for an insult.

  I neither confirm nor deny.

  We do this the entire meal. He says something or asks a question. I don’t respond, putting down my fork until he starts eating again. I can feel his frustration grow with every pause, but he’s audacious in his assumption that repentance is for losers and it’s possible all past sins can be forgiven without any work on his part.

  His plate’s almost clear when he’s simply had enough. “What is it you want?”

  I scoop up our plates and take them to the sink. That’s where he goes for it, coming behind me with his murdering hands and kissing my neck.

  “Do you want me to just take you?”

  Yes.

  No!

  Christ on a ladder. He thinks I’m playing a sex game.

  But yes, I want him to just take me.

  “Non toccarmi.” I elbow him off, figuring he’ll believe me if I tell him not to touch me in Italian.

  He grabs my arm with enough force to make my middle damp with heat, and enough force to let me know he’s done playing my silly games, and turns me around to face him. My entire body lights up with promise. It’s more of a struggle to resist his seduction than it is to keep silent.

  “I hate you,” I lie. I want him more than I hate him. God, I am so, so broken.

  “Hate me as much as you want. Spit on me. Figh
t me. Whatever you do to me, Rosetta’s not coming back.”

  “Fucking you won’t bring her back either.”

  “But maybe it will bring you back.”

  “It won’t.” I mean to be definitive, but the words that are supposed to go directly from my brain to my mouth get rerouted through my heart, and there they’re turned into an invitation with his name engraved on the envelope.

  Santino reads the tone loud and clear, scooping me up and hauling me upstairs before I can tell myself to protest. For my sister. For my self-respect. For any amount of power I want to maintain in this sick marriage.

  But I can’t work myself into the lie, because my whole body sings for his as he takes me into the bedroom I refuse to share with him and sets me on the floor.

  “Run or lie down,” he says. “I won’t chase you, but if you don’t leave now… if you stay in this room… I’m going fuck you.”

  I believe every word he says. I can leave right now and he won’t stop me. I can go be alone in my room with this hot ball of throbbing desire breathing between my legs like a living thing.

  I walk to the door, more sure of my choice with every stride. One, two, three, four steps. I put my hand on the doorknob, pause, reaffirm my decision to myself, then without looking at him, I slap it shut.

  “You were saying?”

  It takes him only two steps to come within reach.

  “You,” he says as he pulls my pretty blue dress over my head. “Are first.” He tosses the dress aside as if it offends him. “You.” He yanks my underwear down to my ankles with one stroke. “Are the only.” From behind, he unhooks my bra, then pushes the straps over my arms, leaving me naked. “It’s you, Violetta. Only you.” His hands come around me and thumb my hard nipples. “There’s no other woman I want. No other tits.” A hand drifts down between my legs. “No other pussy. You are mine. First and always.”

  That’s when I remember what I’m pissed about. I’m the Second Sister. The Left Behind. The Lesser of Two.

  “Fuck you, liar.”

  Before I can draw another breath, I’m airborne, landing on the bed like a pillow. He jerks his clothes off as if they’re on fire. I sit up on the bed. He’s naked over me. His cock is a life force—maddened and engorged and demanding.

  He puts a hand on each of my knees. “This what you want?” Roughly, he pulls up my knees and I fall on my back. “I was gentle before.” He yanks my legs open and I’m exposed meat to a hungry lion. “Now I’m going to fuck you the way you want.” Without preamble, he pierces me with two fingers, pushing as deep as they go. “I’m going to unlock the bitch and find the kitten.” He twists his hand and expertly flicks my clit with his thumb.

  I groan.

  “Purr for me.” He thumbs harder, but I’m not taking orders without a fight.

  “You disgust me.”

  I take him by the throat, but my grasp seems to have no effect. His eyes narrow, and a smirk threatens one corner of his mouth when he presses down his thumb and makes a circle. My thighs tighten and my hips push his fingers deeper.

  “That why you like this?” He moves his thumb against my nub, and I tighten my grip around his neck.

  “I can’t stand the sight of you.”

  “Then don’t look.”

  In one move, he flips me onto my belly and pulls me half off the bed by the ankles. He spanks my poor bare ass with his palm, then the back of his hand, then spreads me apart and wedges himself along the slit between my legs.

  “This better for you then?” His cock presses against my folds as he holds me down. The forced immobility triggers a rush of desire.

  “What do you care?” I want him to take it without me giving it.

  “I don’t.” He rests his cock where I’m wet, pausing his movement. “Tell me to stop. Tell me no.”

  The opportunity to disobey and submit at the same time is not one I can turn away from. I could say I’m emotionally disengaged from what’s happening. I could tell myself there’s a coldly calculated plan underlying my resistance and the pleasure I get from it.

  But those are lies. I’ve never been more fully present.

  “Yes.”

  He jams his cock into me so hard I bite back a scream of both pleasure and pain. The emotional gratification of complete physical surrender pushes up against my mental resistance. The friction between them is electric. He holds me down, pulls my hair, and fucks me as if I’m his property. His plaything. His birthright. Every thrust gets harder, asserting his dominance over deeper and deeper parts of me.

