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

by S. Massery

  “Thank you,” she says quietly. “I don’t… I don’t know how to navigate this thing between us.”

  I lift my gaze and meet hers. “I don’t, either. But until you know, I’ll be here.”

  She nods once, expression unsure.

  My gesture was a double-edged sword. Because I know, just as I didn’t have anyone except my aunt and uncle to look up to, she hasn’t had anyone provide a good example of love. She didn’t have anyone on her side through her arranged marriage to Wilder, then to me. Her parents literally shoved her into the Mafia without remorse.

  So by giving her freedom, I also cut our tether.

  And only time will prove that I’m not going to leave her.

  33

  Amelie

  Every day, I show up to the restaurant and Luca is there. My skin tingles when his gaze lingers on me. The avoidance game doesn’t work on him. He’s there, everywhere I am.

  I’m on the verge of a breakdown.

  I feel the broken edges inside me now more than ever. They rasp against my lungs, my heart, my skin. I’m being sliced open from the inside, and I don’t know how to fix myself. How to deal with trauma.

  Paloma watches us with a close eye, but she doesn’t say anything. She hired me so she could rest more. She leaves me to my tasks in the afternoons, when they’re closed between lunch and dinner.

  He walks me home at the end of the night, sometimes striking up conversations. Other times we’re quiet, lost in our own thoughts. He’s effectively taken the job from Ricardo.

  But every day, I feel myself tip closer and closer to the edge.

  “Amelie,” he greets me today, the same as always.

  I don’t see Paloma, so I don’t answer. I’m tired. The nightmares have been creeping back without warning, showing me Wilder’s death over and over. Sometimes it’s Luca who gets shot instead of his brother.

  “How did you sleep?” he asks.

  Maybe he knows I don’t sleep much. There are dark circles under my eyes, I’m always tired. I came here to live, and I’m barely existing.

  “Don’t.” I push past him.

  He follows me into the dining room with a tray of silverware and sets it down. He’s too close to me. My skin is on fire.

  “Amelie, talk to me, please.” He reaches out and touches my shoulder.

  It’s my fault that I snap. At least, that’s what I’ll tell myself later. It’s my fault for not dealing with my problems head-on, because when he touches me, all I see is Matteo, and the gun he presses into my side.

  I snatch one of the butter knives from the tray and have it at his throat faster than either of us can blink. It digs into his skin under his jaw.

  We watch each other for a moment, and then he takes control.

  Haven’t I been waiting for that to happen?

  He knocks my hand away and twists my wrist until my fingers loosen. The knife clatters to the floor, and something raw opens up inside me. I shove at him, pounding my fists against his chest. He takes the hits, then suddenly grabs my wrists. He spins me around, encasing me in a bear hug from behind. His arms crisscross in front of me, still gripping my wrists.

  I let out an awful sound. My voice screeches, echoing and rattling in my brain, but he doesn’t release me. It’s been a while since I’ve had a full-on panic attack, and this one seems to have roared out of nowhere. My skin is cool and clammy, although my face is still on fire. A weight settles on my chest. My shriek dies off into something of a whimper.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he says in my ear. Over and over. We sink to the floor, and he cradles me on his lap. He tucks my hair behind my ear, smooths it down. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Amelie. It’s going to be okay.”

  “I’m not okay,” I whisper. “I have nightmares. I’m always on edge. And I keep waiting for you to leave.”

  His grip tightens. “I’m not leaving.”

  I nod.

  Paloma bursts through the door. “What on earth?”

  “She just needs a minute,” Luca says above my head.

  After a moment, I climb off Luca and scramble to my feet. Paloma is in the kitchen, and I slink in to apologize.

  She waves me off, telling me I deserve a break. To see the city, eat food other than pizza from her oven.

  I’ve been paid. My fridge is full—actually, I think I can thank Luca for that. The morning after he arrived, I opened the refrigerator door and found the shelves full of my favorites.

