Ruthless Saint: An Arranged Marriage Romance (DeSantis Mafia Book 1)
Page 2
But now, I’m alone and desperate to get it off.
A soldier doesn’t need armor when there’s no one else in the room.
I flick on the light. It’s belated: I’ve been standing in the dark for a minute.
I’m in shock, that’s all, I reassure myself.
And then I meet my own eyes and gasp.
Someone took the veil off my head. I remember that much. It was swept back, and a thumb ran along my cheekbone. There’s evidence on my face: droplets of blood on my skin, fine as mist, and a smear.
I dip the cloth under the faucet and rub at it. There’s more blood on my dress—I guess it’s not just off-white anymore—but I can’t focus on that.
It’s in my hair, too. In the braids that wind around my head like a crown. Spread across my chest, collarbone. The necklace.
Wilder is dead. I know he is.
Jameson DeSantis is one of the most powerful Mafia lords I’ve ever seen in action. Not that I’ve seen too many… On a deeper level, I understand why Wilder would be a target. He was most likely going to take over for his father in a few years—but that was never confirmed. Not to me, at least.
I close my eyes again and lean on the counter.
If his family wasn’t a bigger mystery than I knew what to do with, I might’ve looked forward to the wedding. He was pleasant. Charming, even. A stark contrast from the family I knew was lurking around him. His brothers scared me. It didn’t take much longer than the initial meeting for me to realize they had darkness in them that Wilder seemed to lack.
But I saw our marriage for what it was.
“Don’t be stupid,” I tell my reflection.
His death hasn’t sunk in.
The arrangement has been set in stone for three years. I’m nineteen and terrified of what comes next, because our whole lives hinged upon the protection of the DeSantis family.
DeSantis—what a joke of a last name. Saints, they are not.
The door opens and shuts quickly.
Lucy rushes me. “Oh my god. Mom and Dad told me to stay where I was, but then they were herding everyone back to the DeSantis estate, and I knew you weren’t there. Everyone scattered. The gunman—”
I hold up my hand. “I can’t do this, Lucy. Not right now.”
She bites her lip.
We haven’t always gotten along. Lucy grew up with our grandparents in the next town over. She was allowed back when she turned seventeen and showed, in the words of my parents, considerable improvement. Mom often said that a troubled past required more hands-on rearing.
I didn’t know what that meant.
I still don’t, actually.
All I know is that my sister and I aren’t as close as we should be for two girls who share DNA, but it stemmed from a childhood apart. I’ll give her credit: she’s been trying.
She stops just short of me, running her gaze up and down my body.
“I should’ve brought you clothes.”
I continue scrubbing at my face. “Where would you even have found clothes?”
She’s silent, then, “Maybe you should wash your hair.”
“I will when I get home.” I pause.
Shit.
It’s unlikely that I’m going home. Not at this point.
They’ll herd us this way and that in an attempt to keep us safe.
Safe.
Yet they couldn’t manage to keep Wilder alive…
And then another thought hits me: if Wilder is dead, what happens to us?
“There’s a man outside the door,” she whispers. “He’s acting like a guard. I’m pretty sure he was one of the ushers.”
“Did they catch the person who did it?” So much for not wanting to talk about it.
She shakes her head. “It looked like it came from above us. The choir section, maybe? But I don’t think they found who it was. They were yelling at us to stay down, stay in our rows, but so many people started running. There were DeSantis guys rushing around with guns. I lost sight of you…” Lucy grabs my hand. “Who brought you up here? Were Mom and Dad here, too? They tried to stop me…”
“No one could stop you,” I tease.
She shrugs. “You’d be surprised.”
Impulsively, I wrap her in a hug. She stiffens in my arms—I’ve never been the affectionate type—and then relaxes. “Mom and Dad were up here yelling at Jameson,” I whisper. “I don’t know what’s going to happen.” To our family. To me.
In high school, I was perfect. Captain of the cheer team, a body guys drooled over and girls envied. I was popular, infamous, and a little cruel. I had to be ruthless to get to the top, and that seemed to be the only way to keep my parents happy.
I spent most of the first semester of my senior year in Paris. Upon my return, it was like a weight was lifted off the senior class. We did it. Schools had accepted us, and all that stood between our class and a party-filled summer were a few lousy finals. Meanwhile, iron had settled in my stomach.
Marriage was just around the corner at that point.
“What do you think’s going to happen now that Wilder—”
She breaks off.
I forgot she knew him, too. Dinners at our house in France and their Italian villa, visits to Rose Hill and their Manhattan skyscraper. Did we know that every visit took us one step closer to my wedding day?
Not back then.
As I said: war isn’t just about the first shot. Many pieces have to line up first, and my parents know how to play the board. Sometimes I wish they had taught me the game, too. I knew I was going to flounder as a Mafia wife.
The thought turns my stomach.
The door opens, and my mother sticks her head in. “Lucy! Dear heavens, we’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
My sister takes my hand. “I’ve been keeping Ames company. She’s being guarded, did you see?”
“I’m well aware. Come on. Both of you.”
