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

by S. Massery

  The guilt I hold is another sharp edge inside my chest.

  “I’ll get Paloma.” Antonio moves past Ricardo and to the kitchen.

  “Why are you here?” Ricardo leans on the bar.

  I sigh, contemplating how to answer. To tell him the truth of what his best friend did? Who’s to say he’d even believe me?

  While I waffle, he pours me a glass of wine.

  I take a sip, and the flavor is bittersweet on my tongue. I don’t like wine—never have. Clear liquor sometimes, beer. I’m not sure I like this red liquid, but it suits the mood. I take another sip. “I need to finish some things.”

  “Really.”

  “Yes, Ricardo, we left pretty suddenly, and I have unfinished business here.” My annoyance reaches a sudden flashpoint. “I am allowed to operate with my own agency. Is that a problem?”

  He scowls. “No.”

  “You didn’t put up a fight when we went exploring.”

  His eyes darken. “And how did that turn out?”

  True.

  “Do you happen to know where I can find Mariella?”

  “Amelie,” he warns.

  Oh shit. How could I forget that she’s the one who stabbed him? What was her excuse—that he got handsy? I shift, suddenly uncomfortable. “Never mind.”

  I stand, ready to rush away. I can talk to Paloma later. Tomorrow, maybe, or next week…

  But Ricardo grabs my wrist, pressing it to the bar. “Don’t judge me, Amelie. I tried to stop her from entering the dining area after she came in through the back door. I grabbed her shoulders, and she…”

  “Stabbed you,” I finish. That guilt digs a bit deeper. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

  He grins. “I’m flattered that you’re worried about me. But I’m healing. I’m fine.”

  “Amelie.” Paloma stands in the swinging door of the kitchen. There’s no trace of blood under her feet, or any sign at all of something bad happening here.

  I shiver.

  “She stays in an apartment on the water,” Ricardo says under his breath, almost too soft to hear. He releases my wrist to scribble something on a piece of paper. He shoves it at me, then turns away.

  I slide it into my pocket and cross the restaurant to Paloma. I stop in front of her, suddenly shy. Our single conversation a month ago was short-lived, and internally, I brace myself for her to react as my mother would. How would Mom feel if her home was stormed by men who wanted to harm us? If a man was left bleeding in her kitchen?

  She wouldn’t take it well, that’s for sure. And the blame would rest on my shoulders.

  But Paloma just pats my cheeks with both hands, then pulls me into a hug.

  After my initial surprise fades, I sink into her and return the embrace. She’s warm and solid and she grips my shoulders with sureness.

  And wouldn’t you know it?

  That’s my undoing.

  My eyes burn a split second before I burst into tears. I can’t seem to stop all the ugliness that comes out. Because when’s the last time anyone hugged me like they cared? Certainly not my parents. Luca didn’t give a shit. My sister might be my only exception, but she’s so far removed from my life.

  Paloma shushes in my ear, quiet noises that penetrate over my distress.

  This is the cry of a desperate, lonely girl, and I can’t stop.

  Why is Paloma the first person to hug me in over a month? And the last person before her… Lucy, I think, after Wilder died. And the further back my memory stretches, the more I realize how cold my life has been.

  It’s like my parents were trying to condition me for the Mafia life in the only way they knew how: by making me unaccustomed to affection. To not expect it, and certainly not need it.

  But… doesn’t everyone need affection?

  “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” I hiccup on my words and try to step away. “I don’t—”

  She doesn’t let me go. Her hand comes up and cradles the back of my head, stroking my hair, until I let out a shaky exhale. She doesn’t stop her quiet murmurings that I don’t quite understand, even if I get the gist. Nonsense babble you might tell a crying toddler.

  “I’m okay,” I murmur. My cheeks are hot, and when I straighten, I quickly wipe away the wetness on my face. “Sorry.”

  She frowns. “Do not apologize for your emotions, Amelie. Come with me.”

  I cast a glance behind me, ready to die from mortification. A whole restaurant just witnessed me lose my mind.

