Collateral: an Arranged Marriage Mafia Romance Read online

  Stefan comes to stand beside me, wrapping an arm around my waist. “Thank you, Uncle. Gabriela’s excited about tonight’s party, aren’t you?”

  “Can’t wait,” I say with a false smile.

  There’s a sudden sound of something crashing in the other room. Uncle Jack shakes his head. “I’m going to kill these idiots,” he mutters as he turns toward the cordoned off construction area where the sound came from. “They’ll be gone in a few hours,” he yells over his shoulder to us.

  Stefan turns to me. “I’ll take you up to your room. You have about an hour before the hair and makeup people come.”

  “What time are we leaving?”

  “Seven.”

  It’s a little after five now.

  I let him lead me up the stairs and to a bedroom. I note the dust that’s crept into the undamaged part of the house and feel a warm breeze. I wonder how much of the side wall is gone.

  “Here,” Stefan says, opening a door.

  “Where are you staying?”

  He grins, opens his mouth to stay something but I hold up my hand to stop him and roll my eyes.

  “Don’t get excited. I just want to know which room to avoid.”

  “I’ll make it easy,” he says, gesturing for me to enter. I do. “You’re to stay in yours until I come for you.” He walks through and peeks into the adjoining bathroom, then walks to the door.

  “My bag?” I ask when he reaches it.

  “Someone will bring it up shortly.”

  When he’s gone, I go to the window and watch the construction crew out there. There must be fifty men and the scaffolding only stops when it reaches my window.

  There’s a pool in the distance where three women are sunbathing. A big truck is pulling in through an opening in the gates and when I look down, I find Stefan and Uncle Jack walking outside, each of them holding a beer. They head to the pool to greet the women, and I watch how each one wraps herself around Stefan and kisses his cheek. I see the happy smile on his face as they all chat.

  Well, good for him because I’m never going to wrap myself around him like that.

  I walk away from the window and think about what Stefan said about his brother.

  About my father.

  I think about what my father ordered done to Alex and I think about how quickly I defended my father to Stefan even though part of me knows the truth.

  But why would my father order the killing of a man in the witness protection program? A mafioso turned snitch? He has nothing to do with the Sicilian mob. No business with them whatsoever. At least not that I’m aware of.

  Stefan’s wrong. There’s no link. Even if my father is capable of such brutality.

  I shake off the thought and sit on the bed. There’s nothing to do but flip TV channels so I do that until, an hour later, a man walks in carrying my duffel and a garment bag. He’s followed by two women each dragging a suitcase.

  The man leaves and the women begin to set up, telling me in Italian that they’re here to do my hair and makeup and prepare me for the party.

  I answer them in English and just smile when they admire the engagement ring. I manage to sneak to the bathroom for a few minutes with my iPod so I can message Alex that I’m in town. That I want to see him. I will figure out a way how. The party is big enough and I can sneak away once Stefan is distracted. But I can’t switch the thing on because it’s out of charge and the cord I shoved into the duffel is a US cord. Shit.

  I take a minute to think. This is fine, not a huge setback. I can message him through my computer at home and grab a charging cable from there too.

  When I return to the bedroom, the women are set up and waiting for me.

  It takes them a full hour to do my hair and makeup and I sit obediently through it. I don’t wear make up most days mostly because I’m lazy and it takes too much effort but also because I hardly see anyone or go anywhere, apart from parties my father arranges and then he has people come and do it for me. Like tonight.

  I don’t give it too much thought, honestly, and wonder how irritated Stefan would be to know how similar he is to my father. They both want to dress me up like a doll to show off to their friends or, in tonight’s case, to flaunt me in my father’s face.

  But I push those thoughts aside because I have more important things on my mind.

  Like Alex.

  The woman is just zipping up the side-zipper of the dress when the door opens. My back is to it, but I don’t have to look to know it’s Stefan. It’s like every hair on my body stands on end in warning.

