by S. Massery
Investigating the DeSantis family.
I will figure them out. Uncover all their secrets. It’s suddenly a need pulsing under my skin, this sick sort of curiosity. I want Luca to suffer for it, too.
To recover, I dip my head. “Still new to being referred to as a journalist. My mother wanted something different for me.”
To be a housewife.
Her attention goes to my left hand. “Wilder DeSantis was that something different?”
Fuck. “It was,” I say carefully. “I’m not sure that’s the direction I’m headed in.”
I mean, come on. Talk about being in bed with the enemy. All I have to do is remember how I felt waking up this morning completely alone. Or the way Luca and I spoke to each other before we left.
“Do you know Luca, then?”
I press my lips together.
She narrows her eyes. “I just couldn’t help but notice you have some bruising on your face. And the stitches, of course. He had a black eye.”
I shrug. “Coincidence. We’re not well acquainted.”
She hums.
I take out my phone and hit the ‘record’ button.
“So, what would you like to say about the success of the bill passing? And where is your next focus?” An idea sparks inside me. This next focus could be what her and Luca were discussing. If she’s in his back pocket, how much work does she do to make their lives easier?
I’ve driven by construction sites that have been run into the ground—almost literally—by bureaucratic red tape, politics, schemes. And ones that have had to practically sell their souls to get built. Page Printing went through something similar.
Even just getting a loan to finance—ugh, there were many nights I sat at the top of the stairs and listened to my parents lament the system. But this… they managed real change. Whether it pans out or not is anyone’s guess.
She smiles. “I’m thrilled that my colleagues and I were able to pass the bill. A lot of effort went into protecting the smaller contractors who will benefit from less oversight. Of course, permits will still need to be filed appropriately, but the burden is now on government officials instead of another corporation with something to lose.”
I tilt my head. “And you’re the one who signs off on the permits? Or rejects them?”
“I do.”
“I imagine this is where it comes in handy to be your friend,” I joke.
Her smile is tight. “I imagine so, Ms. Page—or, is it DeSantis now?”
I almost grimace but hold back at the last second. It shouldn’t be a surprise that she knows. Or, at the very least, suspects. Wilder’s death has been kept under wraps, except for some gossip that may not have reached her ears. That announcement will probably come to light soon.
No, it’s the way she wields my brand-new last name. Not so much like a weapon against me, but a shield for herself. Protection. A plea for me to stop this line of questioning? For the first time, I wonder what they have over her to get what they want. If Luca or Wilder or whoever usually visits her office brings bribes or threats.
I try to see through her exterior, to the heart of the matter.
“And next on your plate?” I ask.
“Cracking down on gun trafficking,” she answers. “Safety in this city should be a top priority, and I fear this has slipped off the priority list in recent years.”
I nod and click off the recording, stowing it back in my purse.
“You married a DeSantis,” she says, “and you’re asking me about immoral conduct?”
“I was sold into the family,” I say, my voice soft. “And you… well, I don’t know how they got you. But I’ll figure it out.”
I don’t wait for her response.
I incline my chin and say, “Thanks for the quote, Councilwoman.” And then I get the hell out of there.
21
Amelie
It’s funny how my parents operate. Page Printing, Inc. owns a newspaper that pretty much operates freely on its own. It doesn’t need my father’s oversight. He just collects his share of the royalties each month. The paper was acquired from the last CEO who, if memory serves correctly, had a gambling problem and a women problem. As in, he liked women who weren’t his wife a bit too much.
Anyway, that was how the New York Star came to us. We were already printing the newspapers for a few of the other weekly papers, those too small to have their own press like the New York Times. It seemed like a natural acquisition.
The magazine is my mother’s pet project. A glossy, thick thing full of too-thin models and those folded-page perfume adverts. The monthly run usually has a spotlight feature on a few people. Headliners that sell it.
And the councilwoman, with an impressive résumé and fresh off a win, seemed like a natural choice.
