Mafia Princess: An Arranged Marriage Mafia Romance (Valenti Family Ties Book 1)

by Selena

  “To live my life,” I say, throwing my hands up. “The life I choose. As I please. Just like my mom did.” A life not controlled by him or my father or anyone, not even my own body. Most of all, I want to be free of my demons. But they are clawing their way out of me, tearing me apart from within, and I can’t stop them. I know I’m ruining this, all the progress we’ve made, and it’s not even his fault. It’s mine. But I keep on doing it because I want him to go, to show me that he’s one more person who wants to use me in the name of love, to hurt me and twist my heart around until I don’t know what’s right and wrong, what I want, how I feel, because everything is all wrong.

  King is quiet for a minute. “The freedom to leave your daughter to grieve both you and the death of her brother because you can’t handle the child you chose to have?”

  “You don’t know anything about my mother,” I snap. “She was protecting me.”

  “I know that if one of your parents is a hero, it’s not your mother.”

  I don’t want to hear his words, don’t want to think about them. I can’t. I have to hurt him more than he hurts me, hurt him before he can destroy me. So I give a derisive snort. “Of course you’d think the killer is a hero,” I say. “Because you’re a pussy, and you’d rather follow in a monster’s footsteps than admit it.”

  I don’t know where the words are coming from, it’s like they’re someone else’s, the last words of that wounded animal that lives inside of me with one instinct, the instinct to protect me, to keep the secret, to keep others away because if they know, they’ll destroy me. It’s telling me that I don’t need anyone else, that they’ll always leave, and it’s all I will have left. It’s been with me since I was a little girl, this little monster of my own, born in the bottom of a bathtub where there was no air, because I was a bad girl.

  Good girls obey. Good girls get to breathe.

  Bad girls get fingers around their throats, pushing them down, and lungs that burn for oxygen, and a head that thunders like waves crashing against the shore in a storm, and the yearning for one abstract idea that worms from the back of their black eyelids into their brains and makes a home there until it takes shape when they’re old enough to understand what they’ve wanted all along.

  Freedom.

  “Your father might be a killer, but he also raised you on his own,” King says quietly. “I know how fucking hard that is, trust me.”

  I take a deep, shaky breath and give my eyes an angry swipe before I turn back to him, so relieved for the opening that I could cry all over again. “How would you know that?”

  He pauses for a moment, his dark eyes troubled. “I wouldn’t,” he says at last.

  “What, you’re a dad?” I ask. “Where’s this kid you raised all alone?”

  “I’m not a father,” he says, turning away.

  “Then how would you know?” I press. I can feel I’ve hit a sore spot, and I want to keep poking it, the way my thumb will keep finding a bruise, worrying it. Poking it to make sure it still hurts, that I can still feel something, that I’m still part human. I’ve spent half my life proving to myself that I’m still alive, that I’m not numb anymore. I’ve drank and partied and danced and fought with my friends and made out with guys, all in a quest to prove that I still feel, that I’m not a monster.

  “I don’t,” King snaps. “Forget it.”

  “Who are you talking about, King?” I press. “I heard you and your brothers moved to the South with your dad. That means you’re talking about him. He’s such a big hero for leaving your mom alone in the city?”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “See how it feels when someone acts like they know you?” I ask, though I want to ask about his sister, his parents, his brothers. I want to know everything about him. There is more to this man than I know, so much more. But it’s dangerous to go down that path, because knowing someone means caring about them, and I can’t care more. It brings us too close, brings him too close to the truth that I swore I’d never tell. I don’t get close to people for this very reason. My secrets are too dark, too horrible. If I let someone in, I’ll care, and when they find out the truth, they’ll leave, and I won’t survive another blow like that.

  I bend and pick up my clothes, turning away from the bed before pulling on my bra and reaching behind me to hook it closed.

  “It was your mom, wasn’t it?”

  My hands freeze, and I just stand there with my fingers paralyzed on the clasp, the hooks an inch from engaging. “What?”

