Broken King: An Arranged Marriage Mafia Romance

by Penelope Fifield

  Penelope Fifield

  Broken King

  An Arranged Marriage Mafia Romance

  First published by After Midnight 2020

  Copyright © 2020 by Penelope Fifield

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  First edition

  Cover art by Midnight Designs

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  More From After Midnight Publishing

  Chapter 1

  It’s an unseasonably cold morning in November, and I’ve only slept a total of four hours through the night. I had drifted in and out of shallow dreams as a chill rushed over me through the window near my bed. Though I had been prepared for the events of the day, I had never imagined it would take such a toll on my mind and inner peace.

  Today is my wedding day. My Family found a suitor for me, the son of an allied mafia boss. Although I’d had always wanted nothing more than to marry for love, I know deep down that this union will only benefit my Family and strengthen them in a very necessary way. I’ve heard whispers of rivals attempting to rise up and devastate everything my Family has worked to achieve. They started from nothing, building from the ground up, creating what would become a successful and formidable empire.

  Though I’ve never met my future husband, I’ve spent the morning trying to quiet my thoughts with the words my mother had told me. He’s a fine young man, Gabriella, she’d said. He’ll make sure you never want anything ever again.

  What a privilege, it would seem, to marry into such security. I’ve heard that men raised in such an environment as a mafia Family tended toward violence; it was all they knew. As I picture the broken noses and battered bodies of past mafia wives, my stomach begins to turn into an electric ball of nerves and wires.

  Before I’m able to make myself sick with worry, I decide to take a hot bath to ease the growing tension in my body. I slip out of bed, wearing only grey panties and a thin white t-shirt. The floor is cold on my feet from the open window, but I’ve chosen to enjoy the sensation that conflicts so much with the desires of my body, much like my future marriage.

  As I pace toward the connected bathroom, I hastily gather my sleek black hair into a messy bun on top of my head and strip off my panties and shirt, revealing my pale and prominent nipples. The bathroom attached to my bedroom features large windows, spilling morning sunlight over my naked body from my sleepy face, down my collar bones, hips, and toes.

  The water is extra hot this morning, just as I had hoped. On an average day, I would have brought a book with me into the bath with a cup of peppermint tea. Today, I’ve decided that I need to be present with my thoughts.

  As I slide into the water, the heat sends a wave of goosebumps over my skin. Slowly, I sink into the water, steadily placing my back against the cold of the porcelain bathtub.

  Maybe he’ll be better than I’m expecting. God, I hope so, I think to myself.

  I picture the other men I’ve met under similar circumstances at other arranged weddings I’ve attended. They were always stoic, standing tall in their all-black tuxes, leering at their new wives who were usually much younger and more naive than themselves. The wives always looked so terrified under their paralyzed smiles, their eyes wide like those of a sacrificial lamb.

  As a mob boss’s daughter, I’m expected to have an extravagant wedding with over one hundred guests. How do I pretend to be excited to marry a stranger in front of so many people?

  Even the weddings of longtime lovers can be awkward to see. I’ve never even seen this person, and now I have to kiss him in front of a room full of expectant, impeccably-dressed strangers.

  My own dress is quite revealing, as I wanted to project a more grown-up persona. Though, today I’m feeling like a shaking, nervous child. I can’t wear that dress if I look like I’m about to cry!

  God, I don’t think I’ve ever been so stressed. I’ve only kissed a man once in my life, and I’ve never let them do so much as feel me up, I think to myself as I gaze down at my naked body as my breasts peek out of the water.

  I’m sure that, unlike me, my future husband has the experience to fill three lifetimes. I’d bet that he’s had a harem of beautiful women lining up to twist themselves into whatever sexual position he desired, showing off their perfectly toned, perky asses or ample chests until he got bored of them. My mother always said that men are sexual gluttons, never satisfied until they die.

  But, what about what I would want in a man’s body? I have never seen a man fully naked in real life. I know that some men have larger penises than others, but I’ve only ever had tampons and my own fingers inside of myself.

  With that thought, I begin to feel that familiar warmth grow between my legs. It always begins low in my belly, spreading down to the very tip of my clit. I try to distract myself from this urge, too afraid to make noise and wake my sleeping family. I’ve only ever been able to indulge these desires when I’m completely alone, and a few times when I’ve been driving, if I’m honest.

  Despite my protests, my body continues to betray me as my labia swell slightly. I close my legs together, whimpering defeatedly as the pressure awakens my clit. I spread my legs a bit, elevating my smooth, hairless pussy just out of the water. The cold air contrasts with the intense heat of the water, elevating my growing need for release.

  I reach down and begin to lightly stroke myself between my lips, just grazing the small swell of my clit, creating a delicious burn under my skin. My labia becomes slick as I continue, begging me for a more direct stimulation. I begin to tickle the area just under my clit as the burning grows and overwhelms me. I stop before I can allow myself to moan out loud, taking my hand away from my insatiable, needy lips. My breath shudders as I pant in an ill-controlled attempt to quiet myself.

