Collateral: an Arranged Marriage Mafia Romance Page 4

  I touch my hair, still damp from my late shower, and glance down at my nightie, a dark blue silk tank that leaves little to the imagination.

  I draw the blanket up a little, refusing to acknowledge his advantage over me. He’s fully dressed in a suit, a different one than the one he was wearing a few hours ago, and me in my bed, barely dressed, having just woken up.

  “Where are your bags?” he asks, making a show of looking around the room. “I told you to be ready.”

  “Is this for fucking real?”

  He raises his eyebrows. His perfect eyebrows. But the amused expression vanishes quickly.

  “I prefer you don’t use that sort of language.”

  “Offends your delicate ears?”

  Now he smiles wide. It’s a smile that makes the corners of his eyes crease, and I see a dimple on his right cheek. It’s disarming. Like his eyes with their soft color.

  He steps toward the bed and I find myself sitting up straighter. He comes right to my side and sits down on the edge, slowly allowing his gaze to slide over my face, lingering on my hair. I’m sure it’s huge around my head from sleep. Then his eyes trail down to the exposed part of my chest.

  Heat flushes my cheeks and I look away, hugging the blanket tighter.

  But he takes my jaw in his hand and turns my head so I’m looking at him again.

  His eyes narrow but it’s not a malicious, calculated thing. I think he’s just really looking at me. And I’m hyper aware of what I must look like.

  “Watch your mouth, understand?”

  I want to say yes. I want to nod my head. Be agreeable. Because something about him scares me. Even now, even when he’s calm, and when he smiles like this, almost kindly.

  Because he’s not kind. I know that.

  “Do you understand, Gabriela?” he asks again.

  I swallow, feel how his hold tightens just a little.

  “This is where you answer yes. Or yes sir, if you prefer,” he suggests.

  “How about go fuck yourself instead?” I offer.

  There’s that smile again, and I force one corner of my mouth upward too. Inside my chest, my heart is racing.

  “Ah, Gabriela,” he says, showing all his teeth now. “You will make this interesting.”

  An instant later, his grip shifts to my hair and he shoves me face down onto the bed and smacks my ass so hard, I’m not sure what’s worse, the sting or the fact that he just did that.

  He draws me back up to a seat and this time, his hand in my hair is a fist. And I see the thin veneer of his composure as he tugs my head backward, so it hurts my neck to look at him.

  “You’re hurting—”

  “Do. You. Understand?”

  “Yes!” I cry out, tears filling my eyes from my hair being pulled so hard, from the humiliation of what he just did. From my stinging butt cheek.

  “Good.”

  He releases me and stands.

  I immediately massage my scalp with one hand while with the other, I wipe at a stray tear.

  “Your bags?” he asks, all calm and collected again.

  I shake my head because I can’t speak. My throat has closed up with the effort of swallowing down my tears because yes, this is for fucking real. And this man, he’s not someone to be toyed with. He’s not the pathetic boy Charles McKinney is. He’s not even like that buffoon, John.

  “What does that mean? You’re unprepared? I told you to be ready early.”

  “It’s still night.” I sound like an idiot, but it’s all I can think to say.

  “I’ll give you that. Five minutes then.” He walks to the door. Opens it. “Car’s waiting to take you to the airport.”

  “Where’s my father?” God. Fuck. Is this so bad that I’m asking for my father? What is wrong with me?

  He turns, cocks his head to the side. “Daddy can’t help you now, Princess. Five minutes.”

  5

  Gabriela

  I shove whatever I can into my duffel bag, feel for the cash and fake passport sewn into the lining. At least they’re still there. John didn’t find those. But maybe he didn’t bother to look considering this impromptu change of plans.

  Just before I walk out of my room, I glance back at the pistol my father left and, without overthinking it, I pack that too and am out of my room in five minutes.

  But it’s not Stefan waiting for me downstairs. It’s two of his men, neither of whom introduce themselves.

  John stands nearby watching.

  “Where’s my father?” I ask him.

  “Meeting,” he says.

  “At this hour?”

  He only nods once, and I don’t know why I feel hurt that my dad’s not here. That he won’t see me off. See me taken.

  One of the two men clears his throat and gestures for me to walk outside. I do and an SUV, probably one of the two from last night, is idling.

  The man opens the back door for me and takes my duffel as I climb in. I’m surprised when they sit on either side of me on the drive to the airport, like they think I might try to jump out of a moving vehicle.

  My father must have given them my passport. We’re ushered quickly through security to our gate and onto the plane. Once again they sit on either side of me in our first-class seats to Italy.

  I hate flying. I’ve always hated it even as a kid, and in these circumstances, it’s worse.

  The only time they talk to me is when they ask if I need to use the bathroom or if I’m hungry and I’m not surprised when I get up to use the bathroom and one of them follows me.

  The flight connects through Rome and it’s almost fourteen hours later when we arrive in Palermo. It’s the height of summer and if I thought New York was hot, it’s absolutely steaming here.

  But I’m not outside for long as a car pulls up almost as soon as we set foot outside of the airport. This time, I’m not sandwiched between the men and sit by the window in the backseat to take in the view as we drive to our destination.

