Broken King: An Arranged Marriage Mafia Romance

by Penelope Fifield

  Rahim scoffs. “Yeah, we’ll need weapons of some kind if we’re going to be committing murder,” he growls under his breath. “Fuck, this is really insane, I feel really sick thinking about this.”

  “You’re getting worked up. Maybe we need to be somewhere else,” I backpedal.

  The emotional toll of considering murder alone has worked my stomach into knots as well, and I feel stupid and childish for suggesting something of such gravity in a public place. Rahim must think I’m so stupid. We both get up to leave, and I suddenly feel the overwhelming need to sprint down the road as quickly as possible.

  My skin feels clammy, and the blood rushes from my face. Before I allow my sanity to float away from me, I inhale deeply, holding the breath until blackness forms and stars creep into my periphery.

  We exit the building, and I follow Rahim to his car. The woman at the bus stop has retained her righteous anger at whatever damned soul has remained on the other line through her onslaught of venom, her face bright red, vessels ready to burst.

  For a moment, I wonder what the hell could be making her so upset. My worldview has become myopic and self-involved since the death of my sisters. Is this woman’s father a well-known and formidable mob boss? Was she forced to marry a stranger, fall in love, and then be threatened for remaining with her husband?

  Before my better judgment was able to take over, every fiber within me wanted to strangle that woman. How dare she bitch so much about her perfectly boring, ordinary circumstances!

  Rahim’s car reminds me a lot of Jonesey’s, sending a wave of regret through me as we approach it.

  Gabbi, you’re a goddamn idiot, I think to myself, hesitation flashing through me.

  I’m being hunted by my very powerful mafia family who likely is holding my husband hostage, and here I am climbing into a 2010 Toyota Corolla with a stranger who met me by chance at the hospital.

  I glance over to Rahim, and the deep-seated, esoteric connection that all life possesses to one another is interrupted by his sudden, sharp breath inward.

  “Fuck, this is really happening? Is this really happening?” he whispers rapidly, beginning to hyperventilate.

  I roll my eyes. “You don’t need to do this, you know. You’re coming across as very noncommittal,” I sigh, unable to hide my chagrin and annoyance.

  “Well, I’m sorry that I don’t want to commit to murder! I want to help you find your husband. That much I can do. But I think you’re seriously in over your head. Even an idiot like me knows that your sudden return after your sisters were killed is going to seem… unlikely, possibly also rehearsed,” Rahim counters.

  He’s right. I’m probably in over my head. But all I’ve ever done is lie on my back and let my family walk all over me in the name of keeping the peace or not starting wars.

  “Fine. I’ll do it on my own,” I growl. “I’m done letting other people create chaos in my life. It’s my turn now.” I open the door and slam it as I get up and leave.

  A woman walking down the street sees me and shouts, “No man is worth that much anger, sweetie!”

  I ignore the woman, and I see her flip me off out of the corner of my peripheral vision. I start my walk back to the hotel, frustrated, and looking for a fight despite my compromised physical state. Before I’m able to cross the street, I hear a car door slam behind me. I look toward the direction of the sound, and I see Rahim standing next to his car, looking at me expectantly.

  “What? You made your choice, go live your life,” I shout.

  I see him sigh, and he begins to jog over to me.

  He approaches me, glancing around once again to identify any potential dangers. “Look,” he begins, “I’m sorry that I’m not ready to cut the lights on your father, even though he had my best friend killed. Despite that, I promise that I’ll help you to the best of my ability, okay? I can’t just agree to kill someone, but I also can’t live with myself knowing that he’s roaming the streets freely while my best friend rots underground because of him.”

  I consider his words for a moment. “So, say we don’t kill him. What should we do instead? You already told me that my plan to return as a wayward daughter wasn’t believable,” I reply.

  He thinks for a moment. “Yeah, you’re right, it isn’t believable. What is believable is that I turn you over to your parents as a concerned medical professional,” he says under his breath, leaning in.

