Damage: an Arranged Marriage Mafia Romance Page 5

  I don’t know when he finally lifts me onto his lap. I don’t remember him doing that, but he’s cradling me, and I’m limp in his arms, my head against his chest and this is what I want. For him to hold me like this. Safe and sound. Protected.

  “I like how you taste,” he says. He tilts my face up with one finger beneath my chin and kisses my lips. I taste myself on him and I want more. More of him. My hand slides to his stomach, to the hard muscle of it. He takes my wrist and pushes it lower and I blink my eyes open to look at him when he closes my hand around himself over his jeans.

  He’s big. Big and thick.

  “Squeeze,” he tells me.

  I do and he makes a sound and the way he looks at me, it’s dark and dirty and it makes me want him more.

  “I want you to say my name like that every time you come,” he says, his voice a hoarse breath against my ear.

  I close my eyes, not sure what I feel. So many things.

  He tucks me closer into him, wrapping his strong arms around me, and I rest my head against his chest and think how I wish I could stay here forever, like this.

  When he rests his hand against my thigh, I open my eyes and look at that hand. It’s the one he spanked me with. The one he touched me with.

  That’s what I’m thinking when he interrupts me.

  “We have some business to settle between us.”

  My reckoning.

  I turn my gaze up to his.

  “Are you ready to answer my questions or do I need to take you back over my knee?” he asks.

  We’re not finished yet. Did I think for a second, we were? That he’d given up asking me questions I don’t want to answer?

  I shake my head.

  “Good.” He draws back and I try to burrow into him, but he pulls away and I’m suddenly cold.

  When he perches me on the ottoman, he keeps his hands on my knees and I look at his watch, big and masculine and his hands, big, too.

  What did Rafa tell me? To stay in his good graces? I understand that as I look at those hands and remind myself of what he can do with them—good and bad.

  I give a shake of my head to clear the fog from my brain. What am I doing?

  “Eyes on me, Gabriela,” he says.

  I look up at him, at his mouth, it takes all I have to not look away. What did he just do? What did I just let him do?

  I hug my arms to myself, shivering, and I sit there, mute.

  Who am I? I’m a fighter. I don’t cower to men. And yet, here I am and look at me now. Naked and trembling.

  But this game Stefan is playing, it’s new to me. And he’s a pro. I’m out of my element. So far out of my league.

  “Were you in Rafa’s car when he was sideswiped?” he asks.

  No point in lying anymore. I have no loyalty to Rafa, after all. “You know the answer, or you wouldn’t ask the question.”

  “Answer me anyway.”

  Silence.

  “Is that where the bump on your forehead came from?”

  I blink, not denying, not affirming.

  “Words. Tell me now.”

  “Yes.” He knows. It’s not news to him. It can’t matter anymore.

  “The man at the well, who was he?”

  “He was the one who sideswiped us. One of them, at least. There were two cars. One on each side.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Taormina.”

  “Why?”

  I shake my head. “He invited me along. It was after you and I…after our fight.” I look at this hand, the one I sliced open with my stolen knife. It’s healed mostly. I wonder if it will leave a scar, though. I shift my gaze back to his. “He said he had a meeting and felt bad that I was cooped up. We had lunch. We were on our way back when it happened.”

  He doesn’t like this. I can see it in his eyes, in his posture.

  “Meeting with whom?” His eyes narrow a little.

  “Can I get dressed? I’m cold.”

  He looks around, gets up, picks up a throw from the arm of a chair and wraps it around my shoulders, then resumes his seat.

  “Meeting with whom?”

  “I don’t know. I stayed on the beach.”

  “Unprotected?” Now he looks pissed.

  “No, there were two men.”

  “But he took you there without soldiers?”

  “I don’t want to get him in trouble, Stefan.”

  He gets up, shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair, and I think how just moments ago, I had my hands in that hair, was gripping handfuls of it and pulling him to me.

  “Did he tell you not to tell me?”

  This question, it’s the one I don’t want to answer.

  “Gabriela?”

  I nod. “He was just doing something nice.”

  His jaw tightens and when he resumes his seat, I see the effort it takes him to keep his voice controlled and calm, even though I know calm is about the farthest thing from what he is.

  “Rafa isn’t nice, Gabriela. Don’t you know that yet?”

  “I do know that, Stefan, but I also know he’s here when you’re not. When you just lock me up here. I don’t know why you brought me if it was only to lock me away on my own.”

  He looks confused for a moment, then one side of his mouth curves upward and he snorts.

  “What do you think this is exactly?”

  I don’t answer him. This is Stefan the jerk. This is a whole other side of Stefan to the man who carried me out of that well and it hurts to hear him now. To hear him like this after everything.

  He leans back and the look on his face, that, too, hurts. Twists something inside me.

  “Do you make up stories? Make yourself the princess in the tower? Locked away by the beast?”

  I feel so small and I have nothing to say.

  “Maybe you are that. And I admit I’m more beast than prince. But you don’t really fantasize that I’ll be a doting husband, do you? That we’ll play house? Please tell me you’re not falling in love with me, Gabriela.”

