Page 28 of Princess of the Mafia

Except it was Papà’s words in my head, screaming louder than Britney ever could. How can I hurt Mamma? Non l'ho mai picchiata. Except this time, it wrapped around a cold voice, of an I did.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

DARIA

Jet lag plagued my body. I was weak, I was tired, and I was hungry. I wanted to be back home in warm Sicily. But the car drove through a modern, metallic city, and a cold gust of wind whirled through the windows. Disorientation took over my mind. It was so different. I felt like I was in a Hollywood movie.

The shrill sound of sirens announcing death filled my ears. Tall skyscrapers with walls of glass reflected bright yellow cabs and red traffic lights on every corner. My heart yearned for limestone walls and gravel-filled roads. The man beside me barked orders down his phone while loss yanked at my heartstrings. The reality of marrying a stranger hit me harder than Papà’s venom-filled slaps ever could.

The car glided to a halt, and the thick-set man who’d come to pick us up in his black suit opened my door for me. I looked at Lorenzo with his tie popping out of his pant pocket. How was it that his chauffeur was more dressed than him? He threw me a glance and continued with his conversation on his phone. So I stepped foot out of the car and stood alone on the tarred street of a city I knew nothing about. The monster of all monsters glared down at me with bronze-stained windows gleaming cold in the air. Is this where he lives?

My gaze slid to the man standing next to me. He must have been in his early fifties. “What’s your name?”

“Orso, Signora.”

I felt like a puppet without its strings. Cold nostalgia pulled me to the depths of sadness. “Parli italiano?”

He shuffled uncomfortably with his gaze coasting behind my shoulder. “Ovviamente, Signora.”

A warm hand wrapped around my elbow and yanked me rudely after him with a “Let’s go.” Didn’t his Mamma ever teach him to be polite? I stumbled and tried to keep up in my stilettos and small strides, while he swallowed up the ground as if he owned it. He probably did. He pulled me past a sparkling concierge and glass-clad walls to a private elevator. It must have been private if he had to key in the code for it. I watched in awe as the doors of the elevator closed. How high were these ceilings?

The air snuck out the moment the door closed. Just us inside the elevator, and my stomach dipped, and my head went up in a haze. The rush of rising high in a matter of seconds made me sway when we stopped, and he frowned at me. What is his problem, anyway? Not like he had to leave his family behind.

The door opened to the 129th floor, lasered on a chrome plate on a glitzy marble wall. I hadn’t even known a building could have that many floors. For someone who’d lived all my life in a two-story house, this would be as high as living up in the clouds. Panic clawed at my throat at the possibility of a fire and having to get down to the ground, or worse, falling off a balcony. Did people have balconies this high up?

Turned out they did. I realized this when I followed him hesitatingly into the doorway of an open area. This apartment had to be five times the size of Papà’s. All of this for one man living alone. Or is it? I couldn’t help but glance around nervously. Wouldn’t put it past him to have a whole harem of black-haired stewardesses in every room.

My eyes caught on glass and metal. Glitter and glam. It was all shining and all cold. The floors were marble, and the glass had frames in brass. No colors. I’d always had a thing for off-whites and beige. But here, it just looked flashy. There wasn’t a shred of wood, authenticity, or character to be found. It was all new and screaming to stand out. I hated it.

“You planning to come in?” He stood in the middle of what must be the living room, like a king in his castle. A massive chandelier with glass and crystal hung above him like a cluster of sharp icicles. My back edged towards the cold wall. My legs jittered, and suddenly I had the strongest urge to drop to my knees and weep. He must have caught on that I was nearing a psychotic breakdown, because his expression softened. The dark edges of his outline vanished as he ran a frustrated hand through his hair.

He strode closer to me, and I pasted my back against the wall. He stopped a few feet short. “Do you want me to show you around?” His words fell on shiny marble and echoed lightly in the vast space around us.

Do I? Was the rest of his place as cold and lifeless as this? It wasn’t even a house. I bit my lip to stop the wobble riding my lips.

“Daria.” He let out a frustrated sigh. “I need words. Do you want me to show you around?”

I shrugged.

He muttered something I couldn’t catch. It sounded like nothing nice and everything unholy.

“What?” he snapped, but he wasn’t looking at me. I turned my head to see Orso standing with our bags. Two other men were behind him with more.

“Where should I put them, Signore?”

“In my bedroom. Where else?”

They moved awkwardly past me, crossing the path between us. He stood still for a few minutes, but my throat was clogged, and no words could have passed if I’d wanted them to. I was still deciding if I wanted them to or not.

“Fuck it,” he muttered and followed the men to God knows where.

My feet were heavy and held me frozen where I stood till the three men went back outside. Orso looked at me with, I think, pity in his eyes. “Buon pomeriggio, Signora,” he muttered and pulled the front door closed behind him. The sound of closing doors to a different life thumped in my heart.

It was eerily quiet in here compared to the outside. The heavy beat of my heart was the only sound I heard. Reluctantly, I inched my way to the massive living area. Two monstrous L-shaped sofas faced each other across a ballroom with an occasional single chair placed strategically, I was sure. I imagined myself on one and him on the other. That just could be enough distance between us.

My jelly legs gave away, and before I knew it, I was plopped on the frosty blue couch, looking out towards a wall of black, glossy metal with big, white lights popping in and out. An artwork, maybe. This place screamed money.

What was the point of looking at a black wall? If I wanted to do that, I could have stared at him. I edged my way around and found the doors leading to the balcony. Of course, the balustrade had to be in glass. The moment I opened the door, honks and sirens floated up to me.

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