Diego has accompanied me to Belleza a handful of times, setting up with his phones and laptop in my office and mostly staying out of sight. But every now and then I glance up and find him watching me through the crack in the office door. Sometimes he looks like he wants to take me to the back storeroom, snatch down my pants, and bend me over. Other times, he seems pensive, thinking things I can never hope to figure out. He’s still such a mystery to me, this man who fucks me out of my mind every night and gives me everything I ask for.
After a few weeks of good behavior, I get a new phone—though it’s been customized by Jaime so that I can only call certain numbers. A laptop follows—also secured and encrypted—but it’s enough. I begin to feel more like my own self; free to shop online, answer my emails, and generally engage in a world I’ve been isolated from for months.
At night I join Diego at Calentar or spend quiet evenings at the penthouse. Everything is luxurious, true to Diego’s style. I’m never without anything I need, and the small staff who take care of us when we’re in the city seem to anticipate my every need before I do. I start to feel less like a prisoner and more like queen.
Weekends at home are filled with girl time by the pool with Marcella, or outings to the country club. I’m in constant contact with my sister and the handful of friends who didn’t abandon me when I went silent.
The more freedoms and privileges Diego allows me, the harder it is to think of escape. The more he takes me to bed and worships my body without restraint, or makes those sly, sarcastic jokes that make me smile, or shows me just a little bit more of who he is … the more I begin to think I don’t really hate him at all.
I think I might actually like him.
However, it occurs to me on a quiet night after work that I don’t really know him—not as well as he knows me. Most of my background he found out through Jaime, who’s a valuable source of information. Anything he can’t find with a few keystrokes eventually gets dug up as he hacks and pilfers data. Everything else Diego has learned through random questions and close observation. But no matter how much I watch my husband, no matter how many questions I ask, he still remains an enigma.
I set aside my wineglass and push away my empty plate. We ordered Thai takeout for dinner and chose to stay in rather than go to the club. Diego’s been busy lately, leaving me alone most nights to oversee shipments at the docks meet with men from other mafia families. Being this close to the operation shows me how similar running a cartel is to owning a corporation. It’s not as hard to reconcile my life as a mafia boss’s wife when he seems more like a CEO … that is, if I ignore the guns and the occasional bloody soldier who needs tending by Diego’s personal doctor.
“Tell me about your parents,” I ask before I can lose my nerve.
Meals between us are usually filled with light conversation. It’s rare for me to poke and prod beyond surface level questions, but I can’t take it anymore. I submitted to this marriage under duress, so I figure I’m owed something.
Diego glances up from his own wineglass and raises and eyebrow at me. “Why the sudden interest in my parents, gatita? They’re dead. You should be glad not to have them for in-laws.”
His voice doesn’t hold any anger or annoyance, but I can see the resistance in his eyes. The dark depths are as hard and impenetrable as ever, showing me nothing. It’s all I can do not to hurl my glass in frustration. Why is he so difficult to know?
“I don’t know,” I say with a sigh and shake of my head. “Maybe because I’m your wife now, and I’d like to know something about you other than your favorite Scotch, or your favorite guns.”
Diego smiles, something I’m still having to get used to. It seems to come easier to him when we’re alone now, and it’s so beautiful I can hardly look away. His teeth are white and straight, the grin slightly crooked and boyish. It makes him look younger and softer, less intimidating. The fear that used to rule our relationship has dissipated, and I’ve come to see him more as a wounded, moody panther as opposed to a hungry, feral one. At least, he seems that way when it comes to me. I’ve seen him chew out one of his men for slipping up, or threatening an enemy over the phone. I haven’t forgotten what it’s like to be on the other end of that rage.
“My father was an asshole,” he says without a bit of inflection in his voice. It’s as if he’s talking about the weather. “He was cruel, uncompromising, and distant. You wouldn’t have liked him.”
I can’t help a teasing smile. “Sounds like the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”
Diego laughs, slouching and loosening the top buttons of his shirt. “He was far worse than I am, gatita. He only took an interest in me because I was the heir to the throne. Marcella was only a baby when he … died, but he treated her like a ghost. She would have grown up without a real father if he’d survived.”
My curiosity spikes at the weight of his words and the look on his face when he delivers them. His casual tone has turned harsh, and I can see the clear disdain Diego has for his dead father.
“And your mother?” I prod, leaning closer over the table. I feel like I’m going down a dangerous road, but I can’t seem to stop.
Diego’s expression darkens like a thundercloud has passed over his face. “She presented herself like the typical mafia wife. She was born into this world. Her father was one of my abuelo’s closest lieutenants. Her marriage to my father wasn’t arranged, but it might as well have been. She was groomed for life on the arm of a powerful man and taught that it was her only purpose.”
I wrinkle my nose in distaste. “That sounds like something out of the 1800s.”
Diego’s lips twitch in amusement, but his smile doesn’t reappear. “Like those novels you love to read? The one in your nightstand drawer seems to be a favorite.”
My face goes warm as I think of the worn copy of The Villain I’ve read at least four times in the past few months. I’ve become slightly obsessed with the twisted story—namely the rough and dominant hero, who reminds me so much of Diego. It’s just more proof that something is seriously wrong with me. “It’s sexy in fiction and makes sense for the time-period. But this day and age? Your mother must have hated being used for an influential marriage.”
