Page 9 of Claiming His Mafia Princess

“But—”

“Dalila. I said no.” His voice is sharp and scary.

I bite my lip, staring into his eyes. The blue seems to change from dark to ice, depending on his mood.

“Ok.” I say after a long pause.

My body feels like it’s glittering, like my skin is alive, after what he just did to me.

I am satisfied and left wanting more at the same time. I just can’t even imagine what more feels like. If that is how incredible playing feels, what does sex feel like?

I lie my head on the pillow. It smells like him. Soap, cologne. His skin.

I’m nervous to reach out and touch him again after he told me off the last time, but I don’t want to feel so alone right now.

I keep my hands to myself, but I shift closer to him. My body curves against his side.

He sighs, then wraps his arm around me, holding me against his chest where I rest my head and close my eyes.

It is late. It’s been a long - and crazy night.

I can’t believe everything that happened.

Chapter Six

NEVIO

Sleep eludes me, and I am up all night — I’ve never spent a night with someone in my bed.

Never mind someone so beautiful.

I can smell her and feel her warmth. It’s like lying down with the devil and having to resist the temptation of everything you ever wanted right there.

Her brother’s messages are on mind. He’s not been online again since then. In the pit of my stomach is a growing feeling that something far bigger than a secret wedding is happening. It’s as if this was all carefully planned without me even knowing I was involved. It’s like he knew I would win the card game. He was confident and cocky about it - because he knew.

I roll over and stare up at the ceiling, wondering if I should call my brother and ask him if he knows anything. Then he’d make me feel like I don’t deserve her, or worse, try to take her from me.

No. I have to marry her first. I have to seal the contract with our signatures in a church under the eyes of God.

I can manage a wedding, and a wife — I manage other more dangerous shit every fucking day of my life. They’ll call me in the morning. I am sure that news of my win has spread like wildfire through the ‘prayer chain’ that is mafia gossip.

I glance to where she is asleep beside me and wonder what I did to deserve this luck? Someone has given me a gift, and I will take care of her. I won’t take this for granted.

Kissing Dalila was like drinking from the fountain of youth. I am alive — awake for the first time since I can remember I have an excitement brewing in me like a wildfire, spreading through dead bush, igniting it so that the old branches can be burned away, and new ones can rise in the ash.

I used to feel this way before a kill — lining up the sight of my rifle to perfectly eliminate my target. A thrill that makes my blood run hot and cold, one that caused a hunger in me that was never satisfied. I’m afraid the hunger for her will be even worse, that the more I have, the more I will want.

The sun comes up slowly, and the shimmer of dawn lights the room. I want it to slow down. Today has arrived too fast and with it the interference of other people. But, also, I am in a hurry to make her my wife. If I marry her, no one can take her from me. And if they try, they will learn why I am the killer and not the leader.

Trying not to wake her, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, stretch out my tired muscles and drawing in a long breath. I’m going to be a husband, and I plan to make this rushed wedding as perfect as I can in only a matter of hours. Taking just my phone, I sneak out of the room. I know how to get in and out of places without being heard.

In the kitchen I turn on the coffee machine and wait for it to gurgle to life. An espresso for breakfast keeps the blood pumping. It’s early, but I haven’t got time to hang about and wait all day. I pull up my sister’s number and hit call. We’re close — well, close enough that I know she will help me without causing utter chaos. If I call my mother, she will want to wait and invite the queen. I think she thinks I was interested in men — not woman — on the not-so-straight side of life.

Mas was clear about this being urgent — no waiting for the queen, and certainly no time for my mother’s high drama reactions. “You better be bleeding if you are calling at this hour.” She croaks into the phone. I forgot the ladies have a ‘girls’ night’ when we play poker. She’s probably hung-over, and half dead.

“Better than bleeding.” I say with a smile she can’t see.

“Dead then?” She jokes, “your ghost is calling to wake me.” I laugh. My sister isn’t like my brother. She understands me. She knows how to make me laugh. She sees through the flawed skin I am trapped in.

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