Mom hurries us down the eerily quiet hall. The people who were buzzing around pre-wedding are gone. Only DeSantis men remain, scanning the area like the shooter might return. Who knows—maybe they will.
We pile into a waiting SUV, and as soon as the doors close, my bubble of surrealism pops.
We were shot at.
Wilder is almost certainly dead.
My hands shake, and cold creeps in. I fist the skirt of my blood-soaked dress. I caught him as he fell and lowered him to the floor before someone knocked into me. My head pounds, and the way my temple hit the stair bursts to the forefront of my mind.
“Mom?” Lucy calls. “Something’s wrong.”
“I’m f-f-fine.” My teeth chatter. Not fine.
Lucy pulls me into her side, wrapping her arm around me. “It was so scary,” she whispers, “but Luca saved you while Aiden went after the shooter. Can you imagine?”
“Well, honey, he had good reason,” Mom quips. “Without Amelie, then one of them would have to marry you. And we all know what a handful you’ve threatened to be.”
If there’s one thing Lucy has been vocal about over the years, it’s that she won’t be ‘strapped down’ by marriage. I never mentioned that her fantasy of escaping fate was thanks to me. If I threw that tantrum, it would be her with the engagement ring on her finger.
One of us had to do it, was what my mother told me one night, years ago. And Lucy… she beat me to the punch. To the refusal.
It’s fine.
How can they be so calm? How is Mom always put together? I’m falling apart at the seams.
Lucy scoffs. “Don’t pretend you didn’t have a choice, Mom. You and Dad are basically sacrificing Ames—”
Mom reaches back and smacks Lucy. “Do not say that.”
My sister raises her hand to her cheek.
The violence isn’t surprising. It wasn’t a hard slap—just a reminder.
“We’re here,” the driver says, clearing his throat. The iron gates swing open to admit us, and he navigates down a paved driveway to the front of the house.
The driver climbs out, too, but stops just outside my door with his back to the glass. Waiting. Keeping me inside. The estate is buzzing with people. Guests from the party, extra security. An empty police cruiser sits off to the side.
“Mom?”
She twists around and meets my gaze.
“What’s going to happen to me?” I can’t stop shivering, and I twist my fingers tighter into my dress.
“You heard your father. The deal will be honored,” she says. “Just stay here.”
The deal.
Unwillingly, my mind turns to Wilder’s two younger brothers. Aiden cleans up the family’s messes. He goes where ordinary people can’t—scratch that, he goes where ordinary people know damn well to avoid. He finds people who are desperate to remain hidden.
I don’t know much about him, just because I haven’t spoken more than three sentences to him the entire time I’ve known the DeSantis family. I do know he’s a savage man, prone to rage.
And Luca…
The youngest. There were rumors about him whispered behind their backs. That he wasn’t really his father’s son. A bastard raised as Jameson’s own.
It set him apart—whether the rumors could be believed or not is another story—and made him different.
Angrier.
Colder.
Wilder was the perfect front. Charming and charismatic. Aiden is lethal, and Luca… ruthless.
The car door opens, and Luca DeSantis himself leans into the opening.
He extends his hand, a scowl marring his otherwise handsome face. “Come with me.”
3
Luca
I didn’t have violence on my radar today, which is fucking stupid.
Later, Aiden will chew me out for my slow reaction. But I’ve spent the last two years working behind the scenes. I smooth things over with our men, keep the construction business afloat. Father didn’t trust the task to be delegated—or he didn’t want me sticking my head where it didn’t belong, and this kept me busy.
Either way, I’ve been using my words a lot more than my fists lately.
My brother paces in front of me, trying to contain his fury. He had raced after the shooter while I ran to Amelie. Wilder’s pretty fiancée had grabbed him by the lapels, shock and blood splattered across her face. The dainty lace veil was practically soaked in it.
Another gunshot went off, and I leapt at her.
Her head hit the stair, even though I tried to cushion her landing. Wilder slumped away from us, and mass chaos took over once people realized what was happening.
I carried her across the lawn and up the stairs, to a quiet room. She was dazed, her eyes unfocused, and I left her there. And now I’m here, in Aiden’s room, wondering if he’s going to do something stupid.
“It had to be the Wests,” he says. “They’ve been coming at us for years. It’s about time they did something bold. They deserve to be strung up like pigs—the whole lot of them.”
“It could be them,” I allow. “We don’t know.”
“Like hell we don’t know!” he yells.
I raise my hands. “Easy. I’m not your enemy.”
Enemy I may not be—but I can’t seem to swallow what just happened. Wilder was loaded on a stretcher and taken to the closest hospital. Dad sat with him in the ambulance, holding his limp hand. It just happened too fast.
“Luca.”
I jerk.
Aiden pauses in front of me. “The Page girl. They wanted her dead, too.”
I can’t accept that. “How can you be so sure?”
He shakes his head, his expression crawling with disgust. “There was a bullet hole in the steps only a foot from where you knocked her down.”
Fuck.
“Good thing I was there,” I mutter drily.
