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

by S. Massery

  My eyes burn, and I look away. The sun is just now creeping up. It’s this small ball of red-orange, blazing a path through the sky.

  “Thank you,” I say quietly.

  “Any time. I will admit, I get a bit protective when I see a young lass traveling by herself. It’s because you remind me of my daughter.” He gestures to his forehead, where my scar is. “She was in a car wreck. Her scars don’t define her, and I get the sense yours don’t, either.”

  My smile wobbles. I need to pull myself together. “They don’t. I’m hoping not, anyway. I’m Amelie, by the way.”

  He shakes my hand. “Gordain McRae. You ever find yourself in Scotland, come look us up.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  Soon after, the captain makes an announcement that we’re starting our descent. I press my nose to the glass. I keep my eyes fixed on the scenery, relishing the view. I can’t remember the last time I sat back and enjoyed it like this, and something loosens in my chest.

  There’s a bump and sudden rush as we land. I sit back, tearing the forgotten eye mask from my forehead and stuffing it in my bag. It has the airline’s logo on it in the corner, a promotional item for those traveling overnight. Besides a long layover in Dublin, the flights have been smooth.

  I wonder what sort of favor Gemma West will ask of me, and when. I didn’t put any restrictions on it, mainly out of fear. She could’ve just said no to my request for help and hung up. I was desperate. But with time comes clarity, and I can’t help but contemplate the gravity of owing a West anything at all.

  I shiver.

  The plane parks at the terminal. I stand along with everyone else, happy to stretch my legs. My row buddy hands me my bag from the compartment over our heads, and we slowly file out. From there, it’s relatively quick through customs, our passports stamped, and then… I’m out.

  The steady flow of French conversations around me is immediately soothing. We never flew into the Nice airport—there’s a smaller one closer to our summer house—but it was the closest international arrival I could find. I follow the signs to the taxis, my backpack and purse my only possessions.

  I’m weightless.

  I find the taxi stand, and when it’s my turn, I ask a driver if he’ll take me into Italy. The first shakes his head. So does the second, inching forward until I’m out of view.

  “Mademoiselle?”

  I duck down to peer in the window of the third taxi.

  “Where do you want to go?” he asks in French.

  I tell him, and he pauses. Considers me. I don’t break my stare, and he names a price. It’s a little high, but I’m asking him to drive just over hour, and he’ll be out the money if he doesn’t catch a fare on the way back.

  I exchanged half my money for euros at my layover in Dublin, and I discretely count it out in the backseat as we set off. Luckily, the driver doesn’t try to make any small talk. We hit the highway headed for Sanremo. I’ve always enjoyed the ride—although it’s about a half hour longer than it would be from my parents’ house. The highway cuts through the mountains—both over tall bridges and into round-topped tunnels that engulf us in darkness—and then eventually spits us out near the ocean.

  “Wait,” I call. “Can you turn off here for a moment?”

  He meets my gaze in the mirror. “Here?”

  I sigh. “I’ll pay you extra. Please.”

  He nods and follows the instructions I deliver in bad, broken French. We stop in front of my parents’ house, and I climb out. I tell him I’ll only be gone a moment.

  I can’t even say why I have a desire to come here. It doesn’t look none the worse for wear, considering I sent the Costas here on a witch hunt. I pull my keys from my purse and find the one for the front door. The deadbolt slides back with a dull, satisfying thud, and then I’m in.

  It seems… the same. Untouched.

  The furniture is covered with white fabric to protect it from the dust. It’s been thoroughly boarded up since the last time they were here. They came without me, I think, in the fall. I couldn’t go because of dress fittings, a doctor’s appointment, and Mom placed some of the engagement party decision-making on my shoulders.

  “You’re going to be a wife,” she’d said back then, before they’d left. “It’s time you learn how to put together a party. To follow through. And maybe think about taking a little responsibility for your life.”

  Her words hurt. I rub my chest now, walking through the downstairs. I didn’t think the Costas would go through and destroy anything just for the sake of it, but I wasn’t positive.

