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

by S. Massery

  I groan, my eyes fluttering. That feels good—too good.

  He slides home. “You’re soaked.”

  “Because you gave me an orgasm and a half,” I reply.

  He frowns and inches deeper. I gasp, lifting on my elbows, and grab the back of his neck. I pull him down over me and wrap my legs around his hips. His gaze bores into me, and I don’t look away. I can’t.

  He automatically takes on a slower pace, until he’s inching in and out of me. Every thrust makes me full-body tremble.

  We hover inches apart.

  Something inside me unlocks. Cracks, really. He’s my husband. I’ve got to accept that. Whatever I thought I might have with Wilder died with him. Luca and I… we might be able to forge something different.

  “Tell me a truth,” he says in a low voice. He leans to the side and cups my breast, pinching my nipple between his fingers.

  Little zaps of pleasure shoot through me, and it couples with the way he fills me.

  I remember picking out my dress like armor. Of imagining the cage closing in on me. Hopelessness and anger and no answers or reasons.

  And Luca wants a truth from me.

  “I’m glad he died,” I say.

  It’s the only truth I have to give.

  Luca thrusts into me hard enough to split me in half, once, twice, three times. I come on a hoarse cry, digging my nails into his back, and he follows a second later.

  10

  Amelie

  He offers me his hands and helps me to my feet.

  The aftermath of sex has never made me feel quite as awkward as I feel right now. It was an explosion of our emotions, of anger and too much truth, if we’re being honest.

  I told him I was glad his brother died.

  What kind of person even thinks that?

  “Go clean up,” he says softly. “I’ll pick up this…”

  I glance around. Early afternoon sunlight streams through the glass doors. Our plates are still on the counter, his breakfast sandwich half-eaten. Funny to think I wanted to do something nice for him… now I’m feeling particularly stabby.

  The scalding-hot water in the shower does little to lighten my mood. I ache all over, and it’s only after I’m out, staring at myself in the mirror, do I realize he managed to leave a trail of hickeys down my neck.

  Before the sex, I would imagine.

  My stomach flips. He didn’t use a condom, which isn’t the end of the world. I have a birth control implant in my arm. I touch it now, just to make sure I haven’t lost it. My mother scheduled an appointment for it to be removed a month before the wedding. Fortunately for me—and a fuck you to her—I’m a legal adult. The doctor couldn’t disclose if it was removed or not.

  So I lied about it.

  Anyway, pregnancy fears notwithstanding, he better be clean. If he’s not…

  I shudder.

  In the bedroom, I choose an outfit that won’t give him any ideas: a black tank top and leather jacket, and black jeans. The definition of badass, in my humble opinion. All I’m missing is the brass knuckles. My mother would have a heart attack if she saw me.

  Luca comes up as I’m slipping on silver earrings. He does a quick double take, then smirks. “Dressed for war, wife?”

  I shrug.

  “We have dinner plans. I can show you the city before, if you’d like.”

  I squint, then nod. Sure, he can show me around the city—and frighten away any of the nice people. If we’re going to be here for any length of time (and it’s seeming like a good possibility, since I’m sure he owns this place), then I should get to know the locals on my own. Our neighbors, at the very least.

  He closes the bathroom door, and the water turns on a second later. I grab my boots and trot downstairs. Once I’m laced up, I go down through the garage. There’s a door off to the side, and I close it gently behind me. I don’t know why I’m sneaking—Luca is in the shower. He can’t hear.

  I just… want to explore on my own.

  And get my thoughts in order.

  My ass still stings, and if I think about the pleasure mixed with the fear…

  Stop it.

  I’d never had sex like that before. All-consuming. Sex, yes. Good sex, even. But that…

  “Mrs. DeSantis,” someone calls.

  I whirl around.

  Ricardo comes up from the street, meeting me in the short driveway. “Mr. DeSantis asked me to accompany you if you left the property.”

  “Please don’t call me Mrs. DeSantis,” I say. “I’m just going to explore. He said it was okay that I went alone.”