  But the place is empty, save Ricardo and Antonio.

  I blink. “You… you cleared them out? For me?”

  “For family? Yes.” She touches my cheek, and her thumb sweeps over my scar. It reminds me of how Gemma reacted. A bit surprised, but mostly sad. “You didn’t have this the last time we met.”

  “No, I didn’t.” I reach in my pocket and extract her ring. “We have a lot to talk about.”

  She nods once, then says something in rapid Italian. It sounds like an order. Antonio and Ricardo nod, and both leave us. The first goes to the front, and Ricardo goes into the kitchen.

  I flinch when the door swings behind him.

  “Sit.” She picks up my wine glass from the bar and sets it in front of me. She returns a moment later with a glass of her own, sighing as she joins me. “My aching bones. I’ve been on my feet all day.”

  I nod and glance around the place again. I can’t imagine working so hard for something your whole life. To feel fulfilled. It’s foreign. I assumed I would settle into my role of wife, but I didn’t imagine enjoying it.

  “Please tell me what happened,” Paloma says. “You’ve lost weight. You have a new scar. You’re without Luca and you have a gun.”

  I jerk, then realize she might’ve felt it when she hugged me. Or maybe they’re just used to people running around with firearms strapped to them, and she knows what a shirt looks like when it falls over it.

  “I don’t know where to start,” I hedge.

  She motions to the ring—her ring—on the table next to my glass. “How about you start with how you came to be married?”

  I take a deep breath and nod, and then I tell her everything. From my sixteenth birthday, meeting Wilder and his brothers, to seeing them every so often, to my parents’ pushing. The wedding, Wilder’s death. Here I pause and take a large gulp of the wine, because up until that point, my life was guided exactly where it was supposed to go.

  Her face remains impassive until I describe Luca’s reaction to not actually being married. The held-up death certificate. I close my eyes and grip the edge of the table when I reach the point of Luca locking me away. More tears slip down my cheeks.

  “I thought escaping would fix me,” I say. “But I feel more broken than ever.”

  She pries my fingers from the table, clasping them in her hands.

  I focus on that as I tell her how I reached out to the only person I thought might help me: the West girl, Gemma. An enemy of the DeSantises. I’d only met her once on the street, but it was enough. Like calls to like, in a way.

  “You made it.” Her voice is gentle. “You’re okay.”

  I sniffle and retract a hand to wipe my nose. “I don’t feel okay.”

  “Yes, well. Maybe you’re not okay in the head, but you’re physically okay.” She raises an eyebrow. “And the scar?”

  “The plane on the way home had turbulence. And then…” I don’t want to tell her, but I do. “I ripped out my stitches after he locked me away. I’d never felt such terror, and I needed it to go away. To focus on anything else.”

  “Pain is a good distraction.” She pats my wrist. “But let’s not do that again.”

  I choke on a laugh. “No, I don’t think I will.” I sigh. “I don’t know how to be okay in my head again.”

  She leans back and raises her glass to her lips. Once it’s back on the table, she says, “That’s up to you. You can forgive him or hold on to your anger. You can right the wrongs in your life or let them remain in your past. What do you
want to do?”

  I pull my leg up and hook my arms around it. “I want to see Mariella Costa.”

  She sighs. “This is a dangerous path you will walk.”

  “She and Wilder had something. I was supposed to have something with him, and I saw him die in front of me. What if a conversation with her gives both of us closure?”

  “Tomorrow,” she says. “For now, you look like you could use a hot meal.”

  My stomach growls, and she laughs. “See? Paloma always knows.”

  We rise. I pocket the ring and follow her into the kitchen. Ricardo, who is standing at the back door, nods at us. But he doesn’t move from his spot.

  Before I can question why he’s acting as a guard, Paloma motions for me to come to the island. She puts an apron over my head, tying it at the small of my back. Then she puts me to work chopping cucumbers for a salad. She tosses and manipulates dough into a flat circle. I keep one eye on her smooth movements, the way she rolls out sauce, the flat circles of mozzarella. Basil, ricotta, lemon. My mouth waters.

