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

by S. Massery

  The next thing I knew, Wilder was dead and I was signing another piece of paper.

  Oh god.

  I cover my mouth, holding back nausea. What if I’m not actually married to Luca? If it was a ruse, and I’m really a widow?

  Operation Luca Can Suck A Dick just transformed into recon.

  The elevator chimes, announcing my arrival on the twenty-fifth floor, and I step out carefully. It’s quiet, and it occurs to me that it shouldn’t be. It’s Wednesday, the middle of the day. My eyes immediately ache under the bright lights.

  And yet, it’s a ghost town. No one stops me from striding down the large open space. This could be a bullpen-style work atmosphere, but instead there are couches in the center. The only offices appear to be for immediate family.

  Which means if I get caught, I’ll have no excuse.

  The light is off in Luca’s office, and he left it unlocked. I close the door quietly behind me but don’t bother with the light switch. He’s got a decent view from this angle, and there’s enough natural light for it to be sufficient.

  But since he’s clearly not here, where did he go?

  Frustration sweeps through me. I could’ve forgiven the nature of a workaholic. But what if he went out with someone else? A woman he actually liked instead of… me.

  There are papers in neat piles on the floor. They’re arranged in a semi-circle, like he spent time sitting on the floor to organize them around him. I kneel where I imagine he sat and frown.

  I don’t make sense of most of it, although it doesn’t stop me from riffling through the pages. I rise and go to his desk, then slowly perch in the leather chair. More papers, but these seem to be correspondence. Printed emails.

  My gaze catches on a familiar company: Page Printing, Inc.

  My father’s budding empire, made of paper and ink.

  Luca’s words from our rushed little wedding come back to me. He had told Dad, Our protection is a security system. The promise of force if you meet resistance. But I never asked myself why Dad would need so much protection. That’s where my fault lies.

  I assumed the printing referred only to the newspaper—which is officially my dumbest assumption. That the protection is for when the journalists move to attack everyone except the DeSantis family. A full takedown via media… and public mob.

  Funny, isn’t it? How a company that has its fingers in the journalist side and the printing side would turn to the DeSantis family for help. They’re the very people who should be making headlines for their crimes.

  But this paper in front of me is an invoice for services rendered: cleaning and distribution.

  And listen, I may be dumb in my younger assumptions, but my eyes are wide open now. I would bet anything that Dad’s been slowly adding specialty ink and paper to his inventory. Just enough to not cause suspicion.

  A private company, however low profile, printing money? Whether with a government contract or not, it’s bound to draw attention from all sorts of people. And if he’s able to scrub it clean through his other businesses, or through the DeSantis businesses…

  God. No wonder he was so willing to sell me off. The DeSantis family is giant. Their name alongside ours is enough of a security to keep Dad’s company out of trouble.

  But it didn’t save you.

  I set the paper down and replace the email from the builder on top of it.

  My next stop needs to be Dad’s office. Surely he would’ve had to file the marriage license after my wedding to Wilder. We signed on a Saturday morning. The wedding was Sunday. Everything would’ve been closed.

  I breathe deeply, resisting the urge to go check Jameson’s office.

  My hand is on the door when voices drift toward me.

  “Aiden, go check for the report in Luca’s drawer,” someone says.

  I’d bet money that was Jameson.

  Shit. I jump away from the door, thankful that the walls aren’t made of glass. I consider hiding under Luca’s desk, but if the drawer is his desk drawer…

  I swing behind the door just as it opens, stopping a hair’s breadth from my nose. Aiden saunters in, shuffling some things around. He doesn’t make any other noises, and when he leaves, the door remains open.

  Carefully, I peek through the narrow gap near the hinges.

  Jameson’s office door closes with a snick, and footsteps return.

  Suddenly, the door flies shut.

  I squeak. Caught.

  Aiden raises his eyebrows, looking me up and down. “Well, well.”

  “I—”

  “Save it,” he interrupts. “This is the most interesting thing to happen today.”