  “Where are you going?” Luca calls, rushing out behind me.

  “Exploring.” I don’t stop, and he watches me go. I need… something. Space. To move my feet. I’m undecided about it, but I’ll figure it out.

  A minute later, he bounds up beside me.

  Last week, I told him about my truce with Mariella. I felt guilty that he might feel the need to keep a low profile, but he only grinned at me, shaking his head. I didn’t want to decipher what he meant by that, so I didn’t ask.

  Now, he nudges me. “I have an idea.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “What’s that?”

  “There’s a great row of shops, but it’s far. Come with me.” His steps are light. His arms swing at his sides.

  I pause and really look at him. His dark hair has been freshly cut. He has on a denim shirt similar to the jacket I usually wear. It’s too hot now, with summer raging around us. I’ve been opting more and more for the flowing, loose dresses Mom packed for me. I hated them originally, but maybe she was onto something.

  We stop in front of my house.

  His house.

  I shake my head, still undecided about how to refer to it. I follow him into the garage, but he doesn’t go inside. He cuts across the space usually reserved for a car and hits a button.

  The door’s mechanical engine whirs, opening it and letting light and air inside.

  “What are you doing?”

  He grins. I haven’t seen him like this in a long time. He’s practically back to the Luca I experienced here the first time.

  Until he unveils a motorcycle and smirks at me.

  I cross my arms, scowling. “I’m in a dress.”

  “I think you’ll survive. You’re the one who keeps talking about living life to the fullest.”

  He rolls it out and strides closer. I expect a smirk, but his face is carefully blank. He gets closer than he’s gotten in a long time. I hold my breath as a surge of heat sweeps through me. He brushes my hair off my shoulders and pulls a helmet over my head. His finger on my chin, tilting my head back, gives me unnecessary tingles.

  I’m betrayed by my own body.

  And his grudging hotness.

  “You okay?” he asks me. He doesn’t follow that with what I might expect. No you can trust me bullshit. He doesn’t offer an opportunity for me to back out, though, either.

  I narrow my eyes, seeing the challenge for what it is.

  Finally, his smile appears. It’s just a slight upward tip of the corner of his mouth, but I see it before it disappears. He sits on the bike and pats the seat behind him.

  I grimace, but… I can’t say no.

  I lift my dress high enough to swing my leg over. He steadies my arm, another point of contact. My body is at war with itself trying to figure out if this is a good or bad thing.

  Bad, my brain screams.

  My heart thinks the opposite.

  It isn’t too bad sitting like this. There’s a good six inches between Luca and me.

  “Put your hands around me,” he orders.

  “Isn’t there a handle or something—”

  He tugs my wrist.

  I slide down the seat until I’m flush against him. My cheeks burst into flames. I carefully wrap my arms around him, digging my fingers into his shirt. My chest aches, and my cheerful mood slips away. Sadness takes its place, but it’s hidden behind my helmet and visor.

  He starts the motorcycle, and the sudden roar surprises me. I clutch him tighter, and that ache grows. I want so many things, but I don’t
know how to reconcile them with my life.

  I could be with Luca.

  I could give him the power to break me again.

  Or I could protect myself.

  He hits the throttle, and we roll forward onto the street. Soon enough we’re flying along the streets. We head east, the landscape changing as we move farther into Italy. I take in the changing landscape and dare to release him, holding on only with my thighs. I throw my arms wide, letting the wind snatch at me.

  The sadness melts from my body, carried away behind us. I tip my head back and suck in a deep breath. It feels like the deepest breath I’ve ever taken, eradicating my worries.

  Luca slows the bike, and I wrap my arms back around his torso. He turns up a steep driveway and slows to a halt in front of an ancient building. It has rows of narrow, stained-glass windows along the side. A church, then.

  He offers his arm, and I use it for balance to get off the bike. My legs are jelly, and I pause for a moment. He meets my gaze, and my cheeks heat. I quickly step back. He swings his leg over and follows me until I stop moving. My heart is beating out of my chest.