  It’s another forty minutes by the time we turn onto a private road a little outside Palermo proper. A mile in, large gates and a thick wall tell me we’ve arrived at what I want to call the Sabbioni compound because that’s what this is. A highly secure compound.

  Our driver greets one of the men at the gate and the striking difference between these men and those at my father’s house is that they have large automatic rifles slung over their shoulders. My father’s men are a little more subtle, though, I’m sure, no less deadly.

  They’re all smoking, and I see the curious peering eyes of the men as they get a look at me through the open front window. The back windows are tinted black.

  I push the button to open the window but it’s locked.

  “Can you unlock my window?” I ask. “Please,” I add for good measure.

  The driver glances in the rear-view mirror and the one beside me tells him in Italian to unlock the windows.

  Although I speak Italian, I’m out of practice. But I do understand almost everything.

  I push the button to lower my window to inhale a warm, salty breeze and catch glimpses of the blue sea in the distance.

  My father still brings us to Italy at least twice a year, but I’ve never been this far south.

  It’s another few minutes until the house comes into view.

  Well, house is an understatement.

  I guess I expected some sort of prison with barred windows. That’s not what this is. Not even close.

  This is probably one of the most elegant houses I’ve ever seen. It’s big, but it’s somehow not pretentious. With the blue backdrop of sea and sky, the impeccable white of the exterior seems brighter. Columns that support a balcony stand perfectly spaced, two of six framing the large carved wooden front doors. The windows on both floors are large, the shutters nailed back, everything in pristine condition with a chimney on either end of the house.

  As the SUV comes to a stop, I can already see from here that the back of the house must have spectacular views of the sea.


  The men who rode with me climb out and two of them light cigarettes the instant they’re outside. I wonder if Stefan doesn’t allow them to smoke inside the car.

  I go to open my door just as the third man reaches for the handle and pulls it wide.

  I slide out and look up in awe at the bright sun, the beautiful house.

  Two armed men stand at the front door and when those doors open, I’m surprised to see an older woman emerge. I know immediately she runs the house from the way she snaps at the smoking men who quickly put their cigarettes out. It’s almost funny.

  She walks to the one who’s carrying my duffel and gives him instructions on where to put it before turning her gaze to me.

  “Gabriela,” she says with an unexpected American accent. “I’m Miss Millie. I manage Mr. Sabbioni’s Palermo home.”

  She speaks in clear English and when she extends a hand to me, I take it.

  “You’re American?” I ask.

  She nods. “Yes. Although, more Italian now. I’ve been living here for the last forty years.”

  I guess her to be in her early sixties and her smile appears genuine.

  “Come inside, you’re probably tired from the travel and the heat out here is stifling.”

  “I like it, actually. And it’s nice to smell the sea.”

  She smiles warmly and leads me into the house.

  I try not to gawk at my surroundings as I step into the marble entrance. It’s big, not as big as our house in Rome, but it is more beautiful with windows and French doors open wide to let the bright Sicilian sun in. I was right, the entire back of the house overlooks the sea and the doors are wide open with beige linen curtains billowing in the soft ocean breeze.

  “This is so beautiful,” I say. Absolutely not what I’d expected at all.

  “Mr. Sabbioni has impeccable taste.”

  I watch the man who has my duffel disappear up the wide marble stairs and into one of the rooms there.

  A woman in a maid’s uniform comes in carrying a tray on which I think may be a tall glass of lemonade.

  “First thing’s first,” Miss Millie says, handing the glass to me. “Have something to drink. Are you hungry?”

  I drink most of the lemonade in one go. It’s delicious and I wonder if it’s homemade.

  I nod. I only picked at the food on the flight.

  “Didn’t those boys feed you?”

  Boys.

  My smile flounders and my stomach feels funny. She speaks about them with affection. What does that say about her?

  “I wasn’t hungry then,” I say.

  “All right. Let me show you to your room and you can freshen up while I make you some panelle.”

  “Panelle?”

  “A local street food. One of Mr. Sabbioni’s favorites so we make it often.”

  I follow her up the stairs and look around for him all the while. Is he here already? No, he wouldn’t be. He’d have been on the same flight as me otherwise.

  I don’t have a chance to count all the doors up here before she opens one. I step inside and look around at the beautiful, luxurious space with its large four-poster bed in the center draped with a linen canopy that matches the softly blowing curtains at the open French doors.

  Outside on the balcony stand two pots of Bougainvillea with their bright fuchsia flowers. I put my hands on the intricately designed iron railing and look out at the vast sea, everything blue for miles and miles.

  “This is beautiful,” I can’t help but say.

  Miss Millie doesn’t reply, and I look down to see that directly below my room is an infinity pool with large chairs shaped out of stone, cushioned with white and blue pillows in various patterns, shapes and sizes. Potted plants in brilliant colors stand on every pedestal and stairs carved into the rough cliffs lead down to a beach, disappearing into the shallower turquoise water.

  In the distance, I think I see Palermo proper.

  “Mr. Sabbioni called this morning to be sure you had the basic things you’ll need.”

  He did?

