Page 27 of Princess of the Mafia

Vitale’s words, spoken above my head to him, ache in my chest. If she’s a burden to you, send her back to us. She’ll always be a Di Matteo. Damn right, I was. I might have taken his name, but that was all he’d ever get from me. My home would always be Sicily, with the unleveled floors, crooked walls, and Mamma screaming at me to clean my room. He’d never own me, and I’d never be a Martello.

It didn’t look like he gave a damn, anyway. He typed on his phone with tension etched onto his face. Couldn’t be good news flying past his fingers. The mean girl in me, the Cosa Nostra part, hoped his empire was going down.

The car didn’t even come to a full halt before he skimmed out of it like I was a disease he couldn’t wait to get rid of. Well, right back at you, asshole!

The gusty wind whacked me the moment I stepped out. It knocked me back against the car and, like a warm hairdryer, blew the air under my dress and lifted it up.

“Jesus, it’s not a fucking strip club!” His big hands grabbed my dress and shoved it between my knees, involuntarily pulling me closer to him. “Think you can manage to stay dressed in public?” he gritted between his teeth.

I was a balloon, and I was drifting away from him. Each word out of his mouth was an extra release on that fine string holding me to him. One day, I would be free, and I wouldn’t care. I will never be Mamma.

I yanked away and climbed the rickety steps of the private jet to the hum of one day I’ll fly away from Moulin Rouge in my head.

A dark-haired vixen welcomed me with her fake smile and non-Italian looks. Yes, I’d been brought up very protected. There wasn’t much of a mix in the Cosa Nostra. Until Divya, there wasn’t much non-Italian in my surroundings. But there was plenty of ‘I’ve fucked the man behind you’ looks. Exactly like the one she threw at the man coming up behind me. My throat throbbed with emotion. Even though I had expected it, this soon wasn’t what I was prepared for. Disappointment smacked me like a cold gust of wind. I wobbled precariously on my feet to the annoyed growl from behind me. “If you’d eaten more, you’d be able to stand upright.” And he shoved me forward. It wasn’t hard, but it was still a shove. The string around that balloon would loosen soon enough.

I stumbled into the main cabin. Plush beige carpets and glossy cherrywood panels reflected deep seats in full-grain leather and coffee tables in a thick veneer. Black money dripped all over it and left a scalding route in every aisle. I skimmed past it, looking for a single seat. The only available one was taken up by Nico, looking out the window with gloom in his thoughts. I wondered if I would have been better off marrying a different brother. Not him, though. He would be equal to being tied to an ice block. Stefano maybe, he was the only friendly one. I looked behind me to spot him, but the broad, breathing wall behind me blocked off everything. Sight and thought.

“Planning on standing here all day?”

Geez, he was annoying. Arrogant, angry, annoying. Plenty of A-letter words that would fit him for his description of our first day of marriage. I headed to the seat in the middle of the cabin. Away from the cold brother and the fucked stewardess. I dumped my huge tote bag in the seat next to me. Please don’t let him sit next to me. He walked past me, and a hot sigh of relief escaped me. He might have heard that. That was the only reason he backtracked, lifted my bag out of the chair, and dropped his big bad body next to mine. He swung my bag onto the opposite aisle, and metal clattered to my loud huff.

“Excuse me! I need that.”

He followed my gaze to the bag as if he’d just not thrown it away like filthy garbage. He stretched his leg out lazily, lifted it with his fine leather shoe, and dropped it into the aisle before picking it up and dropping it on my lap. I was surprised he hadn’t made me crawl to it.

Uncouth. There wasn’t a single shred of a gentleman in him. Not that there was a gentleman to be found in the Cosa Nostra. But he didn’t even bother to pretend. His shirts were always unbuttoned, and his ties were always loose. I didn’t even know why he bothered to do them at all. It was as if he had tried and seconds later, given up the whole facade.

Fumbling through my tote, I found my headphones, dropped them on my ears, and switched on my music. My lungs filled with air as I tried to relax in my seat. Breathe in. Breathe out. He’s just a man.

My eyes must have been closed for all of five minutes before the smell of pure male and something else drifted up my neck, and my headphones stretched to accommodate another ear. He frowned at Britney Spears crooning.

“You listen to this shit?”

Hot, itchy annoyance rattled my nerves. “Better than listening to yours,” I snapped.

Shit. I clenched my hand to keep it from flying to my mouth in shock. It was like the man lit a spark beneath my feet that gave me the courage to talk back to him. I regretted it instantly when he yanked my headphones off and dropped them onto his lap. There was no way I was touching that now. I watched them lying on his crotch like they were a pink snake on black mirth.

I groaned quietly. I was really beginning to regret taking the window seat. With his long legs stretched in front of him, he held me prisoner. I looked with longing to where Stefano sat a few seats down. It was a damn private jet. Of all the places to sit, he needed to come sit next to me. Twelve hours of silent terror stretched before me.

“You realize we’ll be in each other’s face every single day, right? Don’t you want to know the man you married?”

I looked at him. He was all aristocratic. The way he sat, lounging back, one arm wrapped around the head of my chair, the other on my headphones. He may have been the king of New York, but he’d never be the king of me. So I pressed my lips together and shoved all my words inside. Juvenile? Maybe, but I’d fight back any way I could. This wasn’t a battle he was ever going to win.

“Nothing you want to know?” His tone was light, but irritation edged around it.

I did want to know one thing.

“Well…” my eyes followed the vixen, walking the aisle behind him,“Did you fuck her?”

I can’t believe I asked that. My fuck sounded like I’d said vanilla. Still, it must have made an impact because the polished silver tray in her hands jittered and hot tea spilled onto the carpet, right next to us.

“I am so sorry, sir,” she gasped, getting on her knees and dabbing at the floor madly. He rolled his head to lazily observe her with a frown. Is he trying to remember? How many women had he fucked?

When she looked up with waddled tissue in her hands, he wiped a hand over his mouth as if he was remembering an indecent memory. It was rude and downright arrogant and sent the pulse between my legs spiking. Then he turned to me and confirmed in the coldest tone I’d heard from him, “I did.” Like he was telling me he’d had a whiskey today or a shower.

The blood in my body ran ice cold, and my hands trembled as I reached for his crotch and grabbed my headphones. Acid burned behind my eyes. “That’s what I thought.”

He didn’t bother to take my music away. That’s all I was left with for the entire duration of the flight as I pretended to sleep and let the music roll over me.

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