  She slides it into the oven and comes over to help me. Together, we assemble the salad with a lemon dressing. It takes my mind off everything, although I can really only focus on how my stomach cramps.

  The pizza comes out steaming hot, smelling amazing. We don’t go back to the table, just cut it and dig in standing around the island. Antonio joins us with water glasses for the four of us, and Ricardo steps away from the door.

  “This is the best pizza I’ve ever eaten,” I confess, catching sauce from the corner of my mouth on my finger. “I’m in awe.”

  Antonio grins. “The only reason I’m in shape is because this town is so damn hilly.”

  “In shape might be a loose description,” Ricardo retorts.

  We laugh, and soon the food is all gone.

  “I’m sorry,” I say to them. “I know it wasn’t really my fault, but I just feel guilty about what happened here.”

  “This thing between the DeSantis boys and the Costas has been going on for years,” Antonio says. “We live in this neighborhood. We see firsthand what they do to each other. It’s been a long time since they’ve acted in such a way. We feel bad that it was your first experience in Sanremo.”

  I scowl at the table.

  “Don’t blame yourself,” Ricardo adds. “I don’t know what’s going on with you and Luca—”

  “There is no me and Luca,” I inform him. “I came here because he can’t. Or won’t.”

  Paloma frowns. “You don’t miss him?”

  I do, I almost say. I missed him every damn day he kept me in that room. But I don’t know how to deal with it, because it feels like I’m betraying myself. I can’t love someone who uses my worst fear against me.

  “No,” I say. “I wish I could take it all back. Agreeing to marry him, coming here. Returning to New York. He messed up, and I can’t forgive him for that.”

  The corners of Paloma’s lips pull farther down. This is her nephew we’re talking about, after all. I take the ring out of my pocket again and set it down in front of her.

  “You gave this to him for me. But he was never my husband, even if we thought that while we were here. You should take it back and maybe give it to him when he finds someone he’ll treat with respect.” I step away from the counter. “I should go.”

  Ricardo follows me out the back door, up a narrow alley of stairs, and onto the street. The same way I came here, I return. I stick to the shadows, creeping along the houses. Ricardo is just as silent behind me, and I sense him stop when I reach the house. My house.

  “Goodnight,” I say over my shoulder. “And thanks.”

  He doesn’t respond, and I lock myself in. Now that I’m alone, in the dark, my heartbeat kicks up again. I withdraw the gun and sneak through the house, checking every nook and cranny. There’s no one here. I lock all the doors as I go, silently berating myself for not doing it sooner.

  But once I clear the bathroom and closet, I relax.

  I set the gun on the dresser, aimed for the door, and shed my clothes. I crawl into bed, utterly exhausted, and close my eyes. And I only hope I don’t dream at all.

  29

  Luca

  I step off the elevator and stride down the hall. The door to Amelie’s room is shut, but I doubt it’s locked. It’s not holding her captive anymore, so what’s the point?

  All day yesterday after the funeral, Aiden and I played the role of dutiful sons, haunting our father’s footsteps. We’ve been spending time with the family that came in for the ceremony. I tried to drink, to drown out my sorrows, and I went overboard. I woke up buzzed, showing me I’m well and truly fucked.

  Amelie left, and I can’t even blame her.

  I could say I was going to free her after the funeral, once the world knew Wilder was dead. Once we could file our marriage license. His death certificate is the only thing that can release her from Wilder, and then she could be mine again.

  But that would be a lie.

  I pause in front of her door, taking a deep breath. This might be what Cat felt like every day, two or three times a day. Unable to help Amelie. Not in a way that counted.

  There’s a window at the end of this hallway. It’s dark out now, just one day after the funeral. It feels like a dream—or maybe a nightmare. Wilder is gone, Amelie is gone. I did my duty today, as Dad ordered, and now it’s late. I’ve been released, and I came here.