  “But, what about all that bullshit at the hospital? Aren’t there laws in place to keep stuff like that from happening?” I ask.

  Rahim shrugs. “Yeah, but how much do your parents know about patient protection laws? For all they know, you could have been relinquished to them by ‘the state’ due to your compromised brain function. If you could pull off pretending to have a traumatic brain injury, I’m sure I could manage to get you back into their house under the least suspicious circumstances possible. That way, you’d be sympathetic instead of suspicious.”

  It feels insane

  It all feels so insane.

  I want to scream, or bash my head in with a car door, or paint my brains all over a clean white wall with a shotgun. I consider the logistics of the operation, attempting to determine exactly how ridiculous it is.

  “You’re going to somehow try to convince my parents that I’m insane? That sounds like a bad movie plot,” I reply.

  Rahim sighs. “Not insane. You’d have a traumatic brain injury, basically garden-variety brain damage. Anyone without experience dealing with it won’t be able to tell you’re faking, and there’s less performance involved. Basically, just act less… there, less present.”

  “Okay, fine, I trust you. What are we going to tell them? How is this going to work?” I ask, still not wholly convinced.

  Rahim laughs. “We’ll call your parents from the hospital, explain the situation to them. I’ll tell them that your brain injury was worse than we had originally thought and that you need to be placed into their care immediately. After that, all we’d have to do is wheel you over to them and keep up the pretense,” Rahim says as his eyes start to light back up again.

  “So, then what? How am I supposed to get information about Adrian if I’m supposed to be brain-dead? Am I just supposed to sleep the whole time?” I ask.

  “No,” he replies, “I’ll take on the role of being your assigned caregiver. That way, I’ll be an unassuming presence, and you’ll be familiar enough with his way of speaking that you’ll know if he’s speaking in code about your husband’s location. When we know enough, we can find him. For now, though, I think we need to get inside. It’s gonna rain soon.”

  Chapter 17

  Rahim’s house rests unassumingly on a quiet street on the west side of the city. The dead winter trees along the street lend a barren and isolated atmosphere to this small neighborhood. We see maybe two cars pass by us as we approach his house, and for a moment, I feel as though I’m in an alternate dimension, one closely resembling the present with a slightly malicious tone.

  Two young children run frantically in circles in a nearby backyard, a chihuahua yelping hysterically behind them. The sky looms low above my head, and somehow I feel claustrophobic.

  As we enter the house, a small grey cat approaches me, mewing and hopping up my leg. “Who is this?” I ask Rahim, elated.

  “Ha, that’s Rocky. He’s the closest thing I have to a child. Don’t mind him, though. He’s needy,” he says, smiling. “Follow me in here, this is where I do most of my plotting,” he says sarcastically, leading me into a well-organized living area.

  Rocky follows closely behind us, weaving his long little body through our legs as he chirps.

  “Would you like a drink? It’ll take your mind off of all of your injuries, hopefully,” Rahim suggests.

  A drink sounds necessary.

  “Do you usually drink when you’re planning to take over a mafia empire? I guess that’s appropriate,” I joke, remembering all of the casual family meals I shared with my parents as they drank glass afte
r glass of merlot, planning the downfall of their most recent, more powerful enemies.

  Rahim hands me a beer.

  I hate beer, but I take it anyway, choking it down sip by sip. “So, how are we both going to pull this off? Don’t you need some kind of paperwork? Or… proof? Signatures? This sounds like a kind of insane plan. I won’t lie,” I say, skepticism punctuating my words.

  Rahim laughs. “It is insane, but what’s more insane is that you were forced to get married, and now you’re being hunted by your family. So, I think this is a fair solution,” he says, throwing back a long swallow of his beer. “I had to take a bunch of classes on the credibility of patient advocates and shit like that, so I know how to make it seem legit.”

  “Okay, then what? We have to somehow get somebody to give up Adrian’s location. It’s not all about the medical aspect. This is starting to feel a bit undoable. I don’t know if we can pull it off,” I postulate.