  I’m at a loss for words. My mouth opens and closes, before I finally settle on shut. Better to just stay silent, anyway.

  He leans against the closed door, contemplating me. “Well?”

  “Well what?” I snap.

  He grins. He really is quite different from Luca. Besides their height—tall—and dark hair, Aiden seems fairer. More heritage from his white mother’s side, I would guess. They’re only half brothers, in any case. Luca’s skin is a darker complexion, his eyes closer to black than gold. Aiden’s skin is honey-kissed. Green eyes. Tattoos peek out from his shirt collar.

  They’re both lean, though. I’d guess that comes in handy for being an assassin—and whatever it is Luca does. Actually, he never really mentioned what his role is in the family. I understood on an innate level what Wilder did. He was in the public eye—maybe not as much as he wanted, not yet, but he was getting there. He would’ve been one of the politicians pulling the strings of the city.

  New York is just a big puppet, moving to whatever beat her dictators want.

  And can’t I relate?

  He keeps staring, so I sigh. “I came to see Luca. He’s not here.”

  “How’d you get here?”

  I frown. “Why?”

  Aiden narrows his eyes. “I’m not the one caught in someone else’s office, am I?”

  I glance around. “I didn’t see your name on the door.”

  That… that gets him. He cracks a smile. “Okay, touché. What were you going to do when you found Luca? Kiss him? Kill him?”

  “I don’t know.” Lie. I was going to give him a piece of my mind. But that bluster seems far removed from my current state. Now I just want to go home and take a nap.

  “You look like you’re dressed for war,” he offers. “And I think you might be right. Luca needs some war.”

  I stare at him.

  I mean, he isn’t wrong. After careful consideration of a plan at my parents’ house, I changed out of my black jeans and Luca’s oversized sweatshirt. I picked a shirt I love, a dark-green satin peplum with a plunging neckline. It goes all the way to just above my bellybutton, held closed over my breasts with fine ribbon.

  I found a gold necklace that wraps around my throat like a collar, then added shiny leather leggings and heeled boots.

  My hair is pulled back in a French braid, some curls left loose to accent my face.

  The only makeup I chose was mascara and lip balm.

  “Okay, come on.”

  I squint. “What?”

  “You really knocked your head hard, huh? Come with me, and I’ll take you to Luca.”

  Oh. I move out of the way, then follow him down the hall. It’s still quiet, but the most important thing is that Jameson doesn’t come out of his office.

  We don’t speak until we get to the parking garage, and Aiden double takes at my car.

  “A bribe for agreeing to marry Wilder,” I say sweetly, patting the hood. It’s a Porsche Spyder. Dark blue. A few years old, of course, but still in good condition. Even at sixteen, I knew a nice car when I saw one.

  “I’m driving,” Aiden says, holding out his hand for the keys.

  I laugh. “No.”

  For a moment, I think he might pout—but then he grabs me, patting me down until he hears the clink of my keychain. I… well, I panic.

  Is this not similar
to what Matteo did to me?

  I shriek, batting at him, and he flies away from me.

  “Jesus, Amelie,” he swears.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I scream. “You had to know what Matteo did.”

  I shudder, turning away from him. I actually felt myself softening. Like, hey, maybe Luca’s scary brother isn’t that scary. The rumors about him might be true, but I might be able to get along with Luca’s family.

  Wrong.

  He’s not only scary—he’s an asshole.

  The keys dangle from his fingertips over my shoulder. A silent apology, maybe, but not good enough. My skin crawls, and I can’t get the panic to loosen its grip on my lungs. I’m breathing too fast again.

  “Hey, hey, I’m sorry,” he says. “I thought you wouldn’t…”

  I spin to face him, snatching the keys back. “You thought I wouldn’t what? Be affected by trauma? By Matteo violating me? By anything that has happened this week?” I shove him, ignoring the surprise on his face. “Don’t touch me. Ever.”

