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

by S. Massery

  “You’re scowling, wife.” His thumb presses into the space between my brows.

  I jerk my head away. “Untie me, Luca.”

  He does so wordlessly, and I shake out my arms. I place them on his shoulders, lightly gripping him, and finally lower myself onto him.

  We both groan. He stretches me out, fills me to the brim. Just when I think I can’t take any more, he shifts his hips and slides the rest of the way in.

  “What’s wrong with normal?” he asks.

  “You want to talk about this now?” I glare at him.

  He presses his hand to my back and flips us. My back hits the couch. He traces the edge of my face with his finger. We’re not moving, just… existing together.

  And I want to hate it.

  Kissing always felt more intimate than sex. And I don’t know what this is, but I’m going to burst into flames. Or worse: catch feelings for Luca.

  Both situations aren’t ideal. I think we can agree.

  “Fuck me, Luca,” I say.

  He sighs. “So many walls up in this pretty little head of yours. I didn’t realize it this morning.”

  I shift, and he pulls out of me. My eyes roll back when he pushes back in. Each stroke is a different form of punishment. A different way to lose control.

  “It’s okay, Amelie. I’ll break you down.”

  I shudder. “And me to you,” I whisper.

  He nods once. He tries to kiss me again, and I turn away. Again. He lets out a huff, and his hot breath touches my earlobe. His teeth follow.

  I groan.

  He moves lower, sucking on a sensitive spot on my throat just under the corner of my jaw. God.

  I dig my nails into his back and rotate my hips. Finally, finally, he obliges. Maybe he’s angry at me, because the force of his thrusts jolts my body. He bites my neck, moving down lower, and I can’t even think. My mind scatters.

  I lock my legs around his hips and grip his biceps.

  A tremor runs through the plane, hitting a patch of turbulence. It doesn’t stop Luca, though. I just hold on until he’s had his fill. And suddenly his fingers are on my breast, pinching my nipple.

  I moan, tensing, and he growls into my throat. He wraps his hand in my hair again, maneuvering my head to the side. More access. Another bite, his tongue. Sensation overload.

  “Fuck.” His pace becomes frantic, and then he stops.

  Everything stops.

  He comes inside me and lets out a hissing breath.

  I hold him tight, although I couldn’t say why. I’m worse than an octopus. It’s like I’ve been flayed open, and only his skin will help me.

  He pulls out, rolling onto his side, and meets my gaze.

  Immediately, his finger is there.

  “No,” I say, trying to push him away.

  He raises on an elbow and stares down at me. “I came inside you. I did. Not some monster who touched you without permission. Your husband.” He pauses, maybe to judge my reaction.

  I have none.

  “Say it,” he orders softly.

  “That you came inside me?”

  He narrows his eyes.

  I have admitted to myself that Luca was my husband exactly once.

  He’s rubbing his cum into my clit, smearing it across my folds. I’m so damn tired, I can barely keep my eyes open.

  “Stop.”

  “No.”

  I shove at his hand, but it makes no difference. I don’t even have the energy for it. Too many orgasms. Too much emotion.

  God, what I would give to hit the power button and end this nightmare.

  “Luca.”

  “Wife.”

  I grimace. I can’t help it.

  “You would’ve called Wilder your husband.”

  He flicks my clit, and I cry out. I close my legs around his hand, because really? Enough. I shove against his chest hard, the force of it surprising even me. Shock flits across his face.

  He must’ve been too close to the edge, because he topples off it.

  I shoot upright, scrambling to my knees. Anything to get rid of the vulnerable feeling. He stares up at me, and we’re both still.

  I get the distinct impression that I’m the prey in this situation.

  Run, Amelie.

  I leap over him and bolt for the bathroom at the back of the plane. His grunt close behind me is the only warning I get before he fucking tackles me. We hit the floor hard, his arm protecting my head, and he maneuvers us so I’m in the cage of his arms.

  “Stop. Fighting. Me,” he snaps in my face.

