Page 11 of Married to the Mafia Devil

“It's okay, you speak to her,” I say, giving her a small smile. “I'll be outside if you need me.”

Leaving her room, I close the door behind me, the sound of her voice muffled but somehow reassuring. I make my way to my room, the familiar space now feeling like a cage trapping me with my thoughts.

He kept his word.

I sit on my bed, the weight of everything crashing into me. He helped me. He broke into my room. He’s the head of the Italian mafia. A criminal. My father fears him so much he’s abandoned us. We’re alone. Completely alone. He’s coming back to take one of us.

I get an image of him ripping my clothes from my body, tossing me onto a huge bed in some penthouse somewhere, towering naked over me. “You’re so beautiful,” he says, climbing onto me, sliding into me. “So perfect. I had to steal you.”

Then I remember what Dad said. He’s a monster. He’s the devil. He’ll make you wish you were dead.

A panic attack, swift and merciless, seizes me out of nowhere. I hug myself, trying to find comfort in the tightness of my own arms, but it's not enough. I grab Mom’s book. It normally calms me but not today.

I wish Mum was still alive. Dad only started drinking like this after the cancer took her. It's like we stopped being a family with her gone, each of us lost in our own grief. Amelia went for these late night walks and got attacked in the street. Not just attacked.

Some Russian guy tried to drag her off to some brothel. Vlad Gregorivitch. She only got away because the cops happened to be passing as he was loading her into his car.

He was found not guilty. Still out there somewhere. I’m betting money changed hands and that meant Amelia never got justice. Now she can’t leave the apartment. My OCD went through the roof and I stopped paying attention to how much Dad was drinking. And now, because of my inability to help my sister leave, I might have signed both of our death warrants.

All I wanted was to help my family but everything is slipping from my grip. Eviction, jobless, now this. I am a failure. What was it Pamela said? You can’t control everything.

I can’t control anything. I’m useless.

The panic attack takes over completely, my breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. My heart races, pounding against my chest like it wants to escape. The room feels too small, walls closing in. I'm sure I'm going to die. I can't breathe, can't think, can't see past the immediate terror clutching at my throat.

“It's all too much,” I say in gasps, the words lost in the sound of my struggling breaths. “I let you down, Mom. I’m sorry.”

The shrill ring of my phone cuts through my panic. I try to catch my breath before picking it up, the unfamiliar number flashing on the screen sending a ripple of anxiety through me. “Hello?” I gasp, my breath catching in my throat.

“Emma, what's wrong?” The voice is instantly recognizable, the deep timbre sending a shiver down my spine. Matteo Rossi. “Did the therapist call? I told her it was top priority.”

I force my voice to steady as best I can. “How did you get my number?”

He ignores my question. “I saw your dad run. My men are watching your block.” His admission sends a cold wave of fear through me. “Didn’t you want to go with him? Try to get away? Don’t you fear what I might do to you when he fails to find those men?” He sounds amused, as if this is a game to him.

A bitter laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “My sister can’t leave, and I won’t leave her behind. I’m not afraid of you.” I’ve never said a bigger lie in my life.

“You should be,” he replies. “I am not kind to those who fail me.” There's a pause, but when he speaks again, his voice is softer. “You made a noble decision but also a foolish one. Tomorrow you will become mine.”

“Why? What do you even want with me?” The question burns in my throat. A mixture of fear, curiosity, and an inexplicable longing for a safety I know is an illusion bubbles inside me. Despite everything, a part of me whispers that I could be safe with him, that he might understand the chaos inside me. It's terrifying, this fledgling trust in someone who I want nothing to do with.

“You're a survivor, and I respect that. You’re also broken. I can fix you.”

“I’m broken?” He’s confirming what I already know about myself but it hurts to hear it.

“Let’s see. Panic attack when I called. Obsessive compulsive about the things in your room. Anxiety issues. Did I miss anything?”

“Pissed at men who assume they know everything about me.”

“I don’t know everything. That photo on your refrigerator. The park. Your mother?”

“What about it?”

“If your dad hadn’t fucked things up, I’d own the land where that park was. Could have rebuilt it for you.”

There’s a thud and the door to the apartment bursts open. My heart stops, hope flaring momentarily that Dad’s had a change of heart.

“Hang on,” I say down the line as I walk out into the hall only to find myself facing two armed men. The first is built like a bulldog with a neck as wide as his head. His hair is shaved to the scalp, making him look more like an animal than a man even in the expensive suit he’s wearing. “What are you doing?” I ask as he grabs hold of me.

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