  Rocky trots over to me, rubbing his ears on my leg, right where it had hit the back of the vehicle when Michael had thrown me in. I wince.

  Rahim sees but doesn’t respond. “It won’t be difficult. Like I said, your father likes to brag. Forcing your daughter to marry a stranger and then holding him hostage is like the ultimate psycho-daddy fantasy, especially for a power-hungry tyrant. He’s basically captured his enemy’s child. No self-respecting narcissist could keep that to themselves,” he says, a glimmer of pride in his eyes. He’s clearly very impressed with himself for figuring this out.

  Visually, this plan is coming together in my head. My mother would be beside herself with grief after losing two of her three daughters, and she’d likely have no qualms with taking me in and caring for me for the rest of my life. Even my father couldn’t possibly mistreat me after I was turned over to him with a brain injury, for Christ’s sake.

  Having thought about this plan more in-depth, it almost seemed foolproof. I can picture myself lying on the couch, staring catatonically into a dark TV screen while my mother fusses and brings me soup.

  My father, emotionally absent as always, would hardly notice me and likely not assume foul play due in part to his massive ego. His small army of meatheads and cowards would shuffle in and out for meetings with him, and, unless the worst has happened, they’ll likely need to discuss their plans with Adrian at some point in time.

  I hear a door open down the hall. “Were you expecting somebody?” I ask, partially anticipating an incoming attack by a confused and angry girlfriend. Rahim grins maliciously. “I was, actually. Gabriella, you’ve met Michael, haven’t you?”

  I feel something inside me snap.

  Perhaps my sanity.

  Perhaps the true, final break of my patience.

  “Rahim! What the fuck?! Why?!” I scream as Michael and his band of tyrants enter the room, cornering me.

  Rahim laughs. “You told me you could make me rich by killing your father, and I really did think about it for a bit, but then I thought of how much easier it would be to just turn you in. I got some names from my friend before he was murdered, and I felt like we could make a deal. So, I’m really, really sorry, Gabriella, but this is the end of the road for you.”

  Michael approaches me, grinning like a spoiled, sociopathic little boy who burns ants for fun. “I suggest you comply with my demands this time, sweetheart. I’d hate to put you in the hospital again,” he growls as he grabs me by the arm.

  Without Adrian to help me fight, I recognize my position. I must give up for now if I have any chance of saving myself. I bite my tongue, using the pain to distract myself from the tears forming. Show no weakness, especially not now.

  “I sincerely hope you never find another moment of peace, Rahim,” I hiss, spitting in Rahim’s direction.

  “I wouldn’t if I were you,” says Michael while he tightens his grip on my arm, a new bruise already forming. He drags me out the door, assisted by a reluctant young soldier.

  I glance viciously at Michael and then at the other drone holding me loosely by the arm. “You don’t have to do this, please,” I whisper to him, and for an instant, time stops, and I can see pure terror in his eyes.

  He looks away from me, and the terror dissolves, glossed over with the same venom I saw in Rahim’s eyes: blood lust.

  Before I feel it, I know that the black hood will blind me at any moment. In my heart of hearts, I know that this truly could be my last hour on earth, and I’m about to spend it trembling in the back seat of an escalade, surrounded by hateful, willing slaves to my father’s whims.

  My blood runs cold and black throughout my vessels, each of my capillaries straining against the sheer force of my wrath as it is expelled from my heart. Though a black hood has been draped over my face, my vision is white-hot. So what can I do now?

  I plot.

  Chapter 18

  As the vehicle pulls into an underground garage, my already-limited vision blackens beneath my shroud. The men begin to pile out of the SUV, and the smell of gasoline and wet concrete assails me. I know exactly where I am.

  I’m docile, cooperative. I know that my tiny broken body is not enough to withstand whatever violence would come my way if I attempted to fight back, even in my most honest, enraged attempts.

  I must perform.

  I must behave.

  Having met men like these all my life, I know that more than anything, they lack deduction, context. They have worms for brains, crawling aimlessly throughout their skulls, devouring orders and shitting out yielding acquiescence.

