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

by S. Massery

  “I’ve got you.” I scoop her up. I don’t have much experience dealing with crying women.

  With killing, and men, and shoving our emotions away… I can handle that. Amelie didn’t even cry after someone shot at her. The fact that she’s sobbing in my arms right now is a sign that things have gone too far.

  Her arms wind around my neck, and she holds on for dear life. She won’t stop trembling, even after we get onto the wider street and the sun touches our backs. Her chin rests on my shoulder. Every so often, she releases her grip to swipe at her face.

  I hug her tighter, and some of the fury eases back. I should’ve killed Matteo. He was the instigator. Knowing him, he had eyes on my place. And of course, of course she slipped out while I showered. One moment I left her alone…

  Ricardo called me as I was getting dressed, informed me that he’d lost her. Seemed calm despite the fury I was going to be unleashing on him. I’d never got ready so fast, and I grabbed my gun at the last moment. With the Costas out… Well, let’s just say I’m glad I didn’t have to try and fight them off again.

  Still, this incident is going to bring hell down on my family unless we smooth things over. We’ll have to play the move I was hoping to avoid.

  A sigh racks through her body.

  I press my lips to her temple, but I wonder if the action is soothing to her or just irritating.

  My only role models for a healthy marriage are Paloma and Antonio, and I didn’t see them nearly enough for any of their advice to stick.

  “Did you kill him?” she whispers.

  We’re nearing the top of the alley, and my thighs burn. It’s steep, and steeper still when carrying someone.

  Him being Matteo. The others were definitely dead—no mistaking that. I finished the job by putting a bullet into each of their brains.

  “No.”

  “Why not?” she asks.

  I shrug. “Didn’t want to make things worse.”

  She blinks up at me. “Where are we going?”

  “I didn’t feel like returning just yet. We’ve got some time to kill before dinner, and I’d like us far away from here.” We’re headed toward the water.

  Paloma owns a boat, and she’s often tried to get me to go on it. Now seems like a good time, even if we only stay tied to the dock.

  “You can put me down.”

  “Why?” I tighten my grip.

  She exhales. “Because I’m perfectly capable of walking.”

  “Just because you can doesn’t mean you have to.” I let a rare smile out. “Besides, you can’t run away again.”

  “I didn’t run away,” she says. “I just… needed air.”

  I shake my head. “You could’ve gone onto the patio if you needed air. You didn’t have to go wandering alone in a foreign city—and no, I don’t care how many times your parents have taken you to the beach or my father’s estate. This is different.”

  She winces. “Yeah.”

  Yeah. That’s what I get. I lost control after I got home. After she cooked me fucking breakfast. I fucked her on the floor like some sort of savage—or a teenager eager to get his dick wet. She tasted sweet. I can practically feel her on my tongue again. If I’m not careful, I’ll get a hard-on.

  My face pulses. I really could’ve used the bag of ice she suggested, but it’s too late for that. I can only see a sliver of the world out of my right eye. My ribs hurt, too. They weren’t immediately bruised, just red, but it’ll probably show up tomorrow. I’m glad I killed those jackasses, but it was also a decision based solely on rage.

  Father would expect me to be more calculating than that.

  More like Aiden on a job, planning out his steps one at a time.

  I chuckle.

  “What?” Amelie whispers.

  My smile fades. “I was just thinking about the mess I’ve made. Dad will probably throw in my face that it’s not how Aiden would handle it.”

  “And that made you laugh?”

  We arrive at the harbor, and I slowly set her on her feet.

  “No. What made me laugh was the fact that this is exactly how Aiden would react if Gemma—” Oops.

  Amelie narrows her eyes. “Gemma? Aiden’s in love?”

  “Nope,” I lie.

  She’s not convinced. Fuck, he’s going to kill me if she figures it out.

  And in the next breath, she guesses, “Gemma West?”

  “You’ve heard of her?” I mutter hoarsely.

