Page 34 of Princess of the Mafia

“What’s wrong with this Martello? Doesn’t he ever call his mamma? Schifiu! Is this man even Sicilian? Doesn’t he know family comes first?”

I bit the comeback riding my tongue. In all her worries, she’d forgotten that his mamma died when he was nine. At least, that’s what I’d heard from Vitale. Still, he was fucking Sicilian, although I had the impression he’d rather be anything but that. He should have known family comes first, and I’d want to call mine.

“He wasn’t home—”

“Beddra Matri! And he left you alone the whole day?” Mamma lamented on the other side. Her forehead was lined in worry, that was apparent even through my phone screen.

It wasn’t Mamma I worried about. It was Vitale standing behind her, ominously silent, jaw tensed, with a look that said I’d kill that fucker and start a war. God, I loved being Sicilian, but we tended to overreact a tad too much, even if it was well deserved.

“I wasn’t alone, Mamma. Ciro was outside.”

“Who the fuck’s that?” Vitale growled.

“My own personal bodyguard,” I said with triumph. We’d always had Luigi looking after us and since he married my sister, I guessed that meant that my cognato looked after us. Ciro was no cognato unless he married Lia, and I was keeping his big burly body far away from my little sister.

Vitale shook his head like he couldn’t believe what I was saying.

“Daria, I don’t—”

“Ale, I promise I’m alright…” I looked up from my phone to Stefano strolling into the room. He looked like he had a lazy Sunday off. White t-shirt, blue jeans, and designer shades in his hand. I wondered if he had a Glock tucked into his waistband. “I was just jet-lagged and told him I wanted to sleep it off.”

There wasn’t an inkling in his face that told me he’d caught on to my little lie. I must have been getting good at covering up his brother’s asshole traits. The couch dipped as he sank next to me and casually slung his arm around me. He may have looked like a Sunday casual man, but he could be just as uncouth as his asshole brother. I realized that when he leaned over and grabbed the phone off my hand.

“No worries, Di Matteo. We are looking after our cognata like the princess she is.” I looked for sarcasm but found none. His tone was light, oozed nonchalance, and seemed to have convinced Vitale. Although Mamma muttered something under her breath that suspiciously sounded like this is what happens to men who grew up without a mamma.

Stefano didn’t pick up on it. He threw a look at my pajama-clad body. “Get dressed. We’re going out.” I didn’t hang around for another excuse to evade awkward family talk. I left him conversing with Vitale and scurried off.

I clicked all my suitcases open and chucked out my usual clothes till I found the secret stash that Luna had got for me. If I wasn’t living in Sicily, I was dressing the way I wanted. One good thing about marriage was I could wear anything I wanted. I was out of Mamma’s reach. No more ‘good girls wear frilly shit’ anymore. I found skinny denim jeans and a white T-shirt. I paired them with white sneakers, let my hair hang loose, and, at the last minute, grabbed a white cardigan before walking out the door.

Stefano scowled at me. “You aren’t going out like that.”

I looked down at myself. I loved how the clothes wrapped around my body like a second skin. “What’s wrong with it?”

His eyes ran me over from top to toe. “Too tight.”

That was the only highlight of being married, and now he wanted to take that away, too. I was so tired of all of this. They decided everything for me. Who I married, where I slept, what I wore…. Wasn’t there going to be anything good out of this godforsaken bond? Emotion clogged my throat and wobbled my lips.

He grimaced and shifted. It looked like this was the last place he wanted to be. “Awww… come on. Don’t turn on the waterworks.”

Which only made a tear slip out right on cue.

He sighed, ran a frustrated hand through his long wavy hair, and shifted uncomfortably. “Fine, let’s go then,” he muttered.

“Really?” I brightened up.

“Yeah,” he shook his head. “He’s going to kill me, though. You might have a dead cognato tonight.”

My footsteps faltered. I’d already known my asshole husband to have killed before…

He laughed gruffly. “Don’t worry. I can take care of myself. Now, have you had breakfast?”

I shook my head. I hadn’t even figured out how to make his fancy coffee machine work. Mamma had always told me I was useless in the house. I hadn’t wanted to bother telling her that she had been right.

“Don’t you have groceries?”

“I can’t cook,” I mumbled.

“You can’t…” a loud, robust chuckle rumbled through his body. “Oh, he’s going to love this.” By love, I got it was the opposite, and suddenly, I was happy I hadn’t wanted to learn. “Aren’t you Sicilian girls like taught to cook for your husbands?”

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