Aiden drags me to my feet by the front of my shirt. “Good thing the shooter was distracted—or else you’d be in the ambulance next to Wilder.”
I shove him away from me and carefully straighten my shirt. I grab my jacket from the back of the chair I slung it over and put it on. “You have a plan to find who did this.”
He eyes me. “I do.”
My thoughts once again turn to Amelie. The way her slumped body felt against mine. I never allowed myself to think of her. For the sake of my sanity, it was better that way. She was pretty and captivating, but she wasn’t mine.
But maybe she could be. The chess pieces have arranged themselves for a neat little checkmate, if only I play this right.
“Luca,” Aiden says suddenly. “Now isn’t the time to be soft.”
Father will jump on board. Amelie and Wilder’s marriage was going to secure not only a hefty donation to our business, but the Page support, too. They have their own empire, and if we want to play hardball against the Wests, we need them.
The arrangement is actively slipping away.
I narrow my eyes. “When have I ever been soft, brother? I have a plan to save our family, and you are going to avenge it. We’re both playing our roles.”
He exhales and turns away, accepting my words.
His phone rings, and he puts it on speaker.
“Wilder died in the ambulance.” Dad doesn’t sound particularly hurt about it, but that’s his way. That’s life. He’s lost so much, he’s become a master at compartmentalizing it. And this isn’t a surprise—the surprise is that he was alive when they loaded him up. The blood spreading across his chest… He continues, “I’m headed back. Where are the Pages?”
I straighten. “I’ll find them.”
Father grunts. “Keep that girl away from everyone else. You and I will talk when I return.”
4
Amelie
Luca doesn’t ask me twice.
I glare at him, but he ignores it and lunges for me, wrapping long fingers around my wrist and yanking. Out I come, the dress tangling around my feet.
His grip is bruising.
I barely have time to get my feet under me, then we’re off, bypassing the front entrance and going around to the back. My heel catches on a loose stone, and I barely stay upright.
The hem of my dress drags behind me. It was once a train, but someone half-heartedly pinned it up. I don’t remember when that happened, or who did it. Most of the day has blended into a blurry mess.
When I walked down the aisle, one of Wilder’s little cousins carried the train. The pool of satin swept behind me. My mother made a show of checking the kid’s fingers, making sure they were clean.
I shake off the thought before it can continue. Luca still has ahold of me, and he moves quickly enough that my arm is stretched out in front of me. I have to keep grabbing at my skirts with my free hand so my shoes won’t catch.
Around back, there’s a smaller building. A guest house stationed by the pool.
“Here,” he says, motioning for me to enter.
Dread seeps through the numb disbelief. I can’t go in there. He can’t lock me away and take advantage. What does he even want from me?
I plant my hands on the frame. “No.”
He huffs behind me. “Seriously?”
“Tell me what the hell we’re doing—”
“You need to stay here for your safety,” he says.
His hands grip my hips, pulling me back toward him. The movement is unexpected, and I don’t have time to hold on to the door. His arms bind around my torso, trapping my upper arms to my sides.
“Stop. Struggling.”
I stomp on his foot, throwing myself backward.
I don’t know him—I’m definitely not going to make getting kidnapped easy on him. And would it kill him to say please?
He lurches, and for a second, I think I’m going to hit the ground. I wouldn’t blame him for dropping me. But his grip solidifies, and he lifts m
e off my feet. He carries me like that into the guest house and sets me down.
I whirl around, ready to lash out, but he just smirks at me.
Infuriating man.
White walls. Dark oak furniture.
Bleak and uninteresting, just like him.
There’s a rack by the window with a few hangers on it, and a plastic sheath that probably held his tux. There’s a bedroom through a wide opening, the French doors open.
The couch and television are paltry compared to the main house. This is for guests or people not staying long. Of course he’d try to keep me here.
“How dare you—”
“You’re a target,” he says. “So just… stop.”
I blink and follow him into the bedroom.
He already lost his tie, but now he shucks off his jacket. It lands on the bed in a heap. His fingers work at his shirt buttons, then peels that off, too.
I gape. “You’re undressing in front of me?”
“And you’re covered in blood.” He tosses me a shirt and shorts from the dresser and disappears into the closet. When he reemerges, I’m in the exact same spot and he’s changed into a fresh shirt.
“To get out of…” He looks me up and down, the corners of his lips inching farther down.
I follow his gaze. There’s blood soaked into the bottom of my dress, splattered up the front of it. Red-hot mortification works its way up my throat. I’m covered in his brother’s blood.
It’s sprayed across my chest, too. I already took care of my face, but the rest of me—
“Oh god.” My stomach twists. “Get it off me.”
I reach behind me and scrabble at the buttons.
Stupid fucking buttons.
For a second, I forget that he’s not the DeSantis brother I should be alone with. Today was going to go a lot different.
I was resigned to my fate, but this just seems cruel.
He doesn’t move.
“Luca,” I prod. “Unbutton me.”
He… still doesn’t move.
I’m going to go crazy, or my arms are going to dislocate because of the awkward angle. I bow my head. “Please.”