Page 37 of Princess of the Mafia

Yeah right. More like a wild lion on top of his kingdom.

The door closed behind him and took with it any kind of lightness that had been in the room. Tension crawled in, hot and electric, and it hung heavy, ready to spark with a word or a deed. I wasn’t going to hang around to find out. I twisted to walk away and stopped at his sharp words.

“Erase that number, Daria.” His voice was cold and stern like I was a small child who’d been called out to the principal.

I faltered, a disappointed sigh leaving me. Was my day accounted for line by line to him? My shoulders stiffened with anger. He wanted to own me. Have control of everything I did.

“Daria, did you hear me?”

I nodded numbly. Because, well, I’d heard him. But like hell if I was going to listen to him. Determination fueled my bones as I went to my room. Well, his room. I didn’t even have a room that I could hide from his all-seeing gaze, so what if I wanted to keep a number to myself? It seemed that was the only thing I could keep to myself.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

DARIA

The sound of grunts and growls behind the kitchen door. Mamma’s trembling hands and weeping face in the dark corners of her bedroom.

I slid off the bed like I’d done it a million times. Like sleeping next to the Don of New York was bred into me like twirling spaghetti around my fork. There was nothing that said it was only the third morning except for my heart pitter-patting in sync with my feet as I trudged to his bathroom where he’d moved my stuff in like it was our bathroom. Keeping up appearances and all.

I didn’t grasp why he bothered. Why did all men? Why couldn’t they just be blunt and tell you to your face that they just want to fuck you and when they get tired, which will happen sooner rather than later, they’d fuck everything around them, too. While you play house, cook and clean and pop out the occasional baby.

A thought trailed through my mind. Maybe I could get him to do that? I paused with the toothbrush in my mouth, the minty toothpaste frothing like whipped cream on Mamma’s orange polenta cake. Maybe I could get him to admit his plans. If he put words to his intentions, I could build a battlement around me with siege weapons and all.

I spat and rinsed my mouth and face. I’d decided that was all the effort I was going to make for the man who married me. It was a pity, really. I loved to dress up. But if I did, it would give him the wrong impression, and that would put a dent in my battle plans.

I made my way to the kitchen, my bare feet cold on the glazed marble tiles. Noises coming from the kitchen made me wonder if he could cook.

My feet skidded to a halt and sunk into thick concrete. My heart thundered in my ears.

A young girl. Around my age. Blond hair. Voluptuous figure. In the kitchen. Doing things.

The floor below me shifted from shiny marble to checkered black-and-white tiles. My head was dizzy, but I still heard it.

Strange noises coming from the kitchen. In Sicily.

My feet carried me there.

I was back on the marble floor, the world spinning around me.

The girl looked up with a smile.

The door stood ajar in the kitchen, and strange noises…

The girl was speaking. Her mouth was moving. I couldn’t understand. Didn’t want to.

Moans and grunts from the kitchen in Sicily. The new girl, Isabella on all fours. And… my breath hitches like a fist has landed on my chest, Papà grinding in and out of her. My scream spilling into the air.

It was only eerie silence in here. The girl was talking. Her mouth was still moving. Her eyes were worried. But couldn’t she see? I was drowning and the noises around me deafening.

My world was bursting at the seams. Nothing to hold me in place.

My eyes jerked to a flicker of movement. Lorenzo came out from beyond the kitchen, wearing running shorts, bare-bodied and sweat-pooling down.

Papà bare-bodied.

Lorenzo bare-bodied.

Sweat.

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