  He shakes his head. “I sincerely doubt that, miss.”

  I tilt my head. I never got around to asking Luca—our conversation got off track quickly. “Why do you say that?”

  Ricardo glances away. I don’t think he’s allowed to spill DeSantis secrets—even to a new member of the family.

  I nod slowly. “Okay, fine. You can accompany me.”

  Relief overtakes his expression. “Thank you.”

  I gesture for him to walk with me. “How do you know Luca?”

  “Ah.” He grins. “He’s a relative on his mother’s side.”

  I bite back the curiosity and go for aloofness instead. “She passed away, I heard.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “I’m sorry for your family’s loss.” I catch Ricardo’s eye, hoping he hears the sincerity. Death sucks, and if she raised Luca to be at all in her image, she was probably a matriarch.

  “And yours,” he says softly. “I only met Wilder a few times, but he seemed well-loved.”

  I’m glad he died. I cringe. “He… was. He had a lot of stress, sometimes it came out on those around him.”

  Like his brothers.

  And maybe eventually it would’ve come out on me.

  “It’s funny, my sister never liked him.” I shrug. “She only met him at the engagement party, and then again at the rehearsal dinner. She seemed…”

  Lucy was firm in her dislike, but she hid it extraordinarily well. It only came out once. After that, she tucked it away like it didn’t bother her.

  “Where are we going?” I ask. We’ve been on a street that’s grown steadily steeper downhill, and every so often the ocean is visible.

  “There’s a market down here. It should be opening back up soon.”

  Most things close for a long lunch, and I would imagine we’re on the tail end of it. The streets are silent, almost sleepy. I take a deep breath. We quickly fall into silence. I use this time to consider what I know about Luca.

  He only tagged along with Wilder and Jameson occasionally, with Aiden. They paid me very little heed, even on their estate here in Sanremo. Aiden was always whispered to be a hit man with a volatile temper. With Wilder gone, I expect the second son will have to step into some big shoes to fill. And Luca… well, he was raised by Jameson.

  What else is there?

  All in all, I know next to nothing.

  I turn to speculation. Luca was the one who knocked me to the altar floor after Wilder was shot. He might’ve even saved my life. And he carried me away from the danger.

  He’s possessive, with no problem getting married to a stranger and dragging her halfway across the world. He likes to call me wife. He’s got anger issues, if his threat about orgasms and lies is real.

  I press my lips together, annoyed that my thoughts have found their way back to the sex. He didn’t kiss me after that first time, and it’s better that way. Sex is fine—it’s kissing that’s the real issue.

  Right. No more kissing.

  “Here,” Ricardo says.

  A whole street has been shut down for this tiny market. Rows of stands dot the sidewalks, and there are a lot of people milling about. This is where everyone is.

  A band plays farther down, loud music that seems to vibrate in my chest.

  I close my eyes and soak it in—the noises, the smells of sauce and meat, drying herbs, the warmth on my skin—and then smile.

 
Okay.

  “Let’s go,” I say.

  He follows, ever the diligent shadow. We wind between tables, and he’s patient when I stop and lift little baubles. Some of the people pay me no mind, but others try to engage in rapid-fire Italian.

  Ricardo often steps in to translate. I give the table owners weak smiles, unable to buy a damn thing. I should’ve brought money, or my purse. Hell, even my phone.

  Good one, Ames.

  Someone calls Ricardo’s name. I’m busy running my fingers over crystal pendants, and he barks a short, “Stay.” Then he’s gone.

  “American?” the woman asks.

  I look up and smile. “Unfortunately.”

  She chuckles. “What brings you here?”

  “A honeymoon.”

  Her gaze sweeps past me, to Ricardo. “I didn’t know he was engaged.”

  I grimace, and her eyes widen.

  “Um, sorry,” I backpedal. “I’m not married to him. Do you know Luca DeSantis?”

  Her smile fades. “It’s best if you moved along. Good day, dear.”