  This isn’t a culmination of love, but the power to split me open and rip me apart—and I love it.

  “Come on,” he grunts, riding me as if I’m a stubborn horse, grabbing my hip hard and pulling it into him while yanking my head back by the hair. “You going to be nice now?”

  His reangled shaft goes deeper, rubbing new places, and all I can do is cry out when he reaches around and runs his fingertips against my swollen clit.

  “That’s right,” he rumbles, going faster and deeper. “What I give. You. Take.”

  Fuck him, but I can’t make words, just gasps, then whimpers, then finally a long groan as I shudder and come around him. He explodes so deep inside me, he’s writing his name on my soul.

  Spent like his last dollar, I drop into a flat puddle. Without a word or moment to breathe, Santino pulls out while he’s still half-hard. I flip over, sore, used, empty and full, leaning back on my elbows, and watch him gruffly put his clothes back on.

  “You are my wife.” He tucks his sex-slick cock into his pants. “You will cook for me. You will talk to me. You will trust me or you will be punished.”

  “Being married to you is the punishment.”

  Not impressed by my insult, he shrugs into his shirt. “You will suck my cock and you will open your legs for me.”

  My knees relax apart as if obeying a command that my brain can’t filter out. I stop and consciously press them together.

  Santino sees this, fixing his cuffs with a frown. “You will forgive me.”

  “You going to open my heart for me too?”

  With the quickness of a cat, he takes a knee in each hand and pushes them apart as far as they’ll go. As if he’s flipped an invisible switch, I’m lit up with desire.

  “I will fuck you so blind you will never look at me this way again. I will fuck you so hard you won’t be able to speak another word of defiance. I am your husband. Do you understand? I can take what I want.”

  “You can rot in hell.”

  “I will. Every day I pray to God and the devil answers. You want me to rot in hell, but I don’t have to rot to know where my death will lead.” He lets me go, but my legs stay open for him, because I’m broken, and maybe I’ll rot with him. “We will go to mass tomorrow. Maybe you can light a candle for me.”

  “Maybe you’ll get struck down at the door.”

  Santino smirks and leaves.

  I wait for the click of the lock, but it never comes, because despite my intentions, I’ve let him take me to his bed in his space.

  The prison is no longer the house, and the warden isn’t Santino. It’s me, and I’m captive to the space between my legs.

  I go to my own room to sleep. There, I dream that choices made are promises kept, and they have the power to overcome my body’s longings.

  4

  VIOLETTA

  In the early morning, I am sore. The ache reminds me of that last morning in Italy—how I felt well-fucked. Like a woman. Like I could feel safe and satisfied being plundered. Now all it tells me is that I’m not as numb as I want to be.

  The pool glimmers outside my bedroom window. How many summers did I spend sweating in my old bedroom, wishing I could go for a swim? Summer made me feel claustrophobic in a sheath of sticky skin. In front of the bedroom fan, I’d hitch up my long skirts and swing my bare legs or bend low, pulling down the neck of my shirt to dry the sweat between my breasts.

  Santino’s palace is perfectly temp
erature-controlled, and still, I long for the sensation of managing my body’s own heat. So I slip into a bathing suit, hoping the chlorine or the cold will shock some sense into me. I doubt it though.

  Dropping my towel onto a chaise, I stand at the edge of the pool. My shadow bends along the built-in steps, not quite touching bottom.

  The pool is, inescapably, Santino’s domain.

  When I step forward, the shadow follows, hitting the underwater floor. For this moment, I’m marking his place as my own. I submerge myself, and in the gurgle and whoosh of sound, I’m immediately flooded in memories. How he pressed me against the wall of the pool. Kissed me. Left me unsatisfied. How he teased me, tormented me, and denied me, knowing I wasn’t ready to surrender fully.

  And then when I did, the pleasure. The frigid kiss of gelato on my tongue. His finger brushing my lip when he fed me oranges. That same hand under my clothes.

  I surface with a gasp.

  My phone is buzzing where I left it on one of the lounge chairs, and my heart leaps into my throat.

  Santino. Who else texts me anymore? What could he want?

  I get out of the pool and check it. To my surprise, it’s not my husband. Even better, it’s from someone I’m allowed to love. Scarlett.

  —Finally home from Iceland! It was amazing!! Can’t wait to swap travel stories. I’m leaving for Monaco with my dad in a few days. Can we hang on Monday? —

  My heart leaps a little. After weeks of isolation and terror and confusion, I can see Scarlett. I can finally get my head straight. I don’t let myself consider what I’ll tell her, how I’ll explain what my life is now.

  But before I can respond, another text comes in, and this one is from the man himself.

  —Wear what’s in the bag—

  What bag?

  As if to answer my question, Armando emerges from inside the house, a huge man with a gun under his jacket, carrying a girlish white shopping bag with pale pink tissue paper tufting up from its insides. Did Santino send an old-lady monstrosity fit for a pious wife? Or something sleek and slutty red, to remind me that even my blood was never my own?