  “You’re the one making things difficult!” I yell, throwing myself to the side.

  He drops his weight on top of me.

  I go perfectly still.

  “We’ve been married for less than forty-eight hours,” he says in my ear. “I don’t expect love. But I do expect you to fucking try.”

  If I thought I might burst into tears—because it sure feels that way, with the lump burning in my throat—I’d be wrong. My eyes are dry.

  “What’s the worst that could happen?” he asks.

  The thought of one of the Costas killing him pops into my head.

  And I’m instantly mad at myself for even thinking it. The worst thing I could think of is him dying? Something deep inside me cracks open. It’s worse than lust, because it creeps through me until I’m infected with it.

  I’m not ready to call Luca my husband. To even test out the word on my tongue.

  But he’s asking for something.

  After the past two days, I can do that.

  “Kiss me,” I whisper.

  I give in for once. I put myself out there, even if it’s just two words. Because I’ve always related kissing to vulnerability. My parents never kiss each other in front of me. I doubt they kiss at all. My examples of love come from a place of coldness, so this offering feels… right. I shed my mask for a moment, and the bright sensitivity of it hurts.

  He searches my gaze for something, then abruptly releases me. He hops to his feet. “Not tonight.”

  All at once, those gates come crashing back down. How could I have been so stupid?

  I climb up slower, watching him warily. When he doesn’t do anything, I back up and feel for the door to the bathroom. I slip inside and close the door. My chest heaves, and I cover it with my hand to try to regulate my breathing. In the back of my mind, I know I’m hyperventilating.

  The light automatically flickers on, and I grimace at my naked form in the mirror. My hair is a wild mess. The plane rumbles again, and it drops. I’m nearly weightless for a moment, and then the plane jolts sideways. I lose my balance.

  I fall forward, and my forehead hits the glass. Pain lances through me.

  I sink to the floor and close my eyes.

  16

  Luca

  I angrily tug on my clothes. I don’t know why I’ve been thinking about Amelie with any sort of fondness—it’s clear she views this as her duty. Something her parents raised her to do.

  And that’s what I need to start doing.

  I’ll get her pregnant and set her up in an apartment in the DeSantis tower. She can have a perfectly fine life there, and our child will be raised properly. Surrounded by our customs, our norms. He’ll be brought into the family as the heir… unless Aiden suddenly gets his emotions in check and finds a wife.

  Heirs are important. Family is important.

  Wives… maybe not.

  I thought we might have a connection. The way her eyes lit up when I touched her. She slept in my fucking arms, and I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time—contentment. It just goes to show how wrong you can be about someone.

  But no. Then she had to open her eyes and decide to fight.

  You like the fight, a deep part of me whispers.

  I was furious on the drive back to the airport. Ready to strip her bare and fuck her until we were both exhausted. And then I could sleep. But instead, she got under my skin, and I was reminded about the trauma today ha
s held for her.

  I was raised on violence. Blood on my hands doesn’t bother me. Yet walking onto the plane and seeing Amelie’s face…

  The plane lurches under me, and I grab the seat. It continues to move violently, and I stagger to the intercom. “What the fuck, Smith?”

  “A storm, sir,” the pilot answers. “I’m going to climb altitude to try and get out of this. You two okay?”

  “Fine,” I say and then turn guiltily back to the bathroom door. Amelie hasn’t come out yet.

  The nose of the plane tips up, and I hold on as we ascend. My gaze stays on the bathroom door, even as we level off.

  Something’s wrong.

  I stand and scoop her clothes off the floor. A prick of guilt goes through me that she only has the clothes on her back. I should’ve asked Paloma for something else. A shirt, or…

  “Amelie?” I knock on the door. “I brought your clothes.”

  She doesn’t answer, and my gut instinct tells me that’s not just her being petty.

  “Amelie,” I repeat.

  I push the door open, but it only goes halfway before getting stuck. Still, it reveals the broken mirror. There’s a dent in it, and spiderweb cracks have spun out from it. Chunks of glass are in the sink. Blood runs down it from the point of impact.