  His fingers undo the buckle under my chin, grazing my skin.

  “Luca,” I whisper.

  “Yes?” His voice is as strangled as mine.

  “If I ask you to kiss me again, will you refuse?”

  He helps remove my helmet and drops it at our feet. His hands come back up and cup my cheeks. “I won’t refuse you. Ever.”

  I fist the front of his shirt and drag him closer. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, or I just want something to ease my soul for a moment, but I say, “Kiss me, then.”

  His eyes widen a fraction, and then he obliges me. His lips touch mine softly. Once. Twice. He’s dipping back down again, and I press myself up. I tangle my hands in his hair, tugging on his dark locks, and our lips meet again.

  My body molds to his, and one hand leaves my face to lift me by my ass. I lock my legs around his hips. Something eases in my chest, and I know I’ll replay this moment in my head later. It’s the moment when my fears dissipate into thin air.

  I wonder if, deep down, physical touch has always been my love language. If this kiss will undo me one step further than the sex.

  His hand coasts up my back, and he freezes.

  He pulls away slightly, meeting my gaze. “Are you carrying?”

  I grin. “I am.”

  His expression heats. But he sets me down carefully and steps back. “I need to stop touching you, or else I’ll ruin this whole thing.”

  There’s a strange buzzing in my ears.

  The sound of another rejection.

  He tilts his head, analyzing whatever emotions are playing through on my face. Does he know I know? He could think he’s subtle about it. I let out a ragged sigh.

  “Amelie.”

  “What?”

  “This isn’t what you think.” He comes up behind me and puts his mouth to my ear. “If I keep touching you, I’ll want to fuck you. But you’re not ready for that.”

  Shivers encase my body. “I’m not?”

  “No.” He trails his finger down my arm. “But I think you might be ready for something else.”

  I spin around and squint at him.

  He laughs and offers his hand. “Come with me.”

  I take it, and he tugs me toward the old church. We wind through the tall grass, and I crane my head back to take in the architecture. The bricks are tightly packed in even rows, like this place has been well-preserved. A bell tower casts a long, narrow shadow over the grass.

  We circle around the church, emerging in the back.

  I gasp.

  The whole city lies before us, with the ocean beyond. It’s more stunning than a photograph. The lawn back here is more well-maintained, trimmed down, and there’s a gravel path that leads down a slight slope to a gazebo.

  “Come on,” he says. “It gets better.”

  “This is beautiful,” I murmur.

  He stops beside the gazebo stairs and helps me up. I cross to the railing and stare down. We’re at the edge of a steep hill. I hadn’t even realized we were riding along such a severe incline to be brought this high.

  “Do you like it?” he asks.

  I glance back. He’s standing in the center of the space, fiddling with his hands. I watch him for a moment and try to figure out why he’s fidgeting. He’s not the nervous type. My stomach knots, and I quickly face the view again.

  What if he brought me up here to tell me he couldn’t do this anymore?

  “Do you still have nightmares?” I ask.

  We spent a grand total of one night together, in the same bed. A single night in a month and a half’s time. It was one of the only peaceful nights I can remember, before everything imploded. Of course, I had a head injury that night…

  “Sometimes.” He comes up behind me, stopping without touching me. “Other times I dream of you.”

  “Me?” I turn now, my tone incredulous. “That’s…”

  Ridiculous?

  Impossible?

  “I dream of what you’d look like as a proper bride,” he confesses. “In a dress you actually like, at a wedding surrounded by people who love us. And then I think about what it would be like to have a home with you, and come home to you. And grow old with you. That’s what I dream about most often.”

  He cups my cheek.

  “I just hope you’ll be open to that future someday.”

  There’s that hope again. I once thought it would crush me. That hope was the root of my heartache. It dropped me, didn’t it? It carried me too high and let me slip through its fingers. I fell, and no one caught me. Not Luca, not my family.

  I hadn’t dared hope for anything. Not since I escaped.