  My face burns and I look away. I hug my arms to myself.

  No. Never. Never that.

  I hate him.

  I hate Stefan Sabbioni.

  I just need to remember that. To channel that hate. Use it like a weapon, like he does.

  Who are you? A voice in my head asks sharply.

  This is where my upbringing comes in handy. This part I can do. I’m not so out of my element now. I can hate with the best of them.

  “You asked me a question. I answered it. That’s all.” My tone is flat, forceful almost.

  He rubs his hand over his mouth. “Yeah. You did.” He retrieves my dress, returns to me. “Arms up,” he says.

  “I can dress myself.”

  “Arms up.”

  “I’m not a fucking doll.”

  He grips my jaw and pulls me up so I’m half sitting, half standing. “Watch your fucking mouth. Arms. Up.”

  “So you can say what you like, but I have to watch my mouth?”

  “Maybe I need to spank you again. For real, this time.” He hardens his grip but I take it. I grit my teeth and take it. “Do you want that, Gabriela? Tell me. Do you want to feel what it will feel like when I spank you for real? Because what I’ve done up until now is child’s play.”

  “Let go.” I say, feeling the stupid fall of tears.

  He shakes his head. “Tears don’t move me. Have you not figured that out yet?”

  “Just let me go.” My voice breaks and I sniffle back a sob. I hate him. I hate him so much.

  “Then raise your arms so I can dress you.”

  My arms shake as I do it, and he releases my jaw and slips the dress over my head.

  “Stand up.”

  I look up at him, and all I can think is how alone I am. How completely alone. Why does it feel worse now than it did before? I’ve always been alone. Why does it hurt so much now?

  “Why didn’t you just leave me in that well? You should have.”

 
; At that he pauses, and I swear that for one split second, I see that other Stefan. The one who came for me, who climbed into that well to carry me out. The one who swore he wouldn’t let anyone hurt me again.

  I want that Stefan. I need him. And that is the worst part of this.

  I turn away when more tears fall. I don’t wipe my eyes fast enough though because one drops to my knee and I know he sees. I feel so small, so incredibly, stupidly small, that I just sit there and keep wiping at these stupid never-ending tears. And here I thought I was so strong.

  “Stop feeling sorry for yourself and get up.”

  I stand up, using my wrists to wipe my eyes.

  He leans in toward me, wraps his big arms around me and I hate myself for wanting to lean in to him. For thinking that he means to hold me. I hate myself for wanting that. For wanting him to fucking hold me.

  Because all he does is zip the dress before he steps backward.

  He only did what he did to get me to talk. But I don’t understand. The spanking, I can see that. Hurt me to make me talk. That’s what the mafia does, right? But why the rest? Why tell me he can be gentle? Why did he lay me back on that ottoman and do what he did? Why did he hold me afterwards?

  I shake my head, dislodge those thoughts.

  He doesn’t care about me. That is all I need to remember. I’m sure he’s got women lined up to fuck, Clara at the front of that line. What use would he have for an inexperienced virgin who happens to be his enemy’s daughter?

  “Why did you do that?” I ask

  “What?”

  “What you just did.”

  He grins. “Eat your pussy?” I hate that I feel my face burn. “I should take my belt to your ass for running away in the first place, you know that?”

  “Why don’t you? You’d like that, right? I felt how hard you were when you spanked me. Is that what gets you off? Hurting women? Overpowering them to hurt them?”

  He steps closer, the look on his face base, degrading. “Don’t forget you got wet when I spanked you.”

  How can he turn everything around on me? Am I that easy a target?

  I spin to go, but he catches my arm.

  “I want to go to my room, Stefan.”

  “One more question.”

  I don’t have a choice, so I wait for it.

  “Who put the marks on your back?”

  “You already know that too.”

  “Say it.”

  “I hate you.”

  “Say it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to hear it.”

  “My father did! My father. All right? Happy?”

  He pauses like he’s really considering that question. “Not really, no.” He doesn’t release me.

  “Let me go. Please, Stefan, just let me go. I want to go.”

  “Away from me.”

  I nod. It’s what I want, right?

  It takes him a moment, but when he releases me, I bend to pick up my panties.

  He steps on them, blocking me from taking them.

  “I’ll keep those,” he says.

  It takes me a moment, but I leave them and straighten. “Whatever, pervert.” I walk to the door. I’m twisting the doorknob when he calls out my name.

  “Gabriela.”

  I stop. I don’t look back. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take. Because what the hell just happened in here?

  “Tomorrow is Alex’s memorial service. I thought you’d want to go.”

  At that, I turn. Does he mean to take me?

  “Do you?” he asks.

  I nod, but I’m cautious. I don’t want to get my hopes up, but I would do anything to go.

  “Car leaves at nine.”

  5

  Stefan

  Once she’s gone, I sit back down and pick up my whiskey. I drink it, lean my head back.

  Rafa.

  My cousin has lied to me before. I know he lies. This particular lie bugs me.

  The question, though, isn’t that he lied but why? Is it because he knew I’d be pissed that he took Gabriela out of the house without protection or permission? Or is it something more?