  “I took responsibility,” I mutter to myself. The engagement party was fine, not particularly exciting at the DeSantis estate, but a beautiful evening out. I pause in the kitchen, tilting my head. The people my parents pay to close up the house always used to put the chairs up on the dining table, but they’re all down and tucked in.

  There’s a cup in the sink, tipped upside down.

  I sit heavily in one of the chairs. Wilder and I sat here on my sixteenth birthday. He and his father filled the space. Aiden and Luca, too, but they had left us alone. We were uncomfortable. I was, anyway. Sixteen and destined to get married to a stranger. No matter how beautiful, I couldn’t seem to justify it in my head.

  My brain feels like it’s playing a record and keeps skipping forward, missing blips of the conversation. I can’t recall what we talked about. He smiled a few times, trying to be less intimidating, maybe? Turning on his charm.

  I wonder how long he knew about this.

  All of a sudden, I stand and grab my chair, throwing it across the kitchen. It skids and falls on its side, then hits the cabinets. The noise is impressive, but it doesn’t satisfy me. The anger in my chest hurts, burns worse than flames. I scream into my hands.

  Broken little thing. That’s what they’ll say about me.

  I don’t go upstairs. I would rather not see my old room. There’s a picture of Wilder on my dresser, and I remember staring at it, trying to convince myself I could love him someday.

  I hope my parents’ house flooded while they were gone. That the bathroom floors upstairs gave way, crashing water down into the living room, the kitchen. That they always smell a bit of dampness.

  “Had enough of a tantrum, Amelie?” I ask myself. The bitterness is full force at myself. “Jesus. Grow up.”

  I right the chair, slamming it back into place at the table. The cup can stay—maybe my parents will question their sanity. And then I sigh, trying to release some of my anger. It comes on too quickly, and I could point fingers… or I can close my eyes and breathe.

  After a few moments, my heart rate slows. I don’t feel guilty leaving this space. So with one last shudder, I leave. I lock the door behind me and don’t look back. I can’t.

  Thankfully, the taxi is still waiting for me.

  “Sorry,” I apologize. “I’m ready.”

  He sighs, and off we go. I lean forward as we go through the final tunnel twenty minutes later, and the landscape opens up. A smile creeps across my face. It was a whirlwind trip with him, but I’ve got nothing but time now. The Costas will ensure Luca doesn’t follow me, as long as I can remain off their radar.

  Safely, with any luck.

  “Here’s good.” The street is quiet, and I pay him before slipping out and into the garage. It’s unlocked, thankfully, and quiet. I hurry upstairs, bypassing the first floor. I’m not ready to face it, with memories lurking just out of reach. In the bedroom, my bags are just where I left them.

  No doubt someone would’ve sent them back eventually, but it couldn’t have been a priority. Not with Ricardo’s stab wound, and the restaurant, and whatever unrest we left with the Costas. I sit on the bed and grab my phone off the charger.

  There are a million notifications that I quickly scroll through, then swipe them away. Most came to my other phone through WiFi, but there are a few messages that didn’t. I go to those, first, and click on my sister’s name.

  Lucy: WTF
AMELIE? WHERE ARE YOU?

  I consider calling her, but I can’t pull her into this. Not now.

  A lot of the other texts are from old classmates from Emery-Rose Elite that saw my picture in the paper. My engagement photo with Wilder that was used to announce his death. Some are shocked. Others want to know why I didn’t say anything. Of course I didn’t tell anyone—I’m not sure why everyone is acting so surprised. Or sympathetic.

  They’re the ones who forgot about me after high school. They went on to their fancy colleges, moved into the city or away entirely. My so-called friends just… left me.

  I set down my phone and stare around the bedroom. We didn’t come up here together, except to pass each other for the shower, so it’s relatively safe.

  But unfortunately, I can’t hide up here forever.

  I go downstairs and pause on the last step. It’s easy to remember how he looked walking in with fresh bruises, the immediate concern that coursed through me. The way his eyes bored into mine when I stood between his legs.

