Ruthless Saint: An Arranged Marriage Romance (DeSantis Mafia Book 1)

by S. Massery

  That snaps him out of it. “Never thought I’d hear you say that word.”

  I grunt, about to face him, but his hand on my bare shoulder stops me.

  I freeze.

  His fingers work at the buttons with quick efficiency, and I sigh in relief when it loosens. I can breathe again. His finger grazes my skin, just over the edge of my slip.

  Goosebumps run down my arms.

  “That should be sufficient.” He backs away.

  Holding his clothes to my chest with one hand and my dress up with the other, I tentatively glance back over my shoulder.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Don’t thank me, Amelie. This wedding got my brother killed.”

  He leaves without another word.

  I slam the door behind him, my stomach somersaulting. I shove the dress down, struggling for a split second to get it over my hips. There’s a tearing noise, but I put it out of my mind. It can burn for all I care. In fact, it would probably be better for it to be destroyed.

  What an ugly dress—fitting for the occasion.

  I stand in my shift for half a second, contemplating what to do. I could be in shock. My limbs tingle like I just finished a marathon. Everything hurts.

  I go to the bathroom and tear off the shift, turning on the shower. Before the steam can cover the mirror, I eye my naked body. There’s a bruise forming on my hip, and I recall a flash before someone knocked me to the floor.

  Luca.

  I step under the scalding-hot water. It might be enough to wash away the blood, but it won’t carry away the trauma.

  Tears form in my eyes.

  It happened too fast for my mind to track.

  Crack. Blood. Falling.

  I pull at the pins in my hair and yank out the sapphire earrings. Something borrowed and blue—well, they can go straight to Hell. I let them fall to the shower floor. Once my hair is loose, I dunk my head under the stream.

  And if I cry a little, at least no one will know.

  There’s a lump behind my ear. My head hit the altar pretty good, and if this and the bruise are my only injuries… I’m lucky.

  After I shower, the smell of Luca’s soaps wafting over me, I put on his clothes. Then there’s really nothing left to do except wait.

  I check every drawer and scope out his nearly empty closet, but this is clearly not where he lives. He’s a guest as much as I’m an imposter. After going through all the cabinets in the mini kitchen, I flop onto the bed just to test its softness.

  As soon as I land, I regret it. Too comfortable.

  My eyes keep leaking, too. An unfortunate side effect of… well, witnessing a murder?

  Almost being killed myself.

  Every once in a while, I scrub at my face to clear away the tears. Pesky things keep coming back.

  “Sleeping?” Luca stands in the entry of the bedroom, arms folded.

  I make sure my face is dry before I sit up. “You think I could sleep after what just happened? I’m not that cold-hearted.”

  He shrugs. “Your parents are waiting for us in the kitchen.”

  Nervous energy coils in my belly. I stand. “Is he really dead?”

  His gaze runs up and down my body, then locks on to my eyes. “Yes.”

  “Who wanted him—?” I could only voice it once, apparently. My throat closes.

  “Who didn’t?” He sweeps his arm, beckoning me to go ahead of him. “We have a long list of enemies.”

  “Were they trying to kill me, too?”

  “You’re procrastinating.”

  “Wouldn’t you?” I mutter. “Mom said they were going to honor the deal—whatever that means.”

  He lifts one shoulder. “Guess you’ll find out. Either way, there isn’t anything you can do about it.”

  Well… isn’t that the worst bit of news I’ve heard all day?

  5

  Amelie

  There’s no one in my corner.

  I knew that on the surface level, but it’s finally sinking in. It hits me when my parents both turn to me expectantly after the news is delivered. Like I should just roll over and accept my new fate.

  There’s more to this wedding than I expected. I don’t know why it takes me by surprise. I suppose my parents are better secret-keepers than I gave them credit for. There’s a contract hanging on the end of my name. A donation to the DeSantis cause. Wilder was the one who was involved in politics. The one who would’ve taken the leverage of marrying me, plus the money, and twisted it into a strategy for his campaign.