  She turns away from me abruptly, and I take a quick step back. Then another. The sudden dismissal stings.

  I glance around for Ricardo, but he’s out of view.

  And I can’t stay, so I go. I don’t stop at any of the other stalls, I just keep moving my feet. Ricardo might catch up with me, or I can figure out my own way home.

  Stupid.

  I don’t know why I thought Luca was well-liked in this city. Or why I guessed his name carried the same weight it does in New York. Back home, it opens doors. The only doors it won’t open are West-owned or run companies, and frankly? They’re easy to avoid.

  I emerge on the other side of the market. I walk farther down. I’m not sure why I’m trying to catch my bearings, because this whole neighborhood is unfamiliar. We took trips down to the beach a few times, ate with Wilder and Jameson at a restaurant overlooking the harbor, but wandering by myself is an anomaly.

  Someone calls out to me in Italian. I glance over at the man leaning against one of the buildings and shake my head.

  He switches to English. “Aren’t you a pretty one?”

  I straighten and purse my lips. How many times have I been catcalled in my life? Too many. But this one has already drawn a reaction from me, and swift anger floods my body.

  I stalk away from him, refusing to give him another second of attention.

  Men like him were always hanging around Dad when I was younger. Lucy and I were untouchable, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t look at us.

  Or talk at us.

  And boy, did they always have something to say.

  “Pretty girl,” he says behind me, “in such a hurry to leave. Where are you going?”

  I ignore the goosebumps breaking out along my arms.

  When my friends and I went into the city, I always had something to protect myself: pepper spray or a knife, keys I could put between my clenched fingers like claws. And here I am with not even my phone. Nothing to save me.

  Stupid.

  I take a turn, risking a glance over my shoulder. The man walks casually, his hands in his pockets, and his attention goes everywhere except in my direction.

  Trepidation floods my body. I pick up my pace, taking another corner too sharply, back toward the market. Make a circle, end up where I started. Crowds are dangerous, but they can also be safe. Ricardo will be searching for me.

  I skid to a halt.

  Dead end.

  I pivot, going down another side street. Someone’s whistling, but the rest of the town seems asleep, everyone absent. They’re herding me. In the back of my mind, I know this might be sexual assault 101, but I can’t see a way out of this.

  I can’t be that far away from the market.

  A deep-seated worry is batting its wings in my chest. The fear that I’m lost.

  “I always like this game,” the man says, suddenly close behind me. His accent is thick.

  I jump and whirl around.

  He seems just a bit younger than Luca. Dark eyes, a neatly trimmed beard. He’s not dressed badly, either. Not like a vagrant.

  He smiles at me. For the first time, I wonder how many other girls he’s done this to. Backed into a corner.

  I force myself to speak. “What game?”

  “Cat and mouse.” He inspects his fingernails. “Why don’t you smile? You’d fair better.”

  I keep my face blank. Not today, asshole.

  He suddenly lifts his chin, his attention going to the connecting street.

  Drifting on the wind is the whistling that caught my attention earlier.

  A new man arrives. The whistling cuts off, and he licks his lips. His expression is hungry.

  “Who’s this, Matteo?” he asks.

  “A new friend.” Matteo, then. A ringleader? Or the dutiful sheepdog about to bow out for its master?

  My muscles lock, but I can’t make myself look away from them. Any minute now, I’ll run. Sprint to safety. I just need to…

  Rough hands of a third person grab my shoulders from behind, and I can’t help it. I let out a loud yelp.

  Matteo laughs.

  I kick out, but he easily moves out of the way. Fear spurs on my adrenaline, and I claw at the one holding me, flinging myself out of his grip.

  And right into the whistler.

  He shoves me at the wall and grips my jaw. His fingers dig into my cheeks. His dark eyes bore into mine, but I hesitate at the pain.

  What are you doing, Amelie?

  Fight.

  I lash out, a wild scream tearing from my throat. The heel of my palm connects with his throat. My knee hits something soft, and I get another kick in before he releases me, staggering away.