  As far as who he met with, I would be surprised if it was anyone other than his father.

  Francesco Catalano was a gracious host to me these last couple of days. I went to personally thank him not because I’m stupid enough to think he helped me out of the goodness of his heart. Gabriela’s question about how he knew, well, that’s my question too. It’s too fucking convenient that some of his people overheard the men from that boat bragging about what they’d done. Way too convenient.

  Francesco is my mother’s sister’s husband. He isn’t blood.

  My father never liked Francesco. Never trusted him. He’s not Sicilian born, for one thing, and with my father, that alone was enough. But there was more than that and if there’s one thing I learned from my father it’s to always trust your gut.

  But my father did love my mother and he loved her family. My aunt Gina, Rafa’s mother, and my father were good friends. He met my mom through Gina. Gina lived with us before I was born. The three of them were all close. She came to my father if she needed advice and all my father had to do to make sure Gina took that advice—even when it wasn’t asked for—was raise an eyebrow.

  It was for her that he gave Francesco responsibility over one of our most profitable routes north. And when the first shipment came in short, he turned a blind eye. For her. But then it happened again. And again after that.

  He could never prove it was Francesco, though, and Francesco always had an answer.

  I’ve never felt particularly close to my uncle. Honestly, I’ve never liked the man. But Rafa and I grew up best friends. I think that was because Gina spent more time here with Rafa than at her own home in Taormina.

  What I told Gabriela about the constantly shifting line between ally and enemy, I’ve watched it play out multiple times over my lifetime. I’m watching it play out now.

  Rafa. Where do your loyalties lie, cousin?

  I finish my drink, put the glass down and look at the ring on my finger. Our family ring. Passed down from father to son. It was supposed to have gone to Antonio.

  I twist it. Think about each of them. Each dead and in his grave now.

  When I get up to get more whiskey, I see that photo album. Instead of going for the whiskey, I pick it up and sit down in the chair where Gabriela had been reading when I came in. I open it, leaf slowly through the pages.

  Strange that so many people pictured in this album are dead. I miss them. I miss my family.

  My mom used to say that no one would love you like a mother loves her children.

  That thought makes me think of Gabriela. Of what she’d said about her mother’s drowning. Of what I know.

  I think about what I said to her just now. What an asshole thing to say. To do.

  Her words come back to me, her voice almost an echo.

  “Why didn’t you just leave me in that well? You should have.”

  I get that whiskey now. Drink it in one swallow.

  What I feel for her is strange. Not what I expected or thought. Is that why I was such a dick just now? Spanking her to get the truth, that I’ll do again if I have to. Playing with her, though, laying her down to eat her pussy, I shouldn’t have done that. Shouldn’t have touched her like that. Shouldn’t have made those comments about the tower. About playing house. She’s young and inexperienced, and I’m not fighting fair.

  After what happened, it would be normal for her to feel some sort of affection or at least attachment to me. I saved her life. I rescued her.

  Princess in the tower.

  Princess in a well.

  And I mocked her. Put her back in her place after stripping her naked and getting a taste of her.

  Or was I redrawing the lines between us for my own sake?

  Because the way she makes me feel, this possessiveness that burns inside me when I look at her, think about her, it’s not s
upposed to be this way.

  I put my glass down and make my way to the door. This line of thinking is going nowhere. She’s mine to do with as I please. That’s what it all comes down to where she’s concerned. That’s all it comes down to.

  My business with her father, it’s my business with her father. Not her.

  She’s a pawn and it’s not like she doesn’t know that. And I’ll use her as I see fit and she will be my wife and if I want to strip her naked and eat her pussy, I will. I will do much more than that.

  I spy her panties on the floor and bend to pick them up. I bring them to my nose and inhale.

  I’m hard again and tuck the panties into my pocket before heading up to my room, pausing only briefly when I pass her door. I hear the shower. She’s probably washing my scent from her. My touch from her.

  I should tell her it’s pointless. I’ll only mark her again tomorrow.

  6

  Stefan

  The next morning, she’s downstairs and ready to go by quarter-to-nine. She’s wearing a somber black dress. Her hair is piled into a neat bun at the top of her head, her bangs secured behind her ear. She’s wearing a little make-up, cover up to hide the remaining bruises and lip gloss, and is standing by the door fidgeting when I get downstairs.

  She walks up to me as soon as I’m on the first-floor landing. “Is my brother in danger?” she blurts out.

  I’m surprised by this question. Actually, I’m more surprised she didn’t ask it sooner. “Your brother is safe. I have soldiers placed there.”

  “You do?” She looks confused. Disbelieving.

  “Yes. He’s safe.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It didn’t come up.”

  She turns away, scratches her head, then shifts her gaze back to mine. “Thank you.”

  “This falls in the good category,” I say. “You just behave yourself and it can always be like this.”

  Her mood shifts, a flash of anger crossing her features, but it’s gone as quickly as it came.

  “The dress looks good on you.”

  She meets my gaze, gives me a cold once-over. “I’m ready to go.”

  “You say thank you when someone gives you a compliment.”