  God knows what he would’ve run for. I wasn’t privy to that information.

  But my parents and Jameson DeSantis must’ve come up with a new arrangement. There’s clearly a war coming, and they want the support of the Page empire.

  Why, why did Dad have to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong? We would’ve been perfectly happy in Rose Hill. But he wanted more. He pushed his company into Manhattan, making deals with all sorts of people. The good and the bad.

  But as Page Printing, Inc. expanded, it seemed to attract the wrong sort of people. For protection, the DeSantises would back them. It’s a symbiotic relationship, although I think I’m a casualty in this.

  I pieced this together slowly over the last three years, but the whole plan didn’t click together until today.

  The point?

  They’re all waiting for my answer.

  About whether I’ll marry him.

  Luca DeSantis stands by the wall, his gaze on me. Part of me wonders if he’s as interested in my answer as our families. If he has anything riding on this.

  For the first time, I focus completely on him.

  Wilder knew what he was getting into—and I knew the kind of marriage I was walking into when I agreed to it. I told him I needed to go slow—I was not going to rush into an actual relationship with him. Those things took time.

  My feelings for him were complicated. I knew him as much as I could, but there was always something missing. A layer I expected to peel back after the wedding. He held more family secrets than I could fathom, and it scared me.

  I knew what the rumors whispered. Mafia. Deep and dark. And I was going to walk into that blindly. Partially blind, maybe. I had time to swallow my fate with Wilder. Time to learn the pieces he gave me.

  Luca is a complete mystery.

  Little stones fall into my stomach the longer I watch him.

  “Amelie,” Mom says, “can I have a moment?”

  I follow her down the hallway, and she presses me to the wall with one finger on my collarbone.

  “What is wrong with you?” she snaps. “If you don’t do this…”

  Their livelihood and their lives. It’s this or broker a deal with someone else. The Wests? Jameson DeSantis might not take too kindly to us reneging on the deal. And then we’d be killed… probably by Aiden. Because that’s how our world works now. We got involved with them, and there’s no turning back.

  Maybe Dad shouldn’t have made the decisions he did to need the DeSantis family’s protection in the first place.

  “Luca, though?”

  “Aiden is gone,” she says. “It’s only Luca left. I know you’ve spent the last three years talking to Wilder. I’m sorry. But this is how it’s going to go.”

  “Maybe I could just take a few days…”

  Screaming rings from outside the house.

  I automatically grab my mother, dragging her to the floor. My heart jumps into my throat.

  Luca sweeps into the hall, followed closely by his father and mine. My sister rushes along behind them. Luca grips my arm just above my elbow, prying me away from Mom. I fight him for a second, until I realize the screams are getting louder.

  Coming closer.

  “What’s happening?” I ask him.

  “Aiden will handle it.”

  “Mom just said Aiden left.” I fight him, although I’m not sure why. Instinct is to go against him.

  “Stop resisting me,” Luca barks.

 
We go down a flight of stairs in the middle of the room, into the wine cellar. Jameson shuts the hatch, and it isn’t until we’re all gathered in a tight circle that I realize another man has joined us.

  I swallow.

  The judge from Brooklyn has a carefully blank expression. Maybe he’s paid not to give a fuck—or maybe he’s a relative. It’s hard to tell when half of the city’s population seems to be Italian.

  “Here?” Luca asks his father in a dry voice. He’s still got a grip on my arm.

  “Good as any.” Jameson glances up, his brow crinkling.

  The noises are muffled now. They’ve all stopped screaming, but a siren reaches my ears. The police cruiser in the driveway, maybe? Help on the way?

  And why were they screaming?

  There were wedding guests upstairs. Jameson’s brothers and sisters, cousins. Nieces and nephews. Even some of my family had made the trip, although most were under the impression that this was a love marriage. And they weren’t very pleased with the idea of a nineteen-year-old getting married, let’s just say that.