  I need to know what I did to her. To face it with my eyes open.

  Finally, I force myself to move. I push the door open and step inside.

  Horror goes off in my body like little bombs detonating. There’s a trail of smeared blood on the walls. She took the sheets off the bed, rolling them up in the center. The comforter is on the floor with a pillow.

  Did she sleep on the floor?

  I ignore that thought and go closer, inspecting the nest she made. There’s a charger plugged into the wall, and a pad of paper. More than half of it is missing. In the bathroom, I find different sheets soaked with dark-brown blood. I can’t even fathom how… what she did to herself.

  The guilt twists like a knife in my gut. I did this to her.

  Her words from the plane, after I discovered her in the bathroom, slam into me full force.

  I’m afraid of a cage. Of being shut away.

  I turn and punch the wall as hard as I can. It dents under my knuckles, and the pain that reverberates up my arm does nothing to dull the storm in my chest. My actions hurt her, and I didn’t even listen.

  Why?

  Because I was so caught up in my own anger to listen?

  I shake out my hand, furious with myself. It’s like I drove her away myself. I practically shoved her onto the plane.

  “Luca,” Aiden calls. “Cat said you… holy fuck.”

  I step out of the bathroom and find him staring around.

  “Scale of one to ten, this is like a thirteen on the fucked-up scale,” he says. “I mean, damn. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  I grimace. “I wanted to keep her safe.”

  And I completely, utterly failed.

  He shakes his head. “What are you going to do?”

  What is there to do? Dad ordered me to stick around until our visitors leave. He said I had to support my brother so they don’t try to steal his inheritance out from under him. Family first, right?

  He glares at me. “What’s going through your head?”

  I blow out a breath. “I don’t know. Dad said I needed to stick with you to not show weakness to everyone else.”

  Aiden rolls his eyes. “Fuck what Dad says. You clearly don’t agree.”

  “No,” I argue. “I do agree, and that’s why I haven’t gone after her yet.”

  He shoves me. “You’re an idiot. What was your first reaction? Before Dad jumped in.”

  I scowl. “I was going to find her. I figured she’d go to the airport, so I wanted to stop her.”

  “To…”

  “Bring her back.�
� I glare at the floor. “But that’s stupid now, clearly. I just… God, she’s all I can think about. I had her in here for two weeks, and I didn’t once go see her. Did you know Cat said she was crying every day?”

  Aiden smacks my chest again. “Your instinct is to put her first.”

  “Yes,” I say hoarsely. I rub where he hit, wondering if Amelie stole my heart when she left.

  “Above everything. Me, Dad, the rest of the family. If you had to pick, you’d choose her.”

  God, yes. But I didn’t realize that’s what I wanted until I lost her. And that makes me the biggest kind of asshole.

  “You better go grovel, brother.” He looks at me with sympathy. “Dad didn’t marry for love, so he’s clueless. He raised us with one thing in mind: the family business. My advice? Disregard everything and follow your heart. Wherever she is in the world, you have to find her and make it right. Something tells me you’d never forgive yourself otherwise.”

  He’s right, but I can’t vocalize it. I just nod, until he claps my shoulder and leaves me standing in Amelie’s prison.

  It makes me wonder if he would do the same: if he would pick Gemma over the family. If the family is just getting shuffled further down in both of our priorities. The merger between my family and Amelie’s, my duties to Aiden and my father, the future… None of it fucking matters. My thoughts orbit around Amelie.

  I will find you, I promise her.

  30

  Amelie

  There’s not one piece of paper in my denim jacket—there are two. And all at once, I remember Gemma slipping me the note.

  I scramble to unfold it, then stare down at the phone number. Butterflies erupt in my belly. It’s a New York area code, but the number is different from the one I had been calling. I dial it and wait, holding my breath.

  It’s early here, though. Six o’clock in the morning. I woke earlier than I would’ve anticipated, but the sun reached the bed and bathed me in light. And now, I pull out one of the stools at the breakfast bar, waiting for someone on the other end to answer.