  “It was your mom,” he says. “That’s why you aren’t triggered by touching a man, even in the most intimate ways. You’re only freaked out when I touch you.”

  “So?” My voice is small, like a little girl’s when she’s sitting on the tile floor, refusing to stand up, to unwrap her arms from around her knees, even though she knows she’ll be punished, but she can’t do it because she knows she’ll fly apart if she’s not holding herself together so, so carefully.

  King’s hands are tentative on my hips, tugging me back with gentle insistence. My body tenses, and he stops pulling, but his hands are there, warm through my jeans. But he doesn’t push. He just sits there, not making me do anything, not even look at him. The tears on my face are silent this time. They come quick and steady, like a rain that could wash away the pain and the dirt and the glue I’ve used to patch myself up every time I start to break, the glue that holds every jagged edge together.

  He doesn’t say a word, but he’s there. And I’m too tired to run away, to hide and lick my wounds and take a shot and dance and pretend I’m happy or strong or free. I’ll never be free until I stop pretending. And I’m tired of pretending that I believed her when she said she loved me or that she did it for me; tired of pretending that she’s a hero for striking out on her own as if that made her brave and not just a coward who knew her life would be over if her husband found out the things she did to his daughter in the bathtub. I’m too tired to patch myself up even one more time.

  So, I let myself fall, and this man, my husband, my king, he catches me. His skin is rough, but his hands are gentle as he takes me in his arms and holds me. And I know I don’t have to hold myself together alone anymore. Or pretend I’m whole, that I’m not scarred and cracked and dirty like the pavement on the streets outside. I can break apart, fall into a million pieces. I know that he will catch me every time I fall, that he will pick me up and hold all my pieces together as long as I need him to, and he won’t break or drop or lose a single one. He’ll just hold them until I’m ready to start the slow and painful process of building myself back into the girl I once was, before the person who was supposed to love her broke her instead.

  That wasn’t love. This is love.

  twenty-one

  King

  “You ready?” Uncle Al asks, drawing me into the room where I first met his men, the room where I took the oath.

  I’m not ready. How could I be ready? I didn’t want to leave Eliza’s side, but I know I have to. I can’t hover around her forever, as much as I want to. I’m ready to take my mind off her confessions for a few hours, and that’s going to have to be good enough. I’ve already pleaded out of a few days of work and rushed home to her after every job for the next week, ever since she admitted the truth about her abuser and fell to pieces in my arms. She’s probably sick of my face by now, if I’m honest.

  “Yes, sir,” I say.

  “Your shoulder all healed up?”

  “Yeah,” I say, rotating my arm. “Good as new.”

  Al steps back into the room, gesturing for me to follow. Around the table sit five of his seasoned men and his consigliere. Besides them, a guy stands in the corner like a six-and-a-half-foot marble statue covered in ink from his chin to the backs of his huge hands, which he holds crossed in front of him as he waits, staring into the room with blank eyes.

  “What’s up?” I ask Al, turning away from the unnerving giant. I’m suddenly running over what I to
ld Al about the Lucianis and Eliza’s confession. My throat tightens as I think how easily someone could throw my name out there, and it would be me walking the plank.

  “We’re going to pay Luciani a visit,” Al says. “I normally wouldn’t take a rookie, but since you were shot, you might like a chance to see justice served.”

  I nod. “Thank you.”

  “This is Divo Bertinelli,” Al says, cutting his eyes toward the giant but not stepping toward him. “He’ll be joining us.”

  I realize in that small gesture that even the great Al Valenti himself is ill at ease with the man I’ve heard of but never met. His name precedes him, as Little Al and the other guys refer to him by his nickname, Il Diavolo. If my job is breaking fingers, his is breaking necks. His specialty is getting men to talk, so it makes sense he’s coming along, since we still don’t know who tipped off Luciani and his men. If Al’s going after Lou Luciani himself, he must have found enough information to be sure that the men who ambushed us were sent by Bianca’s family, hired goons who weren’t supposed to make it out alive or lead us back to them if they failed.