  If this thing goes sideways, I’ll have no one.

  Let’s be real, though. I’m already there. Didn’t we just agree that no one was in my corner? It’s true—I felt the absence of their caring at sixteen, when Jameson marched his sons into our French villa and the agreement was made known to me.

  “What is that, Jameson?” Mom asks. “You promised us protection.”

  He says nothing. Perhaps there’s nothing to say to that. His son is dead, after all. If he couldn’t keep him safe, who’s to stop someone from killing me? Or Lucy? Or any of us.

  “We don’t claim to be body armor,” Luca says to her. “Our protection is a security system. The promise of force if you meet resistance.” His gaze flicks to Dad. “That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

  My dad shifts on his feet, turning to the judge. “You brought the license?”

  I narrow my eyes, hating everything about this. I’m being backed into the option they want—not me. They’re waiting for me to agree with them, but I don’t have a choice in this. I never did. The illusion fades away, and I can’t hide the hurt from my expression.

  Dad eyes me. I’ve never seen this look in his eyes before—fierce and sad. “We’re not doing the whole ceremony. Just sign the papers.”

  And that would seal the deal.

  A simple signature.

  ’Til death do us part, minus the kiss.

  “Fine,” I whisper.

  I scan the papers and take the pen from the judge, scrawling my name.

  Bile climbs up my throat. I’m signing my life away, really, but I try not to think about it. We were raised Catholic, and marriage means forever.

  Luca signs.

  “I now pronounce you man and wife,” the judge says.

  Dad exhales, the invisible weight of worry lifting off him. He’s been stressed for the past year, worrying about any little thing getting in the way of this union. But to see him visibly relieved twists my stomach.

  I suppress my grimace.

  And Luca? He takes a step toward me, then another. His hand slips around the base of my neck. I stay perfectly still, shoving away the urge to shiver.

  I try to decipher his expression, but then there’s no more time. He slams his lips against mine. I remain rigid, suddenly crushed to him. His lips are firm and soft, unmoving. This isn’t a kiss of passion—it’s a show.

  It’s also a long, hard look at my fate.

  He forces his tongue into my mouth, and I taste the whiskey he must’ve drunk before retrieving me. I bite the tip of his tongue, and the hot, metallic taste of blood greets me.

  He breaks away and grins. It’s not for me, though. It’s directed over my head, to where our family stands.

  “Get them out of here,” Jameson orders over the sudden pepper of more gunfire.

  His son nods. His hand is still around my neck, and his thumb moves the tiniest fraction against my skin. Chills skitter down my back. I don’t know whether to lean into it or shrink away.

  An ounce of fear oozes up my spine, but it’s sluggish. It hasn’t caught up to my racing heart or frozen brain.

  Luca doesn’t remove his hand like I expect. He uses it to guide me out, the pressure even—and, in a weird way, reassuring. I don’t know how to react to a situation filled with firearms and violence, but he does.

  He’s dealt with this sort of thing before. He knows how to survive it.

  “See you on the other side,” he calls to his father.

  We go up a different set of stairs, into a long, narrow hallway. A man with a huge gun stands at the opening, peering out.

  “Report,” Luca demands.

  The man straightens. “After some of our men retaliated, the Wests are pushing back.”

  Luca stares at him for a moment, and a silent conversation takes place between them.

  The guard breaks first. “We have two cars waiting.”

  He tosses Luca a set of keys and the other to the judge, who had followed close behind us.

  “You know where to take her,” Jameson says.

  But I don’t know where we’re going. My breath stalls in my chest.

  “Don’t think about what happened out there,” Luca says to me under his breath. “Don’t think about any of it. Just get ready to move.”

  I open my mouth, then shut it again.

  Don’t think about it? That’s his advice?

  I probably still have his brother’s blood stained on my skin, yet he’s telling me to stop thinking about it.

  “Amelie.”

  I meet his gaze.