  “Oh, man. You said it was a West behind the attack that killed Wilder. The Wests and DeSantises don’t get along… aren’t they mortal enemies?” She steps away, her brain’s wheels spinning. “And he’d go all crazy, mass-murderer style, over her? Why?”

  I tip my head back. “Amelie. Please stop.”

  She presses her lips together. I’m sure there are a lot more questions bouncing around her mind, but she wisely stays silent.

  Besides, how do I explain that my father wanted to put pressure on the Wests a few years ago and had Aiden pick up their only daughter from school? Drove her around, did God knows what, and then returned her as if nothing had happened. Gemma was none the wiser, but it was a big fuck you from Dad to her father, Lawrence. He’d kidnapped her.

  And that triggered a bit of an obsession.

  He’s still like that, pulling her strings from a distance. I don’t know if she realizes she has a stalker, but with Wilder’s death looming over our heads, I’m going to bet she’ll find out soon enough.

  “Is he going to hurt her?” she asks, stopping just in front of me.

  “I don’t know.” I offer her my hand. “Want to come with me?”

  She slips her hand into mine.

  I tug her along, until we get to the marina. I feel the slight hesitation in her steps but keep going. Onto the rough wooden boards of the weathered dock, down to Paloma’s catamaran. Antonio bought it for her on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.

  La Bellezo waits for us around the corner, halfway down the dock. True to her name, she’s a beauty. Amelie’s eyes almost pop out of her skull. La Bellezo has a deck and a half, then of course the inside portion. But it’s the half-deck that was built up that’s the impressive spot. It houses the controls, and it’s sleek enough that it doesn’t get in the way of the sails. It’s covered, too, for days when the weather is less than ideal.

  I focus on Amelie, who gapes up at it.

  “Sorry, I was expecting something… smaller. You own this?”

  “No.” I chuckle. “It’s Paloma’s.”

  “Who is that?”

  I pause, then say, “My aunt. We’re having dinner with her and my uncle later.”

  I help her step onto the stern and guide her up to the top deck. It gives us a good view of the ocean and the town. She waits until I sit, then takes the seat across from me.

  “Tell me about your family?” she asks.

  I shake my head and glance out over the water. “Nothing much to tell, really. I’d come out here in the summers and spend them with Mom’s side of the family. Dad didn’t love the idea, and everything felt controlled. Rationed, you know? I was looking forward to turning eighteen and being able to make my own choices, but she died before that could happen.”

  Amelie makes a noise in the back of her throat.

  “I came out for her funeral. It was on my birthday.” I’ve hardened myself to the idea of that particular tragedy, but it does sneak up on me sometimes. Like when I’m around Paloma, or in that restaurant.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  I shrug. “It was a long time ago.”

  She covers her eyes. “I don’t even know how old you are.”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “Oh.” She glances at me. “That’s not bad.”

  I tilt my head. “Why didn’t you ask me how I got my injuries?”

  “Because…” She sucks in a breath. “Wilder always told me he wouldn’t tolerate questions.”

  I ball my fists. “That fucker.” Damn, my anger is a
force inside me. I lean forward and hook my hands around her calves, tugging her to the edge of her seat.

  She squeaks and grabs my biceps. She blurts out, “I just… I thought that changing the subject was the right thing. And the breakfast was right there. And then we kissed, and…”

  “I’m not my brother.” I stare into her eyes. We’re nose to nose, but she needs to know that I’m serious. “Are you hearing me? I’m not him. Whatever he told you, however he tried to groom you—”

  She flinches. “He didn’t.”

  I choke on my laugh. The poor girl is only nineteen. She was dealing with a twenty-five-year-old asshole who was going to take over every aspect of the DeSantis company in just a few years’ time. His whole life had been about learning how to manipulate people.

  “I’m sorry, but I can almost guarantee he did. But I just want you to be you.”

  She blinks rapidly. “Okay,” she whispers. “Who hurt you?”

  I exhale. “When we were teenagers, Wilder had a summer fling. Her name was Mariella Costa. Things didn’t end so well. As in, like a fucking dumbass, Wilder knocked her up—then helped her get an abortion.” I ignore her cringe. “As you might imagine, the Costas are upstanding Italian Catholics. They didn’t take too kindly to Wilder’s treatment of Mariella. They sent her away to live with relatives as punishment, and they’ve spit on the DeSantis name ever since.”