  Of the eight men paying Luciani a visit, I’m by far the youngest, though it’s hard to tell about Il Diavolo. The tattoos and hardened expression make him look older than he probably is. The rest of the guys range from around thirty to fifty, all seasoned veterans whom Al trusts with his life.

  “Lou’s house has four guards,” Al says, grabbing a paper from the table and making a few quick lines to sketch out the house, pointing to the rear and front entrances. The house is a row-style one, he explains, so there’s no chance of entering through a side window. A few minutes later, we’re all strapped and piling into a pair of black SUVs. Al takes the passenger seat of one, another of his men driving while Il Diavolo and I sit in the back. Conversation is limited to a few small comments.

  We reach Luciani’s building without issue. His building is a three-story townhouse style that stretches as long as the street, each home with a different colored exterior. The front of the building has a small, wrought-iron fence with arching gateways leading to the steps, which lead to the entrance on the second level. Luciani’s place is set apart by the grey exterior and thick, wooden double doors without windows. One guy stands outside, but we don’t stop. We follow the street and double back around to the back of the building.

  A security guard stands outside the privacy fence, and when he sees us, he grabs for his radio. Al pops him before he can hit the button to call, his gun making a quiet pffft sound with the silencer on. Then we’re all out of the vehicle and racing through the gate onto a slate tile patio with a square of sod, an outdoor fire pit, and two enormous grills built into the brickwork. The entrance on the back of the building is at ground level, though there’s a set of stairs to a second-floor terrace with a second entrance. The terrace partially protects us from view on the second level, but the third floor offers us up for the picking. The large windows give an easy view of us—for Luciani and for anyone in the adjacent homes on either side.

  They haven’t realized we’ve breached their guard, or they’d be shooting already. Al’s men fan out in pairs as instructed. Al and three of his men go in the back door while I follow Il Diavolo up the iron staircase to the second floor with two more guys. Just as my foot touches the terrace, I hear the muffled shot from a silenced gun, and a bullet pings off the stairs behind me.

  “Fuck,” I mutter, drawing my own gun and aiming upwards. The terrace is exposed, with no cover, which means I’m all that stands between the shooter and the three other lives at risk right now. My eyes sweep the windows on the floor above us, all closed.

  “No fire escape,” I mutter to the others, jerking my eyes at the top floor. “They have roof access.”

  Another shot rings out, and I just spot the head of the shooter ducking back before I can get off a shot. But I know his position now, so I wait. One of our guys is cursing up a storm, and I know he’s hit. Il Diavolo races across the terrace in a crouch before lowering his shoulder and crashing into this thick glass. It splinters, raining down around him and crunching under his boots as he ducks inside. Another guy follows, then the last guy, cursing and bleeding from his arm, where he was hit. For a few seconds, I’m alone.

  I wait in silence, adrenaline spiking through me with every heartbeat. When the head peaks over the edge of the roof, I get off another shot. I hear it connect, the cry that goes with it, and the guy slumps over on the roof. I take off, getting inside to some cover. For some reason I was expecting bedrooms, but of course this is the entry floor from the front, so I’m in a long living room with an exposed brick wall and a kitchen at the other end of the open floor plan.

  At least it limits hiding places. The area is empty, but I hear the shouts of men downstairs and bursts of gunfire. Il Diavolo appears from a doorway at the far end of the kitchen, gesturing for me to follow. I run through the long living room crowded with overstuffed chairs, wincing when the wooden floorboards squeak underfoot. But it’s not like we’re being stealthy at this point. I duck through the white tiled kitchen with white-and-black marble countertops and duck through the doors into a small entry hallway. A guard lays face down on the floor, a pool of red spreading across the white tile. From there, we have access to the front door and the stairs.

  Il Diavolo turns to the stairs, leveling his gun in front of him as he creeps up, his back flattened against the wall as he goes. I follow him up, covering the stairs behind us. The house is suddenly silent, the gunfire having ended below. I don’t know if they’ve already gotten the Lucianis, but we have to check the top floor, anyway. We don’t know how many people were in the house to begin with.

