Wife For Him: A Possessive Mafia Romance

by B. B. Hamel

  Call me old-fashioned though, but I didn’t want anything else. I wanted my pretty wife, and although she hated me now—sooner or later, she’d come around.

  On the third day, I woke her up early. I didn’t barge into her room, although I wanted to. I knocked a few times until I heard her stumbling around in there. “Just a second, shit, what time is it? Stop knocking,” she said, her voice muffled by the door. I leaned up against the wall opposite until she opened the door by a crack and stared out at me.

  “Morning,” I said.

  “It’s barely after six. What do you want?”

  “I bought you a present last night.”

  “I’m not interested.” She moved to shut the door but I caught it before it could close. She looked a little surprised as I held it open.

  “I wasn’t asking your permission.”

  “Let go.” Her eyes hardened.

  “Come downstairs and see what I got you.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “You’ll like it, I promise.”

  She kept staring. “Let go of the door.”

  I released it and she slammed it in my face.

  I sighed and walked back downstairs. I heard her moving around in her room then listened as the shower water began to run. I drank my coffee and read the paper and after about an hour, she came down the steps wearing a pair of black sweats and a gray t-shirt. I let my eyes roam along her body as I pushed my chair back and stood.

  “I’m not interested,” she said before I could open my mouth.

  “Come on. It’s a present. Everyone loves presents.”

  “I have a feeling your presents come with lots of strings attached.”

  I laughed. “Normally, that’s true. But not this time.”

  She walked into the kitchen and poured herself some coffee. She studied me while I went past her into the living room, and opened the closet.

  A mound of boxes tumbled out. I laughed as I tried to straighten them up. She walked toward me, chewing her lip, and nodded.

  “What is all that?”

  “Presents.” I gave up trying to corral the stuff and stepped back. “What do you think?”

  “Is that for real?”

  I nodded and ran a hand through my hair. “You’ll be happy to know that I didn’t pick it out myself. I had someone else do it.”

  She walked over and gingerly touched a Dolce and Gabbana box. I had no clue what was inside since I vastly overpaid some skinny white lady to do all my shopping for me, but I figured she was worth it.

  “Why?” The word sounded more surprised than anything else.

  “I noticed you didn’t have a lot when we moved your stuff over.”

  Another flash of anger, but she wrestled it back. “Not all of us rob people for a living.”

  I snorted. “Your father does.”

  “Just because my father’s a wealthy gangster doesn’t mean I have a dime of that money.”

  “I guess that’s true.” I tilted my head to the side. “I just figured—”

  “Don’t figure.” She turned back to the boxes. “My relationship with my father isn’t exactly great.”

  “Why not?”

  She paused as she lifted off the lid of the D&G box. She lifted out a light sweater, modest and gray, that shimmered slightly in the light. Based on the way it draped over her hands, I’d guess cashmere, and really good cashmere at that. She sucked in a breath and held it up, pressing it against her chest, letting the fabric drape over her breasts and body—and I had the sudden urge to see her wearing nothing but that damn sweater.

  “He’s an asshole,” she said, as if that explained much.

  “Go on.”

  She hesitated, put the sweater back, opened another box from Steven Madden. Gorgeous, supple brown leather ankle boots were inside, and she seemed delighted as she took them out and held them up to the light.

  “My father wasn’t an easy man to live with, especially after my mother died. After she was gone, it was like he had permission to go through woman after woman, and he always brought them home like they were going to be my new mom, but they never lasted more than a few weeks. I got used to it, then I got bitter about it, and eventually we started fighting.”

  “Can’t say I’m shocked. Most mafia families aren’t full of gentlemen.”

  She gave me a look. “What’s that say about you?”

  I grinned back at her. “I’m not in a mafia family.”

  “What do you call—” She gestured at me. “Whatever it is?”

  “The Volkov Crew. We’re a loose conglomerate of affiliated gangs.”

  She put the boots back and stared at me. “That sounds like something you just made up.”

  I sat down in a chair and crossed my legs, my coffee mug perched on my ankle. “Hedeon brought us all together. Some of us had our own groups before he got his claws into us, and those groups melded into the greater whole. Those that didn’t have a crew already were given some guys. We worked independently of each other and still do to some extent—but Hedeon’s the head of it all. Without him, we’d break apart.”

  “Sounds fragile.”

  “In some ways, it is, but it also makes us strong. Even if one crew falls, there are ten more to take its place. In that way, we’re pretty difficult to pin down, you know?”

  She shrugged. “You’re still a bunch of mafia assholes whether you act like a mafia family or not.”

  “You’re a little biased.”

  “I have reason to be.” She looked back at the clothes, reached for another box, then stopped herself. “Why should I take any of this stuff?”

  “Because you like it and I like that you like it.”

  “That’s not a good reason.”

  “Sure it is.”

  “I’ll owe you, and I don’t want to owe you anything. I want to get through this and move on with my life once it’s over.”

  I took a deep breath and tried not to let myself lose my temper. She was pushing me and she knew it—and I had a feeling she did it on purpose.