  He opens his mouth, but I don’t want his apology. The same way I didn’t want Luca’s tenant’s sympathy. Some things just make everything worse, and this qualifies. I unlock my car and slide into the driver’s seat.

  Aiden climbs in a moment later.

  “Where are we going?” I ask once we’re past the guard booth.

  He points to the left. “He went to see a city councilwoman,” he says. “Something about permits, I don’t know. I block him out when he gets going.”

  I scowl at the road, automatically annoyed that I have no idea what he’s talking about. Luca has meetings with someone in government? Regularly? And permits… I guess he’s talking in relation to that construction company they own. Woodrow Builders.

  It would appear that he’s more in the public eye than Aiden.

  The thought of telling him about seeing Gemma, her brother, and Kai crosses my mind, but then I shuffle it back. I’m still pissed that he grabbed at me.

  “Take your next left,” Aiden says.

  I glance at him, then flip my blinker on. Manhattan traffic sucks—maybe I should’ve let him drive. If he had asked nicely, I would’ve. He stares out the window, his face impassive.

  Brother-in-law.

  I try it in my mind, and it just feels… weird. We coast to a stop at a red light, and I peek at him. Then away.

  “Why do you keep looking at me?” He catches my gaze before it snaps back to the road.

  “Just trying to…” I shrug. The light turns green.

  “Trying to what?”

  “Picture you as a brother.” Ugh. I shake my head. “Weird, right?”

  He faces me. “You’re trying to picture me as a brother.”

  Ugh, men. “No.”

  “You literally just said that, Amelie.”

  “I know I did, but I didn’t mean it like that. I meant it like…” Like I wish I could backpedal out of this conversation. “I’ve only had my younger sister. So it’s different.”

  “Huh.”

  I roll my eyes. “Forget I said anything.”

  “No, no, I see where you’re coming from. You’ve had to fend for yourself against shitty parents. Hell, they totally sold you off like cattle. Eh, maybe a painting? They’re more valuable, and what Dad got for your marriage… But yeah, I get it. It’s why you came back to the tower with your armor.”

  “It’s not armor,” I mutter.

  “You can pull over here,” he says, gesturing to his right.

  I swerve across the lanes and to the curb, and only a few cars honk. Mild for New Yorkers. He shakes his head and points to the building we’re parked in front of.

  “He’s probably in there.”

  I glare at him. “Okay, so get out.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re not sitting in my car while I go march into battle, as you say.”

  He grins and hops out, barely waiting for me on the sidewalk. He leads the way inside, three steps ahead of me. The lobby is all white marble and glass, and a woman frowns at us from behind the receptionist desk.

  “Can I help you?” she calls.

  “Just looking for my brother,” Aiden replies. “He had a meeting with…”

  I think back to the names signed to the permits.

  “Councilwoman White,” I supply.

  The woman checks her computer. “They should be done soon.”

  I narrow my eyes, and she pales. Maybe she recognizes the last name, or maybe it’s my perfected bitch stare. Either way, she doesn’t say anything when I lean over and scan her computer screen.

  Sandra White. The name rings a bell from Mom’s many lectures. If I wanted to make it, she reasoned, I had to know who everyone was. The strings they pulled. She even wanted to get in a room with the councilwoman. Hell, she might still want a quote from her for the magazine. Dad’s one business concession for his wife was to allow her the freedom of a monthly magazine.

  While not what Mom might’ve seen herself doing, she relishes the power and prestige of it now.

  “Thirty-fourth floor,” I tell Aiden, striding to the elevators.

  He doesn’t follow.

  I ignore it. It doesn’t matter, anyway. This fight is between Luca and me. The fact that I’m bringing it to a business meeting with a councilwoman… I sigh. I’ve got more tricks up my sleeve, at least.

  Sandra White and her fellow council members recently helped pass a law restricting government oversight into privately funded construction zones. I don’t know the specifics, but as long as the permits are filed, then those zones now have free rein. It’s the sort of thing Mom would jump on—an exclusive interview.