  My heart stops.

  I shove my shoulder and head through the door. Amelie is slumped over, braced up by the wall and the toilet. Her legs block the door. Her head hangs forward, face covered by hair. I’m overcome with a desperate urge to get to her.

  I slide down and touch her ankle. Her skin is cold.

  “Amelie. Wake up.” I shake her leg and ignore the helplessness tightening my chest.

  She groans, raising her hands to her head.

  “It’s okay, baby,” I say. “I just need you to move your legs.”

  She complies, drawing her knees up to her chest. I nudge the door open farther and slip inside, immediately tipping her chin up.

  There’s a good gash across her forehead, and it’s a bloody mess.

  “Dizzy.” Her eyes close again.

  “It’s okay, I’ve got you.” I scoop her up and carry her out. She lets me maneuver the tank top over her head and arms, then her panties. I don’t bother trying to get her jeans on.

  Instead, I buckle her into one of the seats and tuck the blanket around her.

  I hit the intercom. “Smith, do we have a first-aid kit?”

  The cockpit door opens, and Smith emerges with a plastic container with an orange plus on it. He stares hard at Amelie for a moment, then turns back to me.

  He’s a peculiar man. I didn’t much like his history, but he was all we had at our disposal.

  “We should be landing in an hour,” he says. “Do you want an ambulance standing by?”

  “No.” No, our family doctor should be able to patch her up. The idea of paramedics carting her off—after what just happened to Ricardo—turns my stomach.

  “Very well. We’re starting our descent in about a half hour.” He returns to his cockpit.

  He’s not paid to worry. That’s what I tell myself.

  “What happened?” Amelie whispers.

  I find a water bottle and twist off the cap. It takes her a moment to curl her fingers around it.

  “Turbulence. You hit your head.”

  She winces. “That’s why it hurts so much.” She huffs. “We both look like we were in a fight.”

  “We were.” I crack a smile.

  The alcohol wipe is pungent. She doesn’t fight me as I clean her skin. The glass didn’t just cut her forehead, it left a series of scratches down the side of her face. It must sting like hell, although she barely flinches. Her gaze is glued to the water bottle in her lap.

  “What are you going to do with me?”

  I sigh. “I don’t know.”

  “You never seemed like the settling down type.” She’s analyzing my expression.

  “I’m not.” I pause. “I mean that across my whole life—not just romantically.”

  Her eyes flutter when I get to her forehead.

  “I’m afraid of a cage,” she finally admits. “Of being shut away. You punish me for lies, but when I’m trapped, it makes me want to…” Her gaze snaps to mine.

  I finally see some of the anger she’s been hiding.

  Wasn’t I just thinking about shutting her away? For her safety, I suppose. Guilt filters through my thoughts.

  “I know it’s not a lot,” she continues. “What I can offer. I feel like a failure most of the time. What good am I to you? But if you’re going to be off chasing adventures, I need my own life, too.”

  God, she’s ripping me apart.

  I can’t give her platitudes or promises. I just keep cleaning her face, and I press a bandage to the wound. She could hold it, but… damn it, I feel useful like this.

  “We’re starting our descent,” Smith says over the intercom.

  Amelie covers my hand with hers, and I jump.

  She frowns. “I’ve got it. You should sit.”

  “That might need stitches,” I warn.

  She closes her eyes again. “That’s fine.”

  I stuff the bloodied wipes into one of the wrappers and pack up the kit. Quickly, I shove it in one of the compartments at the front and return to her. I buckle myself in beside her, and we lapse into silence. The landing gear descends with a whine.

  It won’t be long now.

  I text one of our drivers. My body aches, reminding me exactly how our day has gone. My eye is a bit better—the swelling receded, but I’m going to have one hell of a black ring around it.

  “What time is it in New York?” Amelie asks.

  “Just approaching midnight.”

  “I don’t even know what day it is anymore.” She chuckles, but it’s laced with exhaustion. “I think I can sleep for a week.”