  “Look, whether we like each other or not, it doesn’t matter. We’re still stuck together for a while, so we might as well try to make the best of it, yeah? Let this be my wedding present to you.”

  I saw her expression soften. She looked back at the boxes on the floor then at the boxes piled up in the closet. They were all designer brands, expensive brands, and she’d probably scream if she knew exactly how much I spent on her.

  But she shook her head and stood up. “No, I can’t take it.”

  “Cora.”

  “No.” She walked toward the steps. “Maybe you’re really trying to be nice here, but I can’t.”

  I watched her walk upstairs and slowly shook my head.

  I let another day pass.

  She didn’t want to take my peace offering— that was fine. I couldn’t really blame her. From her perspective, I was another mafia asshole trying to bribe her with presents and money. Which I guess could’ve been worse, but hey, she had her morals.

  So I returned all that shit. My shopper lady wasn’t happy about it—until I told her I had a different plan in mind and gave her an even bigger budget. Then she shut up since she was too busy calculating her commission.

  That night I sat on the couch and watched football. I should’ve been out doing rounds on my turf but I decided my pretty new wife was more important. I had my legs kicked out and my feet on the coffee table when she came downstairs hunting for something to eat for dinner.

  I let her get halfway to the kitchen before I spoke up.

  “I got you another present.”

  She stopped and slowly turned to face me. She wore exercise gear, tight yoga pants and a tank top, and she had a sheen of sweat on her forehead. I guessed she was upstairs doing some kind of workout.

  “What did you say?”

  “I got you another present.”

  “I thought we agreed we’re not doing that.”

  I shrugged, turned off the game
, and stood. “You said you didn’t want what I got you, so fine, I returned it all.”

  She chewed her lip. “All of it?”

  I grinned at her. “Don’t be greedy.”

  “Whatever. I don’t want anything from you, okay?”

  “Just look in the closet.”

  She took a sharp breath and rubbed at her temples. “Are you going to leave me alone if I say no?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  She let out the breath and marched over to the closet. I moved closer and watched as she pulled it open—

  And a mountain of Victoria’s Secret boxes and bags tumbled out.

  She stared at it all. Panties, nighties, lingerie—even a few sweatpants and workout stuff—fell out on top of her and all over the floor. She took a few seconds to stare at the pile before turning to me.

  “What the hell?”

  “You didn’t want clothes, so I got you something I’d enjoy instead.”

  “You fucking… you asshole.” She kicked a box and sent it spinning toward me.

  I laughed. I couldn’t help myself. Her cheeks turned bright red as she looked down at a pair of lacy black panties that had fallen onto her foot. She kicked them off and balled her hands into fists as her jaw clenched. I thought she might come at me and try to hit me again, but instead she shook her head.

  “You’re a dick. You know that, right? This isn’t funny.”

  “Oh, I think it’s really funny, but it’s not a joke.”

  “I’m not taking this stuff.”

  “Come on, little Cora. You’re my wife now. I thought you’d want to make me happy.”

  “Oh my god.” She turned away.

  “You don’t have to wear it all, but there are some sexy pieces in there. I’d love it if you could try some at least.”

  “Get the hell out of here.”

  She stormed into the kitchen and I followed. I leaned up against the entrance wall and watched her stand in front of the refrigerator for a few breaths.

  “Look, I get it, you hate me. You think I’m some scumbag asshole and you’re only doing this for, what, money? But the thing of it is, wifey, you’re stuck with me for a while. You might as well suck it up and play the game.”

  She glared at me. “If the game is wearing lingerie for you, then no thanks.”

  “Ah, shit, that’s just a prank. A fun prank at that.”

  “Don’t be a jerk.”

  “Cora.” I spread my head. “I’ve been nice. I’ve been patient. You’re treating me like I’m your dad.”

  Her eyes flashed rage and this time it didn’t abate. She took a few steps toward me. “What the hell do you know about that?”

  “You said he brought a string of women into your life, and yeah, I get it, he’s probably a real piece of shit—but that doesn’t mean we’re all bastards. I don’t plan on treating you that way.”

  “Don’t you get it? We’re not really married.”

  “I understand that.”

  “Then why can’t you leave me alone?”

  “Because I don’t want to.”

  She threw up her hands. “You’re impossible.”

  “You turn me on.” I tilted my head with a little grin. “Come on, Cora. You don’t have to act like you want me to die.”

  “Maybe I do want that.” She voice was low and harsh, simmering with hate—and something else. “Maybe I want all you mafia assholes to die.”

  “We’re not that bad, you know.”

  “You’re definitely that bad. All you assholes—you think you’re better than everyone outside the family, and you have no respect for human life.”

  She was trembling and I stared at her, trying to understand what the hell she was talking about. No doubt the mafia families were violent, and I sure as hell had my own fair share of blood on my hands, but I wasn’t going around murdering innocent people.

  Only those in the game were fair targets. With everyone else, it was live and let live.

  That’s how it always went. Mafia families fought each other, but they didn’t hurt civilians, and not exactly for high-minded reasons, either. Killing civilians got attention, and mafia families didn’t want attention from anyone, not the cops and not the media.