  I hold on to the railing and squeeze my eyes shut so I don’t catch the other details.

  There is where he ate me out, and there on the floor is where he fucked me, and there is where I blew him, cooked him breakfast, worried over the word ‘wife’.

  I grit my teeth and open my eyes, forcing myself to see it all. Everything from the open living and dining area, to the kitchen, to the sliding doors that lead onto the patio. Here is where I find my courage, and here is where I will find myself. In this spot. In this house.

  Piece by piece.

  I am encroaching on Luca’s space, and I hate that it’s so very clearly his. But unlike my parents’ house, or the summer home across the border, or Luca’s Brooklyn apartment, I like this space. My stomach knots thinking about the what-ifs.

  What-ifs, much like hope, can seriously bring a person down. Because if only we had stayed here, none of the ugly bad things would’ve happened. The Costas would still be pissed at Wilder, and Luca would’ve still killed two of their men, but we would’ve walked out of that together.

  Now? Not a chance.

  My only option is to make this house my own—and that means learning all its secrets.

  Over the next three hours, I tear the place apart. Someone as cunning as Luca must have secret hiding places all over the house, and I intend to find them all. It’s bright by the time I’m ready to stop. My muscles ache, knees sore from kneeling and crouching. I hike the stairs up from the garage and call my hunt complete.

  When I made my first discovery, I laid out a blanket from the couch in the center of the room, and now a pile of weapons has accrued.

  “Okay, you got this.”

  I can’t say I’m an expert—that would be laughable—but Dad and I tried to bond over firearms once. How to check if a cartridge is loaded in the chamber, how to eject the magazine. We went over cleaning and assembly, but that’s long since slipped from my memory.

  I wonder what Luca would do in my place. If he’d go to the Costas or keep his head down.

  Stop. My mind keeps tripping over itself to get back to him, and I hate that part of me. The part that let him in, even a little bit.

  The first time I tried to truly open up, he dismissed me. And when he realized we weren’t married, he locked me away. He listened to my screams. He reduced me to begging. And he did nothing.

  I touch my scar. It’s grounded me in the past, and it does so now. Just another layer of armor I’ve added. I seem to keep piling it on, even though Luca slipped through my defenses easily before.

  I pour myself a cup of coffee and sit at the edge of the blanket, then take a deep breath. The best thing for me is to have a purpose.

  Step one: go through everything. Figure out which guns go with which ammunition, if any are loaded. Fill the magazine just in case.

  Step two: I need something more than coffee. The dairy products in the fridge have expired, and a girl can only live so long on the frozen waffles I found.

  Which leads me to step three: decide what the hell I’m doing here.

  It isn’t enough to just exist. I came here for a reason. Vague as it is, I felt a connection to this city. Two of the three people who ruined my exploring are dead. One is probably wandering around with his jaw wired shut. I don’t know about Cristian or Mariella, but I hope they don’t expect me back. That they won’t be searching for me.

  The only trouble is that, by now, word had to have reached them of Wilder’s death. And I’ll need to suss out their level of anger.

  Hmm.

  I examine my fingernails. I ripped them to shreds these last few weeks with nothing better to do. My hair has lost its shine. I need sunshine and fresh air. Exercise. My body was once fit enough to flip through the air and land one-footed in a cradle of hands. And now, two weeks of captivity, my muscles ache. My abs have disappeared into soft skin stretched across my belly.

  Step four: self-care. As soon as I figure out all this shit in front of me.

  I cast a longing glance at the patio and sigh. Then I get to work.

  28

  Amelie

  It’s dark when I finally venture outside. My anxiety climbed steadily higher and higher, and now my stomach seems to be in my throat. I slip out of the garage and immediately into the shadows. I feel a bit like a fugitive, but I make it down to the other end of the street without incident.

  I sorted everything I found earlier today, including some of those canisters that I think emit a flash-bang, and… seriously, only Luca would be crazy enough to keep a few grenades.