  I slip my phone back into my pocket. “The family doctor will be waiting at my apartment.”

  She groans. “Can’t it wait?”

  “Do you want a scar on your forehead the size of Texas?”

  “No,” she grumbles.

  The plane touches down, and she squeezes my fingers tightly until we’ve slowed to a crawl. She releases me quickly, rubbing her hands.

  I frown.

  “The landing is the worst part.” She cranes her neck to look out the window. “Maybe the turbulence beat it this time.”

  I grunt. I’m going to have to agree with her on that one. But with any luck, we won’t be getting on another plane for a while.

  “Um, Luca?”

  I glance at her.

  “Where are my pants?”

  My cheeks get hot, and I scramble to grab them before our pilot sees her. That’s the last thing we need, because I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to control my reaction. I hand them over, and she slides them on under the blanket.

  The plane stops next to the private hangar, and she follows me to the front. Smith opens the door, and the staircase unfolds. He steps back to watch us leave, his expression blank.

  Halfway down, I turn and watch her. She’s got both hands on the railings, and her legs tremble. I consider helping her, but she lifts her chin and glares at me like I’m at fault. And I guess I am—I’m blocking her way.

  She keeps pace with me on the pavement, and we cross quickly to the car. There wasn’t time to retrieve anything from the house, but Antonio might be able to manage to ship some things back to us.

  I make a mental note to ask Amelie later if there’s anything important. And then make another note when I remember the lingerie that was packed in her bag. I wouldn’t mind getting that back.

  We both sit in the back seat. The driver nods to me and clarifies which address I want to go to. I considered the tower in Manhattan for a brief moment, but all I want is to be home. To sleep in my own bed.

  Sleep. There’s a concept. It’s been a while. I think I might’ve caught an hour or two on the flight out of New York, but that seems
like ages ago.

  It was ages ago.

  We turn onto my street, and I glance at Amelie. Her eyes are closed again, but she’s not asleep. She’s too rigid. I doubt she’s unaware of anything.

  “We’re here,” I tell her.

  Distance. That’s what we both need.

  The driver pulls to the curb, and we climb out. She stares up at the duplex, maybe marveling at its size. It isn’t big by any means, but the house is surrounded by an iron fence. I own the house, and one of my cousins lives upstairs. She keeps to herself when she can, which is most of the time.

  Her husband was killed a few years ago, and she’s slowly withdrawn since then. It was the least I could do to offer her a place to live… and deliver groceries every week.

  When I’m not in town, I make sure someone else does it.

  Her lights are all off, unsurprisingly. The downstairs is dark, as well.

  We head up the walkway, and someone steps out of the shadows on the porch. In the time it takes me to recognize the family doctor, I’ve tucked Amelie behind me.

  “Luca,” he calls.

  “Dr. Matthews.” I stride forward to shake his hand. “Thanks for coming.”

  He nods. He’s a quiet man, bald, shorter than me by a few inches. He still manages to loom over Amelie, though, who has crept up to join us on the porch.

  I unlock the door and flip the lights on, bathing both the living room and the porch in warm light. Amelie squints, raising her hand to block her eyes.

  “Come in.” I motion to the doctor to move past me.

  Amelie steps through much more cautiously, like I’m going to slam the door and lock her in.

  You bastard, a voice in my head admonishes, that’s exactly what she’s afraid of.

  She trails the doctor toward the kitchen off to the left. I empty my pockets on the table that serves as a massive catch-all. My cousin must’ve been bringing my mail in, because there’s a giant pile next to the little bowl for my keys.

  When I reach the kitchen, I find Amelie at my small kitchen table, Dr. Matthews sitting beside her. He draws a needle through her skin and ties it off with sure, quick movements. Before our eyes, the gash closes.

  He puts a long, narrow piece of gauze over it and tapes it down. “Keep it covered tonight, then it can breathe. Keep it clean, rinsing it with an antibacterial spray if you need. I’ll see you in a week to remove those.”