  When I turn my head, I find him standing in the doorway wearing a black tuxedo and I have to admit, he looks good. Really good.

  He’s tall, taller than most men I know, and built well with thickly muscled shoulders and arms, a trim waist and powerful legs. Those I remember from his swim the other morning.

  The thought brings a flush to my face and I give a shake of my head to clear the image.

  But it’s not just that he’s beautiful. There’s something else about Stefan Sabbioni. It’s the way he carries himself. He has an amazing amount of self-confidence like nothing and no one can fuck with him.

  No, it’s more than that.

  It’s like he’s daring anyone to try.

  He looks me over and I think he’s taken off guard for a moment.

  I haven’t seen what I look like yet. I know my hair’s up, and that they loaded me with so much mascara that it’s hard to blink, but apart from that, I don’t know.

  Stefan clears his throat, gesturing to the door with a tilt of his head. The women straighten and scurry from the room. Is that how he thinks I’ll obey someday? Because I never will.

  He never takes his eyes off me as I stand, becoming aware that I’m nervously turning the ring on my finger. I school my features, not quite looking at him because it would only inflate his ego to know I find him attractive.

  Or I would find him attractive if I didn’t hate him.

  “What?” I ask, happy my voice sounds almost bored.

  He’s shaved so the scruff of earlier is gone and when, a moment later, he gives me his signature aren’t-you-a-piece-of-work grin, I see the dimple on his cheek. He steps into the room and closes the door.

  “Turn.”

  “What?”

  “I want to see the back.”

  “I’m not a thing.”

  “You’re very beautiful, Gabriela,” he says, that grin gone.

  The compliment—or maybe its delivery—catches me off guard.

  I look away, feeling my face heat up.

  Instead of thanking him, I look at the full-length mirror in the corner of the room and I’m not a vain person and looks are a freaking lottery and I know I got lucky, but okay, yes, this, what those women did, it looks good. I look older. Maybe even a little beautiful.

  Like her. Like my mom.

  I walk to the mirror and meet my own gaze. I reach out one finger and touch it to the glass and I feel suddenly, incredibly sad. My eyes fill up and fuck the eighty pounds of mascara on my lashes because I can’t cry unless I want to look like a raccoon. But this, the way they have my hair in this twist with the bangs pinned neatly to the side, and the dark makeup, I look exactly like my mom on her wedding day.

  She was eighteen too. And Stefan is twenty-nine, just about the age my father was when he married her.

  Ironic all these similarities.

  Or just life’s cruel joke.

  Stefan’s reflection as he comes up behind me makes me force those thoughts away. Makes me steel myself.

  Show no weakness.

  It’s the one thing I’m grateful to my father for teaching me. Although, it’s not that he meant to teach it on purpose. These men, men like my father or Stefan, they see an opening, any tiny crack in the surface, any chink in the armor, and they’ll attack. They’ll devour you whole.

  I narrow my eyes and look up to meet his in the mirror.

  His gaze slips down my back and I remember how the d
ress drapes at my lower back, the swell of my hips pronounced by the fabric collected there.

  I realize then he’s holding a box and I don’t move when he opens it, lifts whatever is inside and tosses the empty box on the bed. He raises a long, gold chain over my head and closes the clasp at my neck and I remember that first night we met. When I didn’t know who he was. When he closed a blood-crusted necklace around my throat, and I thought he’d strangle me with the chain.

  My fingers move to touch it as his brush my spine, just the very tips light as a feather as they trace the line of it, from the nape of my neck down, barely touching each vertebrae, making me shiver as they move lower, lower, stopping just where the dress stops.

  His gaze follows the line of his hand and a moment later, he straightens. His eyes are darker when they meet mine in the mirror.

  He clears his throat, reaches out to lightly touch my shoulders and turns me so I’m facing him.

  His eyes trap mine and my throat goes dry because I’ve stopped breathing. I seem to do that around him, especially when he’s so close. It’s like there’s not enough oxygen in the room for the both of us. Like one of us has to give.