  In earlier years, I discovered that my favorite method of achieving orgasm was with the stream of water from the faucet. I would lie under it with my legs open as the water poured over my throbbing pussy, never stopping until I felt satisfied. I could make myself come five or six times in one session that way.

  Now, as I breathe quietly, legs shaking, I know that the fastest way to overcome this need is to use the faucet as I had before. I slowly creep down toward the end of the bathtub, lifting my hips out of the water. Before I turn on the water, small drops fall from the cold metal and onto my skin. I cry out at the unexpected but welcome sensation, quickly making myself aware of my surroundings and feeling embarrassed at my lack of self-control.

  I turn on the water, and
a steady stream flows down between my legs. I close my eyes as I lift my hips higher, the pressure of the water reviving that low burn that I love so much. I lay my head back into the water, picturing the sensation of a man’s mouth kissing and licking me between my legs, drowning in me. Pressure starts to build just under my clit, and I know I’m nearing orgasm. I let out an indiscreet moan as I—

  Chapter 2

  “Gabbi, is everything okay?” We’ve got to get you to the salon, you have a lot to get done today!” chirps Amber on the other side of the door.

  Fuck! Fuck! What a time to be interrupted! Amber, my childhood best friend, is my appointed keeper for the day, and she’s been more neurotic than ever trying to make sure everything will be perfect.

  “Yes,” I say shakily. “I’m fine, just a bit stressed. I’ll be out in a minute.” I climb out of the tub, frustrated. I know that I have to get to the damn salon! Leave me alone!

  “Okay, okay, fine. I’ll go,” she huffs passive-aggressively as usual. “Just don’t forget that we need extra time to go over the-”

  “Amber, I know! Just give me a minute!” I shout, a bit louder than I intended.

  She sighs as she turns and paces away from the door.

  Of all days to be sexually frustrated, your wedding day isn’t the worst, I think to myself, though I still lament the loss of what could have been.

  I lift myself out of the tub, suddenly freezing cold and more irritated with this situation than before. For all I know, I might be the only person on the planet who knows how to get me off, and I’ve been denied that right on my wedding day! God damn it.

  The morning is sunny and inviting as we drive through town to the salon. Being a mafia daughter has its perks, and one of those perks is access to lavish, inaccessible places and things, like an expensive uptown salon.

  The front door is a lovely oxblood shade of red, and the inner walls are all pure white. A stylist by the name of Nadia meets us at the front desk, her blonde curls flowing effortlessly over her shoulders. “Hi, you must be Gabriella and Amber. You can come with me!” Nadia says as she leads us to two salon chairs near a window that overlooks the city.

  “So, for our brides and bridesmaids, we offer champagne as part of the Bridal Package that you ordered. Would you like that now?” she asks inquisitively, smiling warmly.

  “No, thank you. Gabbi needs to have her wits about her today,” Amber snaps.

  Man, do I hate her today, I think to myself, seething.

  Instead of the champagne, Nadia brings me a cup of peppermint tea, as if she can read the unease on my face. “Okay, I got both of the reference images you’ve sent for me and my assistant. Amber, I noticed your chosen style is a bit. . . elaborate. I’m not sure if you have enough hair for it-”

  “Just try, please! You know who her family is, and they’re paying good money to be here right now!” Amber whines. She really is trying to make this all about herself now, isn’t she? She’s playing the part of the Bridezilla for me.

  Nadia sighs and began to comb through my hair. Something about a stylist’s hands is complete magic, like they know how to pull the tension out of your body through your scalp. I close my eyes as Nadia begins to curl my hair, feeling the heat of the fresh curls radiating pleasantly onto my shoulders. The taste of peppermint tea excites my lips and tongue, helping me ground my thoughts and balance my emotions.

  “So, how long have you and your fiance been dating?” Nadia asks as she pins a curl to my head.

  “Oh, um. . .” I hesitate. Should I really go into detail?

  Amber clears her throat. “They’ve never dated. The marriage was arranged by her father,” she says flatly.

  “Amber, Jesus! You can’t just tell everyone that. People don’t have arranged marriages in America!” I snap at Amber, who appears surprised at my retaliation.

  Nadia glances at her assistant awkwardly, suddenly aware of the gravity of the situation at hand. She falls silent until she’s done with my hair.

  After Nadia finishes styling my hair, my mother shows up, already overdressed for the least formal portion of a formal affair. “Hello? Hi, I’m looking for Gabriella,” she squawks to the receptionist, who points her in my direction without a word.

  My mother trots over to Nadia’s assistant, hair already perfectly styled. “Hello dear, I need you to make me look like a human woman and not a swamp creature, thank you. I was supposed to be styled after Amber was done,” she says.

  The assistant glances at Nadia, who hastily waves my mother into my seat.