  Wait.

  Of course the DeSantis building company would benefit from that.

  Fuck a duck, how deep does this family’s influence go?

  “Miss?”

  I jerk toward another receptionist.

  “Are you here to see Councilwoman White?”

  Either I say yes and she asks what my name is—thus figuring out I don’t have an appointment—or I say no and she asks me what the hell I’m doing here.

  And I’m not sure I have an answer for that anymore.

  So I fall back on old talents.

  “Hi! I’m so sorry, yes, I’m here to see the councilwoman. I’m Amelie Page. Councilwoman White promised my mother an exclusive for our magazine, and now that the construction bill passed, she was hoping to collect.” I flip my hair over my shoulder. “I can come back, of course, but unfortunately the deadline for printing this month is tonight…”

  “Oh, dear. Well, do you mind waiting? Her current appointment should be over soon.”

  Better than barging into her office, I suppose.

  I nod and wander away, putting distance between us. My cell has automatically connected to the WiFi here, and I send a message to my mother.

  Me: About to be face-to-face with Sandra White.

  She replies almost immediately, and I’m surprised she doesn’t have a million questions for me. I know I would.

  Mom: Congratulate her on the bill and ask where her focus is next.

  Mom: Ask about her dog, Jacks.

  I hesitate to type out my next question. This would constitute a conversation with my mother, and I don’t know if she’s capable of that.

  Me: Dad never filed the marriage license Wilder and I signed, right?

  Silence.

  The office door opens, and Luca steps out.

  Oh shit. Okay. Get it together, Amelie.

  The sad thing is, he doesn’t notice me at first. He turns and shakes the woman’s hand, and her name matches my memory of her face. Relatively young, ambitious. Newly divorced and, well… thriving.

  It makes me think if my parents hadn’t been hung up on the idea of protection from the DeSantis family, where might they have pushed me? Politics? Law? Somewhere to benefit the Page name, of that I’m sure.

  Luca’s made it almost all the way to the elevator wh
en I step forward, out of the shadows.

  “Amelie Page, Councilwoman,” I introduce, sticking my hand out.

  Sandra White’s eyes light up, no doubt landing on my last name.

  Wilder’s death has been kept under wraps and out of the media, as far as I could tell. No one was in the chapel except my small family and Luca’s large one. Of course, it’s only been three days since he died in front of me. Plenty of time for a fancy write-up in the Times and a funeral announcement.

  “Amelie,” she repeats. “We met before.”

  “At the charity dinner you hosted,” I say. “I was in the area and hoping to help my mother out and get your quote? Since it was so impressive how you carried it through the council.”

  She laughs, waving her hand. “Oh, Elise taught you well. Aren’t you a beauty?” Her gaze strays to her assistant, then back to me. “I do have time for a quote. Would you like to join me?”

  I glance over my shoulder. Luca stands next to the elevator. I wasn’t sure how he would take it—I’d go for anything, really—but he’s pissed.

  Good. So am I.

  I flash him a brittle smile and slip into Sandra’s office.

  She’s got a wall of windows, and a bookcase completely takes up another wall. It seems to be the way of things for politicians. Law books all stacked to display at eye level, whatever award or accolades framed beside them.

  I analyze them while she goes to her desk.

  I asked myself if my parents would’ve wanted me in law or politics? If I asked Sandra, she would probably say both. Her law degree comes from Harvard. Undergrad at Brown. She’s barely thirty and already had a healthy amount of bills pass with her convincing.

  “Amelie?”

  I straighten and step away from her Bachelor of Science. “Sorry, just admiring. You’ve made a lot of headway in your time on the council.”

  “It’s been an uphill battle,” she says.

  I catch a glimpse of a dog photo on her desk. “Jacks, right?”

  “Good memory,” she murmurs. “Your mother is quite persuasive. I don’t think I’ve met privately with a journalist in years. Not since before I was elected.”

  “I’m—” I pause. I guess, in a way, I am a journalist. Investigative.