  “Wow,” she mutters. She rises, pacing to the bow of the boat.

  The sun catches her blonde hair, and I have to shake myself. Amelie is beautiful. I knew that before I even married her. But seeing her now…

  She sheds the jacket and shakes out her arms.

  “I was going to marry him.” She turns back. “And he was running around getting girls pregnant?”

  “Just one girl,” I say. “As far as I know.”

  She pauses. “Did he love her?”

  I wish I knew. But it would explain the changes in him after that summer. He did what he thought was right, but it ended up jeopardizing everything.

  Amelie returns to the covered section of the deck, but she sits next to me now. She’s so close, the heat of her radiates through my clothes. We both sit back, and I wrap my arm around her shoulders.

  “This doesn’t mean we’re on good terms,” she whispers.

  “I know.”

  “So, it was the Costas?”

  I heave a sigh. “Yeah. Matteo is Mariella’s elder brother. Their elder brother, Cristian, has been the head of the family for the last few years. Their father died from cancer or something.”

  She shudders. “Matteo. That name isn’t a coincidence to what happened in the alley.”

  “No, he’s the one and only.” I crack a smile. “Not actually the one and only, because the name is pretty popular. But he’s the same one. He threatened to go to the house and find you. I guess he wasn’t exaggerating.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says softly. “I feel like an idiot.”

  I could say it’s not her fault, but we’re all allowed to feel like idiots every once in a while. And her actions directly impacted the lives of three men.

  “Amelie or Ames?” I ask, a repeat of my earlier question. Maybe she’ll give me a solid answer, this time.

  She leans back slightly, meeting my gaze. Her pretty eyes narrow. “Everyone in high school called me Amelie. My sister calls me Ames.”

  And Wilder. She leaves that part out, though.

  “And me?”

  Her cheeks turn pink. “You can call me whatever you want.”

  “I quite like the sound of wife.” I relish in her discomfort and the way she tries to put space between us.

  Now that we’re back on relatively neutral ground, I don’t allow that space. She had her moment to freak out—and now we’re back. Her and I, apparently on the same side. Even if it doesn’t quite feel like it.

  “Why did you decide to marry me?”

  “It was an opportunity,” I say honestly.

  Her eyebrow tics. “An opportunity for what?”

  I look out at the boats surrounding us and think of the best way to say it.

  “To have someone of my own,” I finally reply.

  A claim, a prayer, a wish.

  12

  Amelie

  Ricardo meets us at the entrance to the harbor with a car. His expression is impassive, but he doesn’t so much as glance at me. The coldness is a remarkable difference from an hour ago—and it’s my fault. He opens the back door for me, and I slide in.

  I almost apologize, but he closes the door in my face and crosses to the driver’s side.

  Luca doesn’t say anything about his behavior and sits in front of me. In fact, he seems suddenly lost in his cell phone. Mine has been forgotten in the bedroom, set on a charger. I wonder if anyone cares enough to check up on me.

  My sister, maybe, but definitely not my parents. Not unless there was a new development…

  “I’m booking our flight back to New York,” Luca tells me. “We’re going to meet Paloma and Antonio for dinner, then get the hell out of here.”

  “A fast honeymoon,” I murmur. The city flashes by through the window. “Are we leaving because of the Costas?”

  He grunts his affirmative.

  The sky darkens, and clouds roll in from the water. It happens quickly—one minute sunny, and the next we’re doused in gloom. I shiver at the temperature drop and pull on my jacket again.

  Truth be told, I’m happy go home. If we stayed here, Luca might succeed in trapping me under his thumb. I might actually give in. But I must remain resolute. Strong.

  A good wife satisfies all aspects of her husband’s needs, Mom’s memory whispers at me.

  His needs can go straight to hell. He killed someone, after all. Two someones. I’d already decided that kissing was out, but there’s an ache in my chest. It seems to breathe along with my heartbeat.