  We reach a small landing, and Il Diavolo extends the silencer of his gun a few inches past the corner. Nothing. He edges forward, peering around. A gunshot sounds, and he jerks back. The bullet sinks into the wall behind us. I hear a creak and level my gun on the bottom of the stairs. A guy ducks around, his gun pointed straight at me. I almost shoot, at the last second realizing it’s one of our guys. I turn to Il Diavolo, who edges past the corner and squeezes off one round after another.

  He ducks back into the hall. “Cover me,” he says, stopping to shove another magazine into his gun. Seconds later, he motions me forward. Together we step into a kitchenette area. A man lies slumped over the counter, another two on the floor. To the left, a small den sits empty. To the right, we can see into a bathroom, and beyond that, two closed doors.

  We turn that way, but a slight rustling behind us catches Il Diavolo’s attention. He spins and shoots without time to even aim properly, and my first thought is that he shot the guy coming up behind me—one of Valenti’s guys. But the piercing scream hits my ears just as I turn. The Valenti guy is on the floor, and a pretty, fortyish woman huddles behind the rocker in the den, covering her mouth.

  Il Diavolo aims and fires before I can say a word, and all I can think is that I’m next, that he’s going to take out any witnesses that he killed one of our men. The woman’s scream is cut off, and her body thuds back against the wall behind her before sliding sideways to the floor, leaving a streak of blood in her wake.

  “We’re killing everyone?” I grit out. “Even the women?”

  Il Diavolo strides into the den, kicking aside a chair, and drags the body up by her hair. A gun falls from her lap to the floor, and I see the hole in the rocker. It takes a second for me to put it together. She shot Valenti’s man. Il Diavolo shot her through the chair, and she screamed and dropped her gun. And then he killed her.

  The way he tosses her body aside like a bag of trash and strides past me turns my stomach, but at least I know we’re not killing innocent bystanders. Il Diavolo gives me a disgusted grunt before heading for the closed bedroom doors.

  Not a sound comes from either one. “Cover me,” Il Diavolo says before swinging open the door on the left.

  A girl is kneeling in front of a safe, shoving bundles of money into a duffle. I know it’s Bianca by
the cascade of wavy black hair, but she doesn’t turn to show her face until Il Diavolo strides into the room. He grabs her by the hair and yanks her backwards, sending her sprawling on the floor. “Would you look at that,” he says, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. “It’s the mouthy bitch who got you shot.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Bianca retorts, her tone defiant even as she struggles to rise while Il Diavolo drags her backwards across the floor, her body sliding on the hardwood.

  “Want to cut her tongue out?” he asks me, shoving her head toward me.

  “Not now,” I say. “We still need Luciani.”

  “Where’s your dad?” Il Diavolo barks at Bianca, shaking her by the head. He maintains his grip on her hair as she flails and tries to pry his hand loose.

  “I’m not turning in my dad to you monsters,” she snaps. “You can kill me first!”’

  “He’s in that room, isn’t he?” Il Diavolo asks, a triumphant gleam in his eye as he drags Bianca to her feet. She looks like a doll against his giant form as he holds her in front of him.

  As if in answer, a rain of bullets splinters the door from within.

  “Unless you want to hit your daughter, stop shooting,” Il Diavolo shouts, ducking back into the adjacent bedroom.

  “You sons of bitches are setting me up,” Luciani yells. “You don’t have my daughter. I told her to get out.”

  “Tell him you’re here, or I’ll put you out of your misery right now,” Il Diavolo says, pressing the silencer of the gun to Bianca’s throat, still holding her pinned to his chest.

  For the first time, fear writes itself across her face, as if she’s just realizing this is real. She can see out the open door to the handful of bodies spread across the kitchen.

  “I—I’m here, Daddy,” she calls. “I was getting money from the safe. They caught me.”