But now I’m thinking the only reason Mom picked her was because of her agreement with the DeSantises. If every single decision from the last three years can be traced back to them.
I hate it.
I hate their influence.
Wilder’s death peeled my eyes wide open to what goes on in this family. They want absolute control—of course. They’ve got their fingers in everything.
I need to go back to Luca’s office.
Maybe Jameson’s, if I can manage it…
They’re hiding something.
No—they’re hiding everything. I’m no better off than an outsider, but my hunger to know them drives me on. The glance into Luca’s work has piqued my curiosity.
The councilwoman closes the door behind me, and I pass the receptionist’s desk. It’s empty, and I don’t spot Luca at the elevators. Maybe this move wasn’t enough to rattle him, and he’s home. Or downstairs, having a laugh with Aiden.
For all I know, his brother warned him we were coming.
A hand wraps around my mouth, yanking me backward.
If I wasn’t two steps outside the councilwoman’s office, I would be alarmed. But my spine hits a chest that seems way more familiar than it should, and I don’t put up a fight.
Luca drags me into a small room, dark except for the light seeping in under the door. A supply closet, if I had to guess. He flips me around, and his hand slips from my mouth to my throat. His fingers curl around, digging into my skin.
It might be a warning, but I’ve never been more turned on.
“What are you doing here?” He leans in and touches my hair.
I smile. “You’re the one who wants to play games, Luca.”
He squeezes suddenly, cutting off my air supply. My mouth pops open, and I grab his wrist with both hands. My lungs sear.
Fuck our vows. I’m going to kill him for this.
I bring my knee up between his legs as hard as I can manage, and his grip loosens. He lets out a pained wheeze, and I shove him away from me. He hits the metal shelves and stares at me like he’s never seen me before.
I shake my head. I can’t be in here anymore. I can’t be around him.
When I came here, I was looking for… a way to validate myself, I think.
I twist the doorknob, and Luca’s hand slams into the wood next to my head, forcing it shut.
“Lock it,” he says. “Keep your hands on the door.”
Something must be wrong with me, because I obey. A dark thrill goes through me, a pulsing that only danger seems to awaken. Danger and Luca.
He yanks my hips back against him. His erection digs into my ass.
And then he pushes my leggings down, all the way to my ankles. The last time he knelt behind me…
I automatically shudder when his hot breath hits my bare skin. His teeth graze my butt cheek, biting before he rises.
“If you make a sound, I’ll stop,” he promises. “Nod.”
I do. How did I go from wearing armor, ready for battle, to this? In a dark closet, naked from the waist down, and I’m panting in anticipation.
He slams into me in one go, and I lurch. No sound escapes my lips. This feels dirty and secret, and the twisted part of me loves
it.
“You’re soaked,” he murmurs, pulling back out. “You like this? The threat of being caught?”
I don’t answer. I shift, bracing my forearms on the door. He slides against me, and I almost moan. It’s right behind my teeth, threatening to break free.
He moves, then. Enough talking. Enough waiting. I take each of his thrusts and shove back, the delicious fullness of him creating waves of dizziness. They crash through me, so much so that I can’t quite tell if I’m still standing. Just his fingers on my waist, his length ramming into me, my damp palms on the door.
Everything else has ceased to exist.
He reaches around me and flicks my clit.
I’m too stimulated. By the situation, by him. By our mutual anger. This sex isn’t made from love, that’s for sure. I feel his annoyance and I hope he can sense mine.
He flicks it again, faster, and my orgasm shatters me.
I press my mouth into my arm, suppressing the noise that comes with my shaky exhale. He comes only a minute later, stilling inside me.
And then he’s gone, sliding free from me. I stay against the door as he tugs my leggings back up. They snap into place, covering our wicked deeds.
“I’m going to remember this,” he says in my ear. “And when I get home tonight, my cum better still be on your skin. Between your thighs. I own you, Amelie.”