  Though they’re stronger than me, by no mistake of human evolution, they lack direction. I know who their weakest link is. He’s the boy who held me limply as Michael dragged me to the SUV. He’s nervous, uncalculated, and inexperienced in the art of ultraviolence. He needs an out, an escape. He’s likely a product of the institution of the mafia, just like I am. If I can appeal to his desperate, unquestioning nature, I can get him on my side.

  A firmer, more aggressive grip grasps my upper arm and drags me out of my seat, nearly casting me to the concrete floor. I struggle to regain my balance, and my head swims, unrecovered from the last encounter I’d had with these men.

  Another, similarly aggressive hand grabs me, and I’m dragged up a set of stairs, unable to keep up with the pace of the soldiers. The top of my foot hits a step, slapping the bone hard against the cold cement, and for a moment, I see lightning bolts behind my eyelids.

  “Benny, you dumb fuck,” Michael growls under his breath. “If you’re that fucking sloppy about handling her, the boss man’s gonna think we were tossing her around for fun. Do you know what the boss man does to people who break his toys, Benny? Huh?”

  I can visualize Michael’s face turning red as a lobster, his carotid arteries bulging, perhaps moments from a stroke.

  “No, sir!” Benny shouts. “If the boss man assumes you’re fucking up his operation and deviating from orders, he’ll scoop out your eyes with a spoon, then cut out your balls, and swap them out. You’d have balls for eyes, Benny-boy. Is that what you want? You want balls for eyes?” Michael shouts.

  “Uhh, that doesn’t sound humanly possible or sustainable, sir,” Benny retorts.

  “Jesus Christ, Benny, have you ever heard of a retroactive abortion? Because I’m about to abort your ass right here all over the stairwell if you keep cracking bullshit comments like that,” Michael screams.

  I feel Benny’s grip tighten on my arm. “Yes, sir! Sorry, sir!” Benny chants.

  I can hear the men in the background flanking Michael and Benny. As Michael continues to drag me, Benny’s grip loosens.

  “Over there, put her over there,” Michael barks in his characteristic fashion.

  I’m shoved into the corner of a cold room, and the hood is lifted from my face. I’m back where they had brought me before. Fucking amateurs.

  Instead of a chair, I’ve been chained to the broken radiator at the back of the room. I guess I’ve lost my hostage chair privileges after my previous incident. />
  When my vision adjusts to the harsh light streaming in from the dirty windows, I can recognize Benny, the nervous, terrified soldier.

  “Since we can’t leave you here alone, I’ve assigned you a babysitter, since you’re such a little bitch,” Michael laughs to himself at his weak attempt at a humorous insult. “Benny! I nominate you, since you can’t be trusted to do fuck-all else anyway.”

  Terror flashes through Benny’s eyes once again, and I can almost feel my proverbial fangs locking down on him as my target. Thanks to Michael, I’ve got Benny right where I need him.

  “Benny, don’t fuck this up, or you’re a dead man. I’ll put you right in the ground with your brother,” Michael warns as he and the rest of his army stomp down the stairs. Benny refuses to look at me.

  “I feel like I’ve met you somewhere,” I say, sarcastically.

  “Shut up, you bitch!” Benny shouts, with one-fifth the aggression of Michael.

  “Oh, come on, that voice doesn’t suit you. Only people who can’t reason with anybody use shouting to get their way. It’s basic psychology,” I say, attempting my most persuasive tone.

  Benny glances at me out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah? What the fuck do you think you know about psychology?” he asks pointedly, his guard dropping moment by moment as he fights to hold it up.

  “I studied it in college, and something I learned is that intelligent people don’t mindlessly take orders from bullies like Michael,” I say, watching his face, waiting for his pretense to fall completely.

  He shifts uncomfortably. “I think it’s in your best interest to stay quiet right now,” he mutters quietly, his last attempt at assuming control. In a way, it seems as if he’s been waiting for this moment for a very, very long time; for somebody to break him out of his violent prison.