  I put those back where I found them.

  That left me time to microwave the frozen waffles and douse them in powdered sugar and syrup, then lie in the sun. I napped on a lounge chair, my first solid sleep in weeks. When I woke up, I showered and scrubbed myself down with the soaps left over in the bathroom.

  I tried not to let the fact that these were his scents ruin my shower, but I couldn’t help it. And I hated it. I let out a ragged sob under the water, and suddenly I couldn’t stop the flood of tears. The grief of what I’d suffered flowed through me, and I cried until I couldn’t breathe.

  It wasn’t just what I went through that gutted me. It was the raw loneliness that managed to worm inside my bones. I missed Luca, even as I hated him. I craved his touch as much as I wanted to hit him.

  The water ran cold by the time I stepped out.

  My hair is now loose, wildly wavy. Makeup covers the dark circles under my eyes, but not the scar on my forehead. Never that, not again.

  Before I left, I filled a magazine and slid it into the tiny black pistol. I didn’t realize there were holsters meant for inside the waistband of your pants, really finalizing a concealed carry. It now sits safely against the small of my back, burning a hole in my skin.

  I don’t know if this, or the knife strapped to my forearm, will protect me. But it sure does make me feel better.

  The restaurant glows from within, the light spilling out onto the street when one of the patrons leaves. Their chatter drifts toward me. It’s all melodic Italian, and I close my eyes for the briefest of moments. It’s hard not to picture Luca and his uncle sitting at the table, conversing in the foreign language.

  I wait for what feels like ages, hidden between two houses across the street. Last time, we were only there for what felt like moments before the Costas came. And now I can’t afford to be trapped again. So I crouch in the darkness, trying to remain patient.

  I wonder if Luca has any idea where I am. If he’s half as tormented by my absence as I was by my cage. I hope he suffers for it. I rock back on my heels and contemplate what Luca would look like when he self-destructs. Wild? Out of control? Or perhaps he’ll just shut down.

  My mind spins through scenarios.

  Finally, my patience runs out. The street is empty, showing no signs of anyone watching from obvious places. Some houses around me are lit up, and others seem empty. I go across the street and into the restaurant.
r />   The tables are mostly full, save for two. I’m impressed at the noise level in the room—there’s conversation, but it isn’t overwhelming. The bar on the left side is equally busy, only a few stools free. Antonio is behind the bar with another man—one I recognize immediately.

  Paloma, I would assume, is in the back.

  A tugging sensation fills my chest, urging me forward. I slide onto a stool and wait, and it’s only a moment before Ricardo stops in front of me. He doesn’t see me. Not really. He asks me something in quiet, quick Italian. The staccato of it is pleasant, even if I don’t understand much of it.

  I stare at him.

  He doesn’t look awful, as I dreamed. My skin remembers the warmth of his blood, the protruding knife. How pale he was, lying on the floor. I blink away those images.

  No, Ricardo’s cheeks are full, his body straight. I’m cautiously relieved, but I have to wonder if he hates me for what happened. Maybe that’s why he won’t meet my gaze—he clocked me when I came in and has decided the best course of action is to ignore.

  “Ricardo,” Antonio calls.

  Ricardo’s gaze lifts, and he locks on to me. His eyes widen, like maybe he doesn’t really believe I’m sitting here. Last time we were both in this space together was traumatic at best, and then we just… left.

  My cheeks heat.

  “Ricardo,” Antonio repeats, stopping beside us. He glances at me, then double takes. “Amelie?”

  “In the flesh,” I say weakly. I eye Ricardo. “How are you?”

  “Alive, thanks to you.” His voice is soft. “Is Luca—”

  “Not allowed back.” I shrug to cover the bite of my words. “Probably.”

  Being here is strange. Dreamlike. I spent too much time in this room in my nightmares, and chills now skitter down my back. I shift on the stool, antsy. I came to see them. To begin to make amends, apologize, maybe just… let them know I’m here.