I shiver.
He unlocks the door and gestures for me to step back.
And then the fucker leaves me.
I touch the edge of my head wound, probing one of the stitches. My head kills. Dr. Matthews said something about no strenuous activity, probably. If I had been listening.
I push my shoulders back and ignore the wetness that seeps between my legs. It’s like he’s still here, still against my back. I’m immobile for a long moment, just trying to breathe.
And then the claustrophobia takes over, and ice creeps over my skin.
I can’t stay in here.
Snatching my purse from the floor, I crack the door and make sure the coast is clear before booking it to the elevator. No one waits for me in the lobby—I can only imagine Aiden intercepted Luca and left with him.
The work of Mafia men is never done.
My car is thankfully in the same place, and I lock the doors as soon as I’m in. There are a million places I could go to leave this place, but it’s like I’m tethered to Luca. I have no doubt he’d find a way to track me down and drag me back, kicking and screaming.
I own you, he said.
It’s repulsive. The idea of being owned, of being reduced to a possession. It’s a running theme in his words, his actions. He married me, but I’m no better than a puppet for him to position in his house. He’ll pull my strings, use me, fuck me.
The pain of that realization burns. My chest is on fire. I can’t cry here, though, even as a lump forms in my throat. I can’t lose my mind in front of a government building in downtown Manhattan.
I swallow it down and swipe under my eyes, checking my face in the rearview mirror. I came here and did what I wanted. I rattled Luca.
But I think he rattled me more.
I take the long way back to Luca’s house and park down the block. I don’t necessarily want my car to be tied to his house, so I hop out and walk the rest of the way. The upstairs porch where Luca’s tenant leaned out to help me this morning is empty. She’s a peculiar woman.
Once I’m inside, I kick off my shoes and immediately freeze.
My parents are here.
At Luca’s dining table.
“Amelie,” my mother gasps, shooting up. “What happened to your head?”
I squint. “What are you doing here?”
Dad seems equally concerned, which is a fucking first. He doesn’t rise, though, and instead waits for my mother to shepherd me to the table. She grips my chin and turns my face this way and that, inspecting the damage.
“Your hair,” she murmurs. “You were out? Like this?”
“Is there something wrong with my hair, Mom?”
She grimaces. “We’ve discussed this. And you were with Sandra White? What were you thinking—”
“The opportunity presented itself.” My voice is monotone, and I fall into one of the chairs. Them being here is suffocating.
A whole new form of claustrophobia.
“Is Luca here?” I ask.
Mom tsks, returning to her seat across from me. “Honey, we need to talk.”
I narrow my eyes, and she reaches into her purse. She removes an envelope and slides it across the table to me. I don’t touch it, even under their stares.
“You’re not talking,” I say softly. “What is this?”
I wish, for once in my life, I could be more like Lucy. She doesn’t give a fuck about my parents. Not in the traditional sense. That’s probably one of the reasons they sent her away—they couldn’t control her anymore, and control means everything to my parents. Just look at me, and where I ended up.
They didn’t care when I was, in their words, sowing my wild oats. An expression usually said in reference to eager, horny boys, but they slapped it on everything ‘bad’ I did. The parties, dating, drinking. “Oh, she’s just getting it out of her system,” they would say.
I wanted to scream every time they brushed me off. I feared it would build up in my chest until I exploded.
“This is your marriage certificate,” she says. “It came to our house yesterday.”
My throat tightens. “That was fast,” I manage.
“Open it.” Dad pushes it closer to me.
I retreat. I can’t help it. I pull my hands back from the table, clenching them in my lap. There has to be a reason, right? That they’re here, looking like the world is ending.
Mom makes a face. “Stop being so dramatic, Amelie. It’s a piece of paper.”
I straighten. I don’t think I’m dramatic. I just… have an unhealthy amount of fear at seeing my fate sealed with the courts of New York State. Like the ring and the sex and being ordered around by Luca wasn’t enough proof for me, I need a piece of paper to confirm it.