  At this point, I’m frustrated and tired, and the wedding hasn’t even begun. My only job for the day is to be the happiest woman on earth, to play the part of the glowing bride. I’m not even sure that I can effectively pretend to be those things, much less truly believe it for myself.

  I gaze at my reflection in a nearby mirror and hardly recognize who I see. The girl I know has been left at the door, and the person that stands before me is a woman with a strong posture and deep, mahogany eyes. I can feel my hesitation start to dissipate. I’m no wounded girl or frightened child, and I will not let anybody pretend that I am.

  My mother fusses with her hair as Nadia patiently attempts to style it. If my mother could demand something that was more than perfect, she would. The woman’s morning beauty regimen is more intense than that of a woman who gets paid to be beautiful. She’s become so bored with her extravagant lifestyle that she’s started to invent problems to fill her time. The other day, she threw a glass of wine at one of our housekeepers because the groceries were not sorted by color. Her daily skincare and makeup routine costs as much as the average teen’s first car.

  Amber practically leaps from her chair when her style is complete. Her mousy brown hair has been gathered into a limp bun at the nape of her neck. Despite the stylist’s best efforts, her fine strands were not able to perform at her whims.

  “Ugh! Whatever!” Amber whines.

  My mother looks at Amber’s hair disapprovingly, meticulously smoothing and separating her own hair as soon as Nadia is finished.

  “We’re also getting our nails done, right Gabbi?” Amber asks expectantly.

  I gaze down at my chipping blue polish, fully realizing that I had truly not prepared for this day in any capacity. How could I swear my life to this poor man with chipping polish on my hands? I think of someday flipping through our wedding photos, coming to a close-up of our hands clasped in one another, only to be offset and ruined by my shitty blue manicure.

  “Yes, definitely,” I sigh in relief.

  Immediately, my sister chooses a bright red polish from the selection on the wall.

  Even her hands need to be the center of attention, I think to myself as I consider the array of colors and finishes presented to me.

  I suppose that if I were a traditional bride, I would have had an entire collection of possibilities for this sort of thing. But here I am, completely at a loss as to what to choose. I’m tempted to go for a brighter shade of red just to spite Amber, but I know that today is much bigger than petty sibling rivalries. In just three hours, I will be sworn to a stranger.

  Chapter 3

  My breath falters as Amber struggles to tie me into the corset of my dress. I’ve only had a small number of fittings, and never before have I had my uptight maid of honor put in charge of tying me up.

  “Gabriella! I thought I told you to stop getting Indian takeout three months ago!” Amber hisses accusingly.

  I tear myself away from her in frustration. “Mother! I need you to tie me!” I shout into the hallway.

  My mother trots over in her Louboutins, still fussing with her hair. “Gabriella, I warned you not to go with the bodice, it’s so pedestrian!” says my mother, popping a Xanax.

  I’m one breath away from screaming when my phone starts to vibrate.

  “That’s the fifteen-minute alarm, we’d better get going,” Amber says, suddenly losing her edge. My stomach twists itself into a Gordian knot as my blood r
ushes to my organs, a vestigial warning of mortal danger. I glance at myself again in a nearby mirror, practicing facial expressions that mitigate the terror that is bubbling to the surface.

  Amber teeters on her six-inch heels toward the door to the ceremony, linking arms with my cousin, Andrew.

  Amber and Andrew, how adorable, I think to myself as they begin to walk down the aisle together.

  Amber’s free hand flourishes a bit as she steps. The pianist is playing “A Thousand Years” by Christina Perri, a song that I have heard at every damn wedding I’ve been at since the song came out. I know that I said “anything is fine” for the processional, but, really?

  Finally, Andrew and Amber separate at the altar, and I see my mystery husband for the first time.

  He’s taller than I expected and built well. Shaggy, sandy blond hair falls into his face, and as I begin to walk closer to him, I see that his eyes are a deep, stormy blue. Those eyes meet mine, and suddenly, I can no longer hear the insipid pianist plinking away at the dead horse of a song that was chosen to fill the first defining moment of my adulthood. Suddenly, I feel completely at peace as I see the warmth in his face, sending a cascade of relief over me.

  The ceremony is a blur of awkward, stilted phrases and a distant crying baby, but despite all its flaws, I cannot take my eyes off of my husband, Adrian.

  Adrian, I think to myself. Every time I say his name, it feels foreign and exotic on my tongue. His effect is nervous, which I find irresistible. A man who can allow himself to feel his emotions without an ego to maintain makes my heart do flips.

  Before we were dragged out to take photos after the ceremony, Adrian and I were given thirty minutes to “get to know each other”.

  Sure, I guess so. A room has been prepared ahead of time for this very occasion, complete with a small spread of refreshments.

  Thank fuck, I’m starving, I think to myself, ready to grab a muffin from the table just to spite Amber for her comment about my weight. As I reach for a muffin, I see that Adrian has hardly stepped away from the doorway.