  “Stay here a moment. I’ll be right back.” He pushes me against the wall and waits for my nod. I’m loath to resist it, but the fear is winning out.

  If ever I had a question about whether I’d pick fight or flight—I now know my route. The third option: freeze.

  So, I do. I stay even as my parents slip past me, the judge leading them out. My sister squeezes my hand, then she’s gone, too.

  Jameson pauses next to me, but he doesn’t look down. He just says, “Be adaptable, Amelie. And if anything, you just need to survive the next forty-eight hours.”

  Cold, cold man. He grew through the ranks of the DeSantis Mafia—I’d be willing to bet he’s seen his fair share of bloodshed.

  I tilt my head, appraising him. Too late for me to ask anything, though, because he disappears down the steps, into the courtyard. The cars’ engines turning over reaches my ears.

  The guard and I stand silently. I open my mouth a few times but think better of my questions.

  “Amelie.” Luca reappears.

  There’s a gun in his hand that I don’t think he had a minute ago.

  Was he out killing people?

  “Let’s go,” he urges.

  I… can’t move.

  My bones are jelly.

  He holds out his hand, a sympathetic expression flickering over his face. It’s quickly replaced with the familiar scowl.

  To take it or not?

  I thought I was prepared for this life. Wilder and danger and men making lethal decisions. But the truth of the matter is that I’m scared shitless. I’m drowning in fear.

  “I can’t.” I back into the house. “Definitely not.”

  I turn and run. I can’t help it. Everything closes in on me: the hallway narrows, my chest hurts. My vision flickers.

  Oh god.

  Someone catches me before I crumple. I didn’t even realize I’d stopped.

  There’s a strange ringing in my ears.

  “You’re hyperventilating,” Luca says in my ear. “Breathe.”

  I can’t. It’s too much. Black spots overtake my vision. The last thing I see is the ceiling—and Luca’s face.

  6

  Luca

  Amelie Page.

  My wife.

  There’s no ring on our fingers, and besides a kiss, nothing physical ties us together. Well, a piece of paper does.

 
; But mentally? She doesn’t give a shit about me. We’re strangers.

  The twinge in my chest is odd. Wilder and I weren’t particularly close. He was a few years older, always busy learning the business and being a general pain in the ass. He was gearing up to jump into politics—something I definitely don’t give a shit about. There aren’t that many brotherly moments I can look back on with fondness. There were bouts of dealing with his anger, fighting about girls, him thinking he had some sort of control over me because he was the oldest. He and I were polar opposites.

  Not just in looks or actions, but because of my mother. I was an outsider, as much as Aiden tried to convince me otherwise.

  Still, Wilder is dead and gone. Besides the twinge, I don’t feel anything.

  Maybe relief—but maybe that’s due to the fact that I successfully spirited Amelie away from New York. It wasn’t too difficult to get her on the plane. She seemed a bit out of it, honestly, and leaned most of her weight on me. We accessed the jet from a private entrance, and the pilot didn’t comment when I scooped Amelie up and carried her into the cabin.

  She settled quickly, not even asking where we’re going. I offered her a tiny bottle of Fireball—which might’ve been cruel of me—but she tossed it back without so much as wincing and closed her eyes. She hasn’t moved since. At one point, I covered her with a blanket.

  The rest of the flight I settle back, dividing my time between checking emails and watching her sleep.

  We’re going home.

  It feels weird to call it that, because I haven’t spent a lot of time in Northern Italy. My mother was born here. She left a house to me when she passed away, but I couldn’t leave New York City for too long.

  Now I have an excuse.

  The time passes quickly. We travel forward in time, through the night, and I manage to get some rest before the pilot wakes me.

  “We’re starting our descent in a few minutes,” he informs me.

  I nod and return my attention to Amelie, wondering when she’ll wake up. Her sleep isn’t normal—it’s the exhaustion that follows an adrenaline rush. My sympathy is sudden and strong. She didn’t ask for any of this.

  It’s not her fault her parents are dumb fucks.