  One will.

  He touches my chin, lifts my face and with the pad of his thumb, wipes at my temple. His touch is so soft it’s almost not real and it’s so opposite this hard man. This brutal, dangerous man.

  “Eyelash,” he says.

  I blink away, nod. Because I don’t know what the fuck I’m thinking or should be thinking or feeling or anything.

  He’s just picking off an eyelash, dummy.

  He gestures for me to look back at the mirror.

  I turn to it to see how the necklace, a simple, delicate gold thing, hangs all the way down my back with a single sparkling diamond like a pendulum, the weight at the end of the chain.

  It’s beautiful.

  “Are you ready?” he asks.

  I turn back to him and think what a couple we make.

  “Sure,” I say, trying to sound casual, unaffected.

  When we move to leave the room, his hand comes to my lower back, to the bare flesh there. It spans the width of it, and it takes all I have not to shudder at his touch as he leads me out and down the stairs.

  Uncle Jack is dressed in a tuxedo and smoking a cigar while drinking a whiskey.

  He gives me an approving nod.

  “I’ll see you there,” he says to us.

  “Don’t drink so much you forget to come, old man,” Stefan throws over his shoulder as he leads me outside into the warm night.

  13

  Stefan

  Gabriela keeps her gaze out the window as we ride to her father’s house.

  I watch her in profile.

  She’s stunning. She’s a beautiful girl, but tonight, she’s more than that. She shines.

  She hasn’t worn makeup—apart from lip balm if that can be considered makeup—in the days she’s been with me.

  The women I date—no, date isn’t the right word. I don’t date. The women I fuck are older than her, granted, but there’s something different about Gabriela. Something innocent. It’s a quality none of those women possess. One I’ve never cared about.

  And that innocence, it’s different than being naïve. If she were naïve, I wouldn’t be interested in her, but I like sparring with her. She’s fascinating. Unexpectedly so.

  But she’s her father’s daughter and I see it even in how she reacts to me when I give an order. Something as simple as changing into shoes last night. If she were anyone else, she’d have fought me. She wouldn’t think to save her strength. To choose her battles.

  What I told her on the plane about Antonio, I saw what she thinks she hides well.

  She knows her father’s hands are dirty. She may not want to admit how blood-soaked, but she knows.

  I remember her that night in her father’s study when she’d walked in wearing that blood-splattered T-shirt and those hideous army boots. She would do battle with her father herself. She seems accustomed to it, and it makes me curious.

  Although it doesn’t matter for my purposes.

  When our car pulls to a stop at the front entrance of her father’s house, Gabriela shifts her gaze to the imposing double doors. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she looks nervous.

  I don’t care though. I get out of the car and extend my hand to her.

  She sets one slender leg out, placing her hand in mine. I see they’ve painted her nails to match the dress. I help her out and even though I’m watching her, she’s looking at everything but me.

  Again, I don’t care.

  Because tonight marks my second victory against Gabriel Marchese as I walk his daughter, my beautiful bride-to-be, into his house where his soldiers open the front doors at my approach, where I smile to see his eyes narrow at the sight of me entering like a king, the biggest prize of all on my arm.

  I watch him when he shifts his gaze to her.

  Watch him take her in, his beautiful daughter in a dress that exposes perhaps more than he’d like.

  His gaze runs the length of her, but it’s what I see in his eyes when he looks at her face that makes me pause. That makes my stomach turn.

  Gabriela stiffens beside me. Her back is ramrod straight as if braced for war, her eyes on something beyond her father. Her lips are tightly drawn, and I see how her jaw clenches when she finally meets her father’s strange gaze.

  Only moments have passed. Mere seconds in time. And by the time I look at him again, he’s schooled his features. He’s simply a father looking proudly at his daughter. But through that smile, I see the tick in the corner of his left eye. I saw it the other night too. It’s a small tell of what’s really going on inside his head.