  But it’s three against one—there’s no chance this will be a fair fight.

  The one who grabbed me from behind comes closer.

  “We just want to play,” he says in a low voice. It’s followed by a string of Italian that I don’t understand. He snatches at my wrist.

  “Let go of me!” I yell. If I’m loud enough, maybe someone will come. Someone can rescue me.

  He still has my wrist.

  I shove him away, and he goes. Easily, with a smile.

  I frown, turning slowly.

  The fear will strangle me if I let it, but my brain can’t seem to stop trying to find an escape route. They’re spread out, and their attention is solely focused on me.

  “You’re the DeSantis girl.” Matteo draws my attention to him. “Luca’s.”

  My cheeks burn. My chest aches, and knots form in my stomach. They haven’t hurt me, but they will. “And what if I’m not?”

  The whistler darts forward, lifting a strand of hair. I push him back, baring my teeth. Cat and mouse—I’ll show them I’m not a mouse.

  “You stink of him,” Matteo says. “And your husband ignored our invitation to lunch.”

  I raise my chin. “You beat him—the same way this is going, then? Three against one?”

  His two lackeys laugh.

  “Did he come crawling home to you?” Matteo asks, sauntering closer. “I hope it stoked his anger, because we’ve been dying for a fight.”

  Oh, no.

  “Bait, then?” I manage.

  He tugs at my jacket, exposing my tank top. His gaze lingers on my chest. “You’re a smart one. Too bad you lost your guard in the crowd, because we would’ve enjoyed breaking his jaw. But yours will do.” He smirks at my petrified expression. “Maybe we’ll see how well your mouth works before we ruin it. You must suck dick decent enough to capture Luca’s attention.”

  My skin crawls, but I can’t move.

  His hand goes to the top of his pants.

  I’m going to be sick.

  “Matteo,” someone calls. “She’s with me.”

  They wheel away from me.

  Luca stands at the mouth of the alley with an insane grin. If I had to guess, Matteo was right: it did stoke his anger—and this has fanned the fla
mes into an inferno.

  One of Matteo’s guys pulls out a knife.

  Blood spraying across my face haunts my memories, and I send a silent prayer into the universe that I won’t know that feeling again. The two lackeys advance toward Luca.

  Luca smirks. “I do love a fair fight.”

  Matteo, though… he steps toward me and grabs my jaw, yanking me into his side. I shriek like a banshee and flail, batting at him.

  He releases me with a grunt, shoving me into the wall.

  Pop. Pop. Pop.

  I flinch, covering my head. The noise of gunshots rattle in my brain, around and around. My ears ring. Someone just fired a gun, and I can’t seem to make my muscles cooperate. My whole body shakes, teeth clacking together. I can’t feel my fingers.

  Luca better not be dead.

  With that thought, I peek out from my ball.

  He’s not dead. He stands over the two fallen lackeys and unflinchingly squeezes the trigger again. If they weren’t gone, they are now.

  Matteo stands a few feet from me, his eyes narrowed. “Killing me would bring war on your family. On more than one front—can you afford that?”

  Luca laughs. “You don’t have the connections to bring a coordinated assault against us.” He stops right in front of Matteo. The handgun is loose in his grip at his side—and maybe that’s why I don’t see the final shot coming.

  He barely raises it and fires it into Matteo’s knee.

  The latter screams, falling to the side, and Luca kicks him. Again and again, he pounds into Matteo’s ribs, his legs.

  “Luca,” I scream.

  He takes one look at me, and the chill in his eyes vanishes.

  How does he do that? Flip a switch, cold to hot, like it’s nothing?

  “You’re shaking.” He crouches in front of me and cups my cheek.

  “You killed them to save me…” I don’t understand. I’m nothing. No one. Not to him, not to my family, not to his family. But he just risked war, and he doesn’t even seem upset about it.

  So, I do something very un-Amelie-like.

  I burst into tears.

  11

  Luca