Page 7 of Claiming His Mafia Princess

“No,” I have no intention of hurting her, “I will not hurt you. A husband’s job is to love and cherish his wife, never to hurt her.”

My day-job and my responsibility to her will be two different things.

“Are you going to kiss me again?” She whispers, stepping closer to me.

“Yes,” I breathe, “I hope to kiss you many more times, Dalila.” Her cheeks blush a soft pink, and her lashes flutter as she looks down instead of into my eyes. I won’t hurt her, but I do plan to enjoy my wife — and I hope she will be willing.

“Will you kiss me again now, please?” She says with her eyes closed. She’s a gorgeous woman, and I want nothing more than to kiss her again right here. I’m afraid if I do though, I may not stop at kissing her — the temptation is too much.

“Not now,” I whisper dangerously close to her lips, “Dalila.” Her name is like syrup, sweet on my tongue.

We’re both tired, and it’s late, and we are overwhelmed by our new arrangement. I don’t want to take this too far and regret it or scare her. I don’t kiss her, but I wrap my arms around her and lift her up in my arms, carrying her like the precious gift she is, across the house to my bedroom.

Her small body fits snug against mine, she’s soft and I’m hard — she is beautiful and I’m the beast men go to bed and have nightmares about. She smells like hot chocolate, sweet and warm, and my body reacts to just how right she feels in my arms.

The small lamp beside my bed is the only light in the room — I loathe bright lighting or mirrors. My home is devoid of both, I do not need to see myself clearly, I already know how ugly I am. Dalila lets out a soft sigh when I put her down gently on the end of my bed, her legs dangle over but are too short to touch the floor. She kicks off her sneakers and looks up at me as I strip off the suit I had to put on to attend poker night.

At home I prefer sweat-pants, a turtle-neck sweater and clothing that is comfortable over the starch of a shirt collar. I unbutton the last button and peel off the only thing protecting me from her eyes; the shirt covering the dark red mark that stretches from my neck down my chest. The very thing that caused my father to reject me from the moment I was born — I’m inferior because I am not perfect. And my father and brothers never missed a chance to remind me of that.

It’s hard to love imperfect things.

I hear her gasp when she sees it. I know the look in those eyes all too well. I don’t know why I undressed in front of her — I have never allowed anyone to see me as naked as this. Yet with her, I have no desire to cover up. She gets all of me. Since I expect to have all of her. Instantly I feel exposed, vulnerable and hoping that she will see me. Not just the blood colored stain that makes me into a monster. “It’s bigger than they said -” she whispers, sliding off my bed and taking a step towards me.

I stop breathing when her delicate fingers trace the edges of my birthmark, as if she is committing the shape to memory. “I only ever saw the part your shirt doesn’t cover.” Her eyes meet mine, and I want to close them and shut her gaze out so she can’t see how much this is hurting me.

“Stop.” I whisper breathlessly, “Please, Dalila.” Her fingers stop moving, but they are still touching me — frozen there over the part of me I have wanted to cut out with a knife more times than I can count. Scars would be better than this splattered stain.

My eyes close as my heart thunders in my chest. She’s too good for me.

This is a dream, and what happens when I wake up tomorrow and it’s all shattered into pieces around me?

When her soft lips touch the spot right over my heart, I have to bite back the sounds that slowly start erupting from deep within me. Her tenderness covers her fear. “There, now I have kissed the devil right back.” She says, and I shiver at the way her breath dances over my bare skin.

My phone vibrates in my pants pocket, breaking the spell between us. I step back and turn away from her to see who it is.

Masaccio Vece:

Take care of her. I hope she doesn’t hate me. I had no choice. This was the best way to protect her from what was coming.

I knew something wasn’t right, that he was acting like a lunatic. This had to have been planned. I reply to his text, assuring him I will keep her safe. His reply makes me wonder what or who exactly he was protecting her from.

Masaccio Vece:

You need to marry her, not in a month. Tomorrow, I have arranged for the priest. He will be waiting for you two in the private chapel at midday. Don’t wait Nevio, I am trusting you with her.

“Who is that?” She asks me, “You tensed up the minute you got that message. Who is it?”

“Your brother,” I answer, “something is wrong, Dalila. He says that we can’t wait. We have to get married tomorrow. That he hopes you don’t hate him. He was protecting you from something. He won’t say what.”

I watch her expression change as she thinks about what I’ve told her. She swallows, and I trace the path of a single tear as it falls down her cheek. She nods her head.

“I’m sorry I called you ugly,” she says. “I was scared and upset. You said you won’t hurt me, and I trust you. Mas wouldn’t have chosen you if he didn’t trust you too.”

Dalila looks down, and then straightens her shoulders, looks me in the eye, and I watch her push her fear and anger away.

“I will take you to get a dress in the morning. We are going to the chapel at noon.” I say, tipping her chin up with my finger, “Dalila, this may not be the conventional way to do it, but you’re mine now. I will keep you safe, and I will give you my entire world. But you need to give me the same. All of you—” I don’t finish my sentence because she pushes up on her toes and kisses me.

Chapter Five

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