  “Gabriela,” he says, voice hoarse. He comes toward us, arms outstretched to hug her.

  “Dad.” Her tone is flat. She’s going for casual. Bored, even. But she isn’t either of those things.

  I watch them, watch him embrace her, watch the space she leaves between them, barely touching him. Her eyes focus on something at the far wall when he kisses her cheek.

  I see how she seems to shrink into herself and something makes me want to pull her away. To hide her behind me.

  Marchese straightens, turns to me.

  I clear my throat. Force a smile.

  I’m imagining things. Seeing things that aren’t there. Tonight is a victory I plan to savor.

  “Dad,” I say and his obvious annoyance at my greeting does make me smile a real smile.

  He clears his throat, makes a show of looking around for a waiter. “Apple juice for my daughter,” he calls out loudly enough to embarrass her.

  Gabriela’s eyes narrow and I watch this strange interaction between father and daughter who are like enemies themselves.

  I don’t know much about their relationship but after this, I’m going to find out.

  Gabriela takes the offered apple juice in the decorated flute without a word.

  “Stefan,” he says, gesturing for me to take the other flute of champagne.

  “I prefer a whiskey.”

  Gabriel Marchese gives me a cold grin as people crowd around to congratulate us, the women fawning over Gabriela’s ring, her dress, our apparent whirlwind romance and what a good-looking couple we are. Some even comment on the beautiful babies we’ll make.

  I wonder what Marchese’s told them to save face.

  As we move through the house and outside to the back garden, we’re separated momentarily. I reclaim her as we make our way to greet our guests, an almost even split of Marchese and Sabbioni family members. My face hurts from smiling and I fucking hate small talk, but I do enjoy Marchese’s cringing every time he’s forced to introduce me to his friends and associates as his future son-in-law.

  Gabriela excuses herself to use the bathroom and I take the moment to slip into the shadows, watching the people, making note of who’s who and who will be a problem.

  When a waiter appears to refresh my whisk
ey, I see Rafa walking toward me with Clara on his arm. He’s not smiling.

  “Christ. Pretentious much?” he asks, gesturing around him.

  I sip my whiskey and watch Marchese. I don’t miss how he, even as he appears to be in intense conversation, keeps one eye on me.

  “Just rubbing his face in it,” I say. I turn to Clara.

  She smiles, pulls herself free of Rafa and spins to show off her dress. That’s the moment Gabriela returns, and I see how she looks at Clara and remember the other night. I wonder what she thought was happening.

  Her face hardens as she comes to stand beside me.

  “You look beautiful as always, Clara,” I tell my cousin.

  Gabriela’s jaw tightens and she folds her arms across her chest. “I’m hungry,” she says, not quite looking at Clara or Rafa.

  I do note that Rafa is watching her more curiously than I like.

  “Gabriela, this is my cousin, Clara,” I say. “I believe you saw her at the swimming pool the other night.”

  And this is where Gabriela’s upbringing kicks in and she’s lucky that she stands about an inch taller than Clara because it gives her the opportunity to look down on her. It’s just for a split second, just long enough to send a message.

  Clara extends her hand, cocks her head to the side and smiles wide. “Lovely to meet Stefan’s chosen bride-to-be,” she says in her silky voice.

  Gabriela takes her hand and Rafa and I both watch as Gabriela digests Clara’s carefully selected words.

  “Such a close-knit family, you are,” Gabriela says. “The three of you.”

  The music stops then, and Gabriela’s father announces dinner.

  “Excuse us,” Gabriela says. “So glad you could make it,” she tells Clara, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

  Gabriela and I sit together at the head table for dinner along with her father. She picks at her food while I eat with gusto and listen as her father toasts us, then make my own toast, being sure to mention my Sicilian roots.

  I watch as my family mixes with his, watch his face grow darker and darker as we infiltrate his home and eat his food and drink his liquor.

  An hour passes, then another.