  “If you’d like to go for a swim after you eat, you’ll find a bathing suit in the dresser and some other things in the closet.”

  “This isn’t his room?” I ask.

  “No, dear. Of course not.”

  I blink away rapidly, embarrassed that I’d asked. I’d just assumed he’d want me in his room. I remember what my father said about sleeping in the beast’s bed, but quickly push the thought aside, ignoring the uneasy feeling in my belly.

  “I’ll leave you to freshen up. Just come downstairs and out to the patio when you’re ready.”

  “Thank you.”

  She walks to the door and just as she’s about to leave, I clear my throat. She stops, turns to me.

  “Is he…Mr. Sabbioni,” Christ, will he expect me to call him that? “Is he coming back today?”

  “He’s expected for dinner.”

  I nod, try for a smile which vanishes as soon as she does.

  I find the bathroom and it’s as luxurious as the bedroom. I splash water on my face and comb through my hair with my fingers. I find a toothbrush and toothpaste in one of the drawers. Opening the package, I smear toothpaste on it and brush my teeth, grateful he has provided this because in the five minutes I had to get ready, I didn’t think to grab mine.

  Back in the bedroom, I open the drawers of the dresser and rummage through, trying not to think about the lacy underthings. I check the labels and they’re all new and all my size. How did he know and when did he order all these things? When he was giving me my five minutes after he spanked my butt?

  Embarrassed at the memory, I busy myself with opening the next drawer. There, I find multiple bikinis. I close that one. I won’t be swimming.

  I go to the walk-in closet and find about two dozen sundresses hanging in a neat row.

  Without another thought, I strip off my jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt, both too warm for this weather and sticky after the long flights, and put on one of the dresses, a pretty turquoise strappy thing.

  I slip my feet into a pair of flip flops and walk out of my bedroom. On my way to the stairs, I count the eleven doors in addition to mine on this floor.

  Downstairs on the large round table in the foyer, a huge bouquet of fuchsia Bougainvillea is the only splash of color in the otherwise white and beige house. It’s striking and elegant and fits perfectly.

  I’m quiet as I descend and once I’m on the first floor, I see Miss Millie right away. She’s outside by the pool pouring lemonade from a pitcher into a tall glass.

  When I step outside, I stand in the sun and stop for a moment to listen to the quiet stillness, to the distant sounds of the sea. Once again, I take in the beauty of it, the unending blue.

  “There you are,” Miss Millie says. She looks me over. “Did you find everything you needed?”

  “Yes, thank you.” I look at the table, at the food, enough to feed half a dozen people.

  “Come and sit down,” she says.

  I take my seat, grateful for the umbrella shielding me from the bright sun. I place the napkin on my lap. She describes everything then leaves me to eat alone.

  The panelle is delicious. It’s a fried chickpea patty that shouldn’t taste nearly as good as it does. I devour two sandwiches and eat a generous portion of tomato salad before finally getting up and walking to the edge of the pool to dip my toe in. The water is cool and inviting and I’d give anything to swim. To feel weightless in water again.

  But it’s been almost ten years since I last went swimming, so I pull my foot out, remembering the stairs leading down to the sea. I walk toward them, picking my way around the bushes and potted flowers and plants until I get to them. This is clearly not a path often used.

  Opposite the house, they’re not maintained, and I wonder how many years ago they were carved into the sheer face of the rock as I carefully make my way down.

  It’s farther than I realize, and much steeper. I get the feeling these stairs
aren’t meant to be used at all.

  At the bottom, I can walk directly into the sea or veer right to where there’s a secluded, sandy beach. It’s not big and I guess it’s part of the property because it’s completely private with access only from the sea.

  I slip out of my flip flops and walk to the water where soft waves bubble at my ankles. I take a few more steps. The water is so clear, I can see straight to the sea floor, even as I lift my dress and walk until the water is past my knees.

  I stay there for a long time, just looking out at the stretch of blue water, at Palermo in the distance, although I have to crane my neck to see it from down here. A school of curious small, white fish circle my legs, and I watch them. A larger wave comes, probably the wake of a far-off boat, and they swim away. I walk back to the sandy beach to sit, letting the water just tickle my toes.

  There, I think.

  Because I have to process.

  Just a few days ago, I had attempted—once again—to run away from home. Hearing myself think those words now makes it sound so childish, but my father was going to marry me off to McKinney and I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go from my father’s house to that man’s. I couldn’t.

  Then I think about last night. Was it only last night? When I watched my friend beaten for helping me. Watched as his legs were broken. Watched his face contort in pain when all the while, he refused to scream.

  God.

  Alex.

  How can men do that? What kind of men do that?

  Men like my father.

  Like Stefan Sabbioni?

  I shake the thought away. I don’t know him. Not at all. Maybe he’ll be different.

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” I say out loud.

  I think about Stefan.

  I think about how he made good on his promise and how I may have jumped or, more accurately, been thrown out of the frying pan and directly into the fire.

  Because now I’m Stefan’s pawn. Something he can use against my father.

  And what happened this morning, what he did, the thought of it fills me with embarrassment and something else.

  He spanked me.

  He just turned me over and spanked me.