“She resented it,” Diego agrees. “In front of others, she pretended to be something she wasn’t—quiet and polished and submissive. In private, she revealed her true self. She was ruthless and calculating—always the smartest person in the room. It ate her alive to witness my father’s mistakes and know she could have run La Familia so much better. I think if she had been born into a normal family, she might have grown up to run corporations or be president or some shit. She wanted power more than anything.”
She sounds like my kind of woman, but I don’t voice that thought out loud. Something about Diego’s face when he speaks of his mother makes me think there’s more to the story. It makes me think that Mrs. Pérez wasn’t a good mother, despite her other winning characteristics.
“How did they die?” I ask, my voice low.
Diego meets my gaze, the muscles in his jaw winding tight. “My mother died about five years ago. She hanged herself in her bedroom.”
I nearly choke on my next breath, stunned into silence. As I gape at Diego and the nonchalant way he dropped that bombshell, he stands and goes to the liquor cabinet with his glass.
“She couldn’t live with knowing that everything she’d ever done to gain power had blown up in her face,” he says while pouring a Scotch and adding a twist of lime. “Both her children despised her for being a cruel and controlling mother. Her husband was dead. Her attempts at controlling the cartel through me had failed, because she had forgotten that love is what strengthens loyalty. She took her own life knowing no one would ever love her.”
“Did …” I pause and swallow, revulsion rising in the back of my throat. “Did it happen … in our house?”
Diego’s face is grim when he turns to face me, leaning back against the cabinet. “You don’t want to hear
about all this, gatita.”
“Yes, I do,” I insist, even though I feel like I’m going to be sick. “You asked me to try to make this marriage work, but I don’t know anything about you.”
“You know the important things. You know enough.”
“If you don’t trust me with your past, then just say so,” I snap, averting my eyes to the window overlooking the city, lit up for the night.
Diego sighs and slowly approaches me, one hand clutching his Scotch and the other landing on my shoulder. He stands behind me, lightly massaging the tense muscle. I can feel his burning stare on the back of my neck, and the light stroke of his thumb at my nape makes me shiver.
“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” he murmurs. “But my past … my life … these aren’t happy stories, Elena. I am who I am because of my parents and the pain they caused me, and because living through it was the price I had to pay for an inheritance I didn’t always want.”
I turn in the chair to look up at him, resting my hand over his. “If this is going to work, you can’t hide the dark stuff from me. After all that’s happened, I think I’ve proven I’m strong enough to handle it. If your mother was resentful, maybe it’s because the people in her life treated her like a porcelain doll.”
Diego offers his smile again, but it’s strained and slightly sad. “You’re not porcelain. You’re steel—hard and hammered to a beautiful finish. I knew that the first time I saw you.”
He slips his hand from beneath mine and strokes my cheek. Then, he moves toward the window, staring out into the night.
“My mother hanged herself in one of the third-floor rooms,” he says. “She moved herself up there once I made it clear I didn’t want her in my presence. I’d had enough of her manipulation. She’d been dead for two days before Mariana found her.”
I press a hand over my mouth, my stomach twisting and quivering. “Holy shit,” I whisper into my palm.
Diego goes on talking as if I haven’t said anything, his back hard and unmoving, the fabric of his shirt stretched tight over the bulges of muscle.
“In families like ours, it’s the father’s job to mold the son in his image. It’s rare for mafia sons to grow up to be anything other than gangsters. It’s the only life we know. Once I was old enough to understand what it all meant, my father started teaching me about the business side of things. On my tenth birthday, he bought me my first gun. We spent hours at the range practicing. As his son, I had to be of use. I had to put aside my toys and my video games and act like a man. I couldn’t be weak. Tears were the worst sin I could commit, and if I shed a single one he thrashed me with his fists.”
My throat starts to constrict until I can hardly breathe. Tears burn my eyes, but I blink them back. The last thing I want is for Diego to take them for pity. My heart is breaking at the image of a handsome little boy, trying to be brave when a grown man is coming at him with massive fists. I’ve seen the portrait of Diego’s parents in the conference room where he meets with his men. The man had been large like his son—muscular and intimidating. I can’t imagine being so small and helpless in the face of that.
“My mother had other ideas,” Diego says between slow sips of Scotch. “She argued with my father all the time about my training. He wasn’t pushing me hard enough or teaching me the most important lessons … things she insisted I needed to know if I was going to fill his shoes someday. I don’t think they knew I overheard most of their squabbles. When I wasn’t being trained, I was practically invisible to them. Two nannies were responsible for making sure I was fed and clothed and taken to school. The only time our family was together was for Sunday mass, and even then it was like sitting with virtual strangers. I barely knew them.”
“Anyway, Mother finally got sick of waiting for my father to become the man she wanted him to be. He was weak, and his mistakes either lost the cartel millions in cargo or goods, or got his soldiers killed. The Pérez family had more enemies under his reign than any other boss in its history. He was too quick-tempered and impulsive, and everyone knew it. So, one day, my mother came to me and explained that our lives were in danger. At least half my father’s men were planning a coup. They wanted to put someone more competent in his place and were willing to kill him to do it. Once that happened, we would be next. No one could be left behind who could fight to take the family back. My mother, me … Marcella.”