  But it’s the bird inside my chest now, fluttering its wings against my ribcage. It’s the steady drum of my heart. Funny, how much I tried to suffocate it, it comes roaring back into me.

  “I’m afraid.” I’m terrified to think what might happen—so many possibilities, and Luca is giving me a choice. To love him or not. To be happy… or not.

  He kisses my forehead, and I close my eyes when he lingers. “That’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

  I believe him.

  34

  Luca

  Amelie drifts behind me, lost in thought. We have an evening off from the restaurant. Paloma has been giving us whole days off lately, as if sensing we spend more time together outside of work than at it. Which is simultaneously true and not. At the restaurant, I can keep my eye on Amelie as she works, and I half-ass my jobs. When we’re off, we talk. We explore. So maybe my aunt is onto something, but this evening carries a more somber tone.

  She has a bouquet of wildflowers in her arms—something she insisted on bringing when I told her where we were going.

  My heart is in my throat—it has been since I proposed this idea to her. I wasn’t ready for her to agree or be eager about it. But we wind through the cemetery now, and I can’t help but feel a deep disappointment that Mom never met Amelie.

  She would’ve loved her.

  My aunt insists as much, both in front of Amelie and when it’s just us. My conniving aunt seems convinced we’re going to end up together. I’m convinced, too… but Amelie isn’t there yet.

  The best way to prove to Amelie that I’m not leaving her is by being consistent. No matter how long it takes.

  “Here she is,” I call.

  It takes Amelie a moment to reach us, and she stares down at the marble headstone for a moment. Then she drops to her knees and reaches out, pressing two fingers to the curling numbers of Mom’s death year. She did the same thing to Wilder’s portrait at his funeral—a sincere action. Her brows are drawn together now, lips pursed.

  “Nice to meet you,” she whispers.

  She sets the flowers down and clears away some of the brush. It might be a nervous habit on her part, but I find my inner turmoil settling.

  I join her on the ground. Unbidden, a lost memo
ry floats back to me. When this happens, I think of it as a gift. There’s so much about a person, so much life Mom lived. The random bright moments illuminate in the dark for a reason. So I don’t forget her.

  “We went to Venice one time. Just as a little week-long trip, her and me. We didn’t get a lot of time to bond, and I think it was one of those moments where Dad felt guilty about it. So he paid for the whole thing. We got to ride the gondolas, visit museums, try out wine.” My lungs ache thinking about it. “I was sixteen.”

  “And she passed on your eighteenth birthday?” Amelie confirms.

  I nod.

  She reaches out and threads her fingers with mine. “You got to know her the best way you could, and I’m sure that memory will stay with you.” She shuffles closer and hugs me, pressing the side of my face into her chest. She rests her chin on top of my head. “I would’ve liked to meet her.”

  I let out a ragged sigh. “Sometimes I wish she knew that I found my person.”

  Amelie winces. “You mean me.”

  “I do.”

  She’s immobile above me, then slowly relaxes. I scoop her up and set her in my lap, changing our dynamic. Now she’s the one in my embrace.

  “You’re my person,” I repeat. “You understand me when no one else does.”

  She exhales. “You know why I came here, of all places?”

  I go still. “I don’t. I wondered, but I don’t.”

  “Because you were so upset when I made the deal to get us away from the Costas. So I came back to barter. I met with Mariella and Cristian and told them their problem was with Wilder. It wasn’t your fault, Luca, just like it wasn’t mine. And them taking it out on us, and us taking out our grievances on them—it just wouldn’t work anymore.”

  I’m pretty sure my mouth is hanging open. I grip her chin and tip her head back so she meets my gaze. “You met with them. I knew you had sought out Mariella, you said as much, but—”

  “Her brothers showed up,” she mumbles.

  I narrow my eyes. “Brothers—not Matteo.” It’s a wish, but I can see it’s in vain by her guilty expression. “What did you do? And why didn’t you tell me?”