So I face my fear and pick up the envelope, carefully sliding my finger under the seal. It pops open, and I remove the marriage certificate.
Amelie Page and Wilder DeSantis…
“No.”
“You’re married to Wilder,” Mom says.
I don’t need it spelled out, but I can’t form the words to tell her off. To question this. He’s dead. Died in the ambulance. So this piece of paper is…
“We haven’t received a death certificate yet,” Dad says. “So as of right now, you’re still officially married to Wilder.”
“Because the one with Luca must not have been filed,” Mom adds. “Or it was, and disregarded because they received this one first.”
I drop the paper, and my heart drops like a stone, too.
Down, down, down.
I didn’t escape Wilder.
I think of Mariella’s fate, and how he wove it together with mine. With Luca’s. And my mind snags on every interaction between us and our families. The way I’d never touched him except a few times, our hands brushing. A kiss to my knuckles.
The only time I felt his body against mine was after he had been shot.
And I’m married to him. Not the one who saved me. Who irritates me. Who has infiltrated my heart in a matter of days.
I know better. I know better and yet I’m still falling for the bad guys in my story.
“What now?” I barely recognize my own voice. Monotone, even. “I’m not married to Luca?”
Inside, I’m a disaster. The ring Luca gave me may as well be a sham. I should return it to Paloma, so she can save it for him to give to someone worthier than me.
Someone who didn’t manage to marry his brother.
“Now, we’re taking you home. Just temporarily, until we figure out what to do. This complicates things, as you can understand.” Dad raises his hands. “We’ve already talked to Jameson, and he�
�s allowed us—”
“Allowed,” I scoff.
“He’s allowing us to bring you home,” Mom finishes Dad’s sentence. “Isn’t that better than the alternative?”
Is it? I don’t even know what the alternative might be.
They expect a certain answer, though. An affirmation that they’re doing the right thing. And I’m nothing if not well-trained.
I nod, pasting on a smile. “I’ve missed you both.”
Mom returns my smile, relief apparent in her eyes. “We’ve missed you, too. Come on. Do you have your bags?”
I glance toward Luca’s bedroom. I haven’t been here long enough to even think of it as mine yet. “I have some things to pack. But, um, I got my car. So I can meet you at home.”
They frown.
“Long story,” I mumble. “I’ll be right behind you.”
They leave, and I lock the door. Knowing Luca, he won’t be home for hours. It’s plenty of time to pack up and make my escape, but my skin crawls at the idea of returning home. I was under their thumb there, and that’s the life I’m returning to. I won’t have an excuse to sow my wild oats.
I’m not married to Luca.
My heart squeezes, and I lean over the table. My cheek touches the cool wood.
They left the marriage certificate. It leers at me, inches from my nose. Wilder’s printed name, his scrawled signature beneath it. Hadn’t I hoped that Dad didn’t send it in on time? Hadn’t I wished, just today, that the right marriage license would make it to the courthouse?
I should know better than to hope. Hope is a dirty word designed to tear us down. Because where am I now, after all that time spent wishing and hoping and searching the sky for shooting stars to hang my dreams on?
I hoped for love and I got Wilder’s cold charm.
I wished for a future and I got Luca’s cage.
So, as of right now, I’m done. There’s no ring on my finger. I might be a DeSantis in name, but my husband is dead.
My laugh bursts out of me. I’m a fucking widow. I smack my hand on the table, unable to contain the giggles. My stomach aches from it, muscles clenched. God, it’s been forever since I’ve truly laughed, and this is what gets me.
Eventually, I pick myself up and go to the bedroom. I contemplate writing a note, but there’s nothing to say. I’ve been here for two days and I have absolutely no possessions here. My purse on my shoulder, my WiFi-only phone in it. I didn’t even bring in my bag of clothes from the car.