He hangs his head and goes silent, the glass hanging limp in his hand. I can’t stop the tears now, no matter how hard I try. My shoulders are shaking with silent sobs, and I’m overcome with the need to close the space between us and wrap my arms around him. I don’t think he’d take kindly to that, so I force myself to stay in my chair.
“How old were you?” I ask, trying to keep the grief out of my voice and failing.
Diego doesn’t seem to notice. “Eleven,” he mumbles. “Marcella was a baby. She’d just started walking and … she was the only person I loved and who loved me. I would have done anything to protect her. My mother would have thrown her under a bus to save her own ass, but I would have torn out my own spleen for that baby girl. I still would.”
Swiping at my tears, I stand to my feet, my eyes glued to his back. “What did you do, Diego? What did she make you do?”
He turns to face me, not batting an eye at my flushed, damp face. Emotion is still locked away, his face a blank slate. It’s as if he’s telling me about horrific things that happened to someone else.
“She took me into his office … the same office I work out of now. He was pacing back and forth, talking on the phone. He was annoyed with us for interrupting him and waved us off like he always did. He went back to his phone call and turned his back, so he didn’t see her hand me my pistol. I shot him in the back first, even though I’d been taught that was the coward’s way. But Mother said things were different in that situation. We were under attack, and this was about survival. The threat my father had brought on the family had to be eliminated from the top down.”
Diego watches as I brace a hand on the table, not certain I can stay on my feet. This can’t be real life. Mothers don’t coerce their sons into killing their fathers. Fathers don’t beat their sons and force them to become criminals before they’re old enough to know what they want from life. This isn’t how families are supposed to work.
But then I think of how my father was willing to let me die in his place. My mother was a wonderful woman, and he never deserved her. If she were still alive, everything might have been different. I can take comfort from that, but Diego has nothing. No comfort, no rest from an invisible cage keeping him trapped.
“He went down onto his knees,” Diego continues, “and Mother pushed me toward him and told me to finish the job. So, I shot him between the eyes. Then, Mother had all the men who were still loyal round up the ones who had betrayed us. They were forced to kneel, one-by-one in front of me to be executed. Counting my dad, I killed twenty-two men that day. When it was over, she made all the remaining men kneel and take an oath of loyalty to me … their new king.”
“God,” I whisper, sniffling and drying the last of my tears. “No wonder you don’t want children.”
Diego nods, his lips pinched tight. “It’s also why I never wanted a wife.”
I let out a sound that partially a laugh, but also a sob. “Afraid I’ll stab you in the back?”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m afraid that someone who wants to hurt me would do it through you. I never wanted to be that vulnerable. Being in this position is easier when you have nothing to lose.”
I take a tentative step toward him, then another, and he doesn’t move away. Diego is watching me like I’m a snake he expects to strike—or a woman who will collapse on him and get hysterical.
“Then why did you marry me?” I ask.
He shrugs helplessly. “I didn’t have a choice, gatita. You were too good to be true, and once I had you, I couldn’t let you go. But I won’t lose you … not now, not ever. If you never tru
st me to do anything else, you can trust me to keep you safe. I would burn the world to ashes for you.”
Something deep inside me fractures, and I lose what’s left of my resistance. I told myself this would never happen—that Diego could never get to me on any level that wasn’t physical. But he’s like a cyclone, swirling and destructive and pulling me into his center.
I go to him and place both hands on his chest. His heart is racing, and it’s the only hint that he’s not as calm as he appears on the outside.
“This is who I am, gatita,” he says, bracing his hands over mine and holding them against his sternum. “I don’t know how to be anything else. I know I’m not the kind of man you would have wanted—”
“No,” I cut in. “But you’re still mine.”
He bows his head with a heavy sigh, letting his forehead rest against mine. I wrap my arms around his neck and hold him the way his mother should have all those years ago. He’s so big and powerful, but that little boy is still locked inside him somewhere. That little boy needs comfort, just as much as the man. He needs someone to prove that they can be loyal without ulterior motives.
He needs to be loved.
Tipping my head back, I meet his gaze. “Can I ask you something?”
His fingers are already working at the button and zipper of my slacks, and pulling my silk blouse from the waistband. “If you can manage it before I get my dick inside you, go ahead.”
I giggle and try to move away, but Diego wrestles me back into his arms, then turns and pushes me against the window. My pants hit the floor, then my black lace underwear. I step out of my heels and watch him loosen his belt. I’m wet at the thought of him fucking me against this window, and the sadness of our conversation is already forgotten.
“If you could have chosen to be anything else, what would you have done with your life?”
Diego kicks off his shoes, pushing his pants and briefs down in one movement. Then, he lifts me, his cock nudging at my slick opening. “A pro baseball player,” he says with a wistful smile. “I was good, gatita … I was very good.”
Marrying the Mobster: American Gangsters 1 (Leave Me Breathless) Page 20