  But if a few drug dealers disappeared one day? Nobody gave a damn about that.

  “You don’t know me, little wife.”

  “Stop calling me that.”

  “Wife. You’re my wife. Get fucking used to it.”

  “Fuck you. How about that? Fuck you. You’re all the same, you know that? You’re a bunch of arrogant assholes that think you can trample anyone that gets in your way, but you know what? You don’t deserve what you have.” She took a step closer, eyes tearing up, body shaking, face red with rage. “You can take your presents and shove them up your ass. You wear that lingerie if you care about it so much.”

  She stormed past me. I let her go, although I wanted to grab her wrist and shove her against the wall. I wanted to push my lips against hers and feel her struggle against me, wanted to taste the sweat on her skin and hear her moans in my ear—but I knew we were a long way from that. I watched her disappear upstairs and leaned my head back against the wall.

  My personal shopper lady was going to be pissed when I returned all that shit.

  4

  Cora

  I was so angry I could barely sleep. I stayed up all night staring at the ceiling, trying to get thoughts of Alex out of my head. I tried not to picture his bloody, bullet-ridden body on the ground, tried not to think about the stupid grin on that bastard made man that killed him—and tried not to think of his mother’s tears as the family paid her off to keep her quiet about her son’s murder.

  Bastards. All of them bastards.

  I hated the family. I always had a grudge against it, since my dad was a dick after all, and I grew up with all those egos and douches, but I never despised them like I do now. No, it took a single peek behind the curtain at the sordid and disturbing way they treat human life to really understand that the Leone Crime Family doesn’t give a damn about anything but themselves.

  Reid left me alone the next day. He disappeared early and didn’t come back until late. I spent most of the afternoon wandering around the neighborhood, my hands shoved in my pockets, watching people walk past—old couples with tiny white dogs, young guys busking in the park, couples sitting on picnic blankets, friends throwing frisbees—and wondered how I could get a taste of a normal existence.

  Instead, I was cursed Cora, bastard mafia princess.

  I went for a run as soon as Reid came back, just to get some more time away. When I got back, he was watching football and drinking whiskey. He didn’t acknowledge me as I went upstairs and got in the shower.

  I cleaned myself off, letting the hot water run down my skin, and closed my eyes, trying not to picture the mountains of clothes I’d sent back. I never had much in my life, even though everyone assumed I’d been given everything. My father liked to say that a spoiled bitch was still a bitch, and I’d better learn to work for anything I wanted, which was pretty hard when he never let me get a job. The girls at school were all afraid of me, and so I had no friends. They whispered behind my back and talked about how I was the daughter of a killer and a thief and a monster—and they weren’t wrong.

  Life was lonely until I met Alex sophomore year. He was new in school and we had an art class together. We got paired up for a project and ended up bonding over books and movies and music, and soon we were eating lunch together, hanging out after school, and spending most of our free time on the weekends wandering around the city. People thought we were dating, but it was never like that with him. Alex was a doughy, idealistic kid with big dreams.

  He wanted to be a made man. I tried to talk him out of it again and again, but the more time we spent together, the more he wanted to hang around with my father and all the other family men. I’d find him lingering in the den when my father had his card games, sometimes fetching them drinks and lighting
cigars. He’d show up at the corner deli and talk to the made men that got sandwiches and drank beers out back.

  I never understood his obsession. I asked him about it one time when we were sitting on the swings in an empty park after midnight. He had a cigarette in his mouth and he took a long drag and let the smoke curl out of his mouth in slow, thick waves. He turned his head toward me and smiled.

  “I like that they’re strong,” he said. “They don’t ask permission. They just… do what they want.”

  I laughed and didn’t know what he meant, not back then at least, but now I think I get it. Alex was a dorky, chubby kid that got picked on by bigger, older guys at school all the time. In his head, if he was a made man, nobody could touch him.

  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that they’d never make him, not in a million years—that he was too soft, or too eager, or all of the above.

  Not that it mattered. I never had to tell him. He figured it out himself the hard way.

  I turned off the water and squeezed my hair. I banished his memory, stepped out of the shower, and wrapped a towel around my middle. I stepped out into my room to get changed—and found a dress bag draped across my bed.

  I stared at it and felt my anger spike. I stormed out of my room and down the steps, still in only a towel, my hair damp.

  I found Reid standing in the kitchen wearing a deep black suit with a white shirt and no tie. I opened my mouth to speak then caught myself.

  He looked good. Really good. I hadn’t seen him dressed up like that yet, but the suit fit him right, slim along his legs, tight on his chest and arms, and it made his scruff seem almost elegant. His eyes sparkled amusement as he tilted his head and let his eyes roam down my body. I immediately regretted coming down in my towel but forced myself to plow ahead.

  “Why’s there a dress bag in my room?”

  “We’ve got plans tonight.”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “Yes, we do. We’re going out to dinner.”

  I stared at him and took a deep breath. “I thought I made myself clear. No presents.”