  Too soon, Ricardo slows the car to a stop. Luca hops out and opens my door, offering his hand. I take it, peering around. The street is familiar.

  “We’re close to your house,” I guess.

  “Same street.” He glances around.

  “Okay. Well, we should…”

  “Wait.” He sidesteps, blocking me. “I need you to put this on.”

  I stare down at the ring in his hand. It’s beautiful. It looks like a family heirloom. I balk at that. “I can’t—”

  “My aunt gave it to me this morning,” he says in a low voice. “Before everything happened, I went to see her… She gave me this ring off her own finger. Just put it on.”

  I bite my lip and hold out my left hand. He smirks and slips the piece of jewelry on, and I glare at it. It’s still warm from his pocket, but it’s heavy, and just a bit too loose. If I flung my hand around, it would probably fly off. I make a fist and nod to Luca.

  He takes my right hand and guides me into the restaurant. If I didn’t know it was a restaurant, I’m not sure I would’ve guessed. Its dark-green door doesn’t stand out against the white stucco building. The name is painted above it. Inside, we go down a narrow hallway and into the main dining area. It, too, is long and narrow. A swinging door in the back probably leads to a kitchen. There’s a bar against one of the long walls, dotted with rows of barstools. Half of them are occupied. Opposite it are tables stacked next to each other. Patrons probably all know each other—or quickly become acquainted.

  The tables are empty and bare except for one in the back. It’s been made up with a white tablecloth and four place settings. A cluster of low candles in the center gives it some ambiance.

  A man exits from the back, and as the door swings wildly behind him, I catch a glimpse of a dark-haired woman at a counter.

  I don’t know why I’m suddenly nervous.

  Like… meet the parents nervous.

  I’ve never met anyone’s parents before, and I don’t think Jameson counts. He was an imposing man before I knew I was going to marry one of his sons. But this is formal, even if it’s Luca�
�s aunt and uncle. They’re the relatives who haven’t been affected by the DeSantis storm.

  Maybe I’m just some girl who Luca found and fell in love with.

  That sounds nice. An escape from reality.

  But then the man pops my fantasy. “This is your captive bride, hmm?”

  He’s medium height and bald as a cue ball, and Luca releases my hand to meet him halfway. The patrons glance behind them at the commotion but quickly return to their drinks. The two men hug and kiss each other’s cheeks.

  “It’s been too long,” the man says.

  Luca beckons me forward.

  My feet are stuck to the floor—and stuck on his first words. Captive bride. Is that me? Am I captive?

  A hand tows me forward. Irritation flashes across Luca’s face, and he plants me in front of his uncle. I hope he doesn’t plan on showing me that sort of greeting. My face is probably a mask of wariness, because he just chuckles and extends his hand.

  “Antonio, this is my wife, Amelie. Amelie, my uncle, Antonio.”

  “Pleasure.” I smile. Years of attending fancy dinners with my parents’ dirtbag friends have schooled me in the art of little white lies. This is certainly not a pleasure, but what else can we expect from a captive bride?

  Luca narrows his eyes at me, but I just turn my beam on him.

  “Please sit.” Antonio gestures to the table. “Paloma will be out shortly, and I will just top off my friends at the bar.”

  I slide into my seat, and Luca sits beside me. His hand immediately curls around my thigh, and butterflies wing around my stomach.

  “What are you doing?” he growls under his breath.

  I ignore the tone and flip my hair back. It’s out of control today with the humidity, but I can’t really be bothered to do anything about it. “I’m not doing anything,” I inform him. “Let go. I want to make a good impression on your aunt.”

  Another lie.

  They’re stacking up.

  He squeezes my leg, then slowly retracts it.

  His aunt comes in from the kitchen, a wide smile on her face. “You must be Amelie,” she says. She slips between the tables and takes my hands in both of hers.

  I try to hide my surprise when she kisses both of my cheeks, and then my forehead. I don’t get that affection from my family, let alone a perfect stranger.