Page 18 of Princess of the Mafia

I swear my feet turned into concrete because I couldn’t have moved even if I had wanted to.

He let a soft curse fall before he grabbed my elbow like I was a filthy illness he didn’t want to catch. He dragged me into the bathroom and pushed me into the shower. “You scrub until every trace of that fucker is gone from you, capisti?”

I pushed out of the shower, and he shoved me back hard and turned on the water full force till it drowned me, dress, boots and all. He ignored my shrieks, like he was born deaf, walked out, and slammed the door behind him.

My entire body trilled even though the water was warm. His hatred of me echoed on all the tiled walls. The last few hours, few days, and few months of emotion balled into a rock and smacked me hard. Nothing was what it should have been ever since Papà’s death, and then I had to go and make it worse. Could it get any worse than this? I didn’t know. So I did what any Cosa Nostra girl would do. I gave up. I shed my clothes and boots, and I scrubbed till my skin turned as raw as the blood between my legs, and I removed every trace of a dead man’s last deed like the good girl I was.

I didn’t know how long I let the water erase my sins. I stayed long enough for my skin to wrinkle and the mirrors to steam. Then I came out, dried myself, and put on the fluffy white robe. It smelled like a posh hotel and nothing like him. He didn’t look like the type that wore a robe. Probably slept naked.

I had no idea why that thought filtered through my mind. I looked in the mirror and saw a drowned rat. But he signed a stupid piece of paper, and he had the nerve to act surprised when I called myself the loot they exchanged? He didn’t deserve the effort that went into combed hair and pretty makeup. Not like I could have done anything about it, anyway. I didn’t even have my bag or phone with me.

The first thing I noticed when I entered his room was the devil himself bracing his hands on the writing desk with a glass of whiskey in between. I had to scrub myself clean, but he still wore his blood-riddled shirt.

His eyes coasted to me, and he pulled out a harsh laugh from the hollow of his chest, like he couldn’t believe what was in front of his eyes. He gave his head a shake like he was clearing an ugly thought from it and took a sip of liquor from the heavy, crystal glass.

“Why’d you do it?” His words were so soft that I almost missed them. The glass landed on the desk with a harsh thump. “What was he?” he grated out, like it hurt him to say the words. “Your boyfriend?” He rolled his head to me with a dark glint in his eyes.

I shook my head faintly.

“What was he then?” he growled harshly. “A one-night stand?”

I didn’t know why, but I didn’t want to lie to him. I blamed it on the emotions rocking inside of me. “I paid him.” Even though my words were quiet, they fell in the room as loud as a grenade exploding.

His face twisted dark with rage, and I regretted my words instantly. “You paid… him?” He choked.

I nodded slowly, less assured than before.

His hands clutched the desk in a death grip, and his knuckles turned white. “Why?” He asked tightly.

Why? The why seemed so long ago that it was now just a speck in the distance.

He slammed the desk with his fist, making the glass smash and the lamp on it topple off to the floor, making me jump. “Fucking why, Daria?”

Fear, tight and suffocating, crawled all over me. I wanted out. Out of this room. I wanted it even more when he stalked over to me and pinned those eyes on me like I was the only focus of his entire existence. That’s the only reason I blurted it out. So he’d leave me alone. “I didn’t want you to own me.”

He stumbled back and looked at me with wide eyes. His hands balled into fists like he was going to hit me, and I squeezed my eyes shut for the impact.

CHAPTER NINE

LORENZO

Jesus! I didn’t know where they hid those timid housewives of Sicily, but it wasn’t anywhere near my future wife. She was fucking messed up. And that’s saying a lot, seeing how messed up I was. The difference was that she shouldn’t have been. She was brought up all cocooned and protected, with painted pink toes and not a bust on a single knuckle. She didn’t watch her mamma’s brain explode into a million pieces when she was nine. She didn’t shoot a man and watch his guts spill out when she was eleven. Yet she stood with her eyes squeezed shut like I’d hit her. Like she’d been hit before.

I shoved off in disgust.

“Stefano,” I yelled. I’d heard him come inside and I needed a brother with more patience than me. Because if I was left alone with her, I might not have hit her, but I just might have throttled her to death.

He opened the door to my room in an instant. Too fucking fast. So he’d been outside. Because he feared for me or for her safety? She seemed to be bringing out the protectiveness of my brothers as easily as she gave her virginity to a fucking stranger.

“Keep her with you,” I said darkly before stalking off to the bathroom.

I’d already called her brother to come pick up his runaway sister, who he apparently didn’t even know had run away. Which left me wondering how often she’d done that without anyone knowing.

I shed my clothes right next to hers and kicked them out of sight under the vanity. I couldn’t get myself to touch her stuff that had another man’s juice on them.

“Fuck!” My knuckle hit the tiled wall and finally, the pain in my knuckles brought some kind of relief to me. I braced my hands on the wall and let the hot water wash over me. She’d stood under this same shower and washed another man’s touch off her. Except I could scrub all I wanted, but hell would have to freeze over before I forgot the image of him between her legs.

“I didn’t want you to own me.” Her words dripped into my mind as slowly and deathly as poison. What kind of fucked up was that?

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