Page 43 of Married with Mayhem

Sabrina always grimaces at the mention of her father. She doesn’t discuss him often and when she does, there’s nothing nice to say.

Hearing a shaky sigh from her as she grapples with bad memories flicks a switch inside me. I pull my eyes off the road long enough to swiftly study her. The sporadic shine of highway lights offers only teasing glimpses of her profile, yet there’s no hiding that this girl is truly stunning. My fingers itch to trace the delicate lines of her face and linger on her full lips before exploring the column of her throat and then roaming lower.

Or maybe I’m just getting loopy as fuck now that the adrenaline of our escape from New York is evaporating. There needs to be some caffeine in my future.

“We’re about thirty miles outside of Pittsburgh,” I say. “We’ll stop somewhere to gas up and get coffee.”

“Good. I hope they have bagels.” She checks her phone. “The news of our departure must not have reached Sicily yet. No frantic incoming messages from my mother.”

As we left New York behind, I called Luca to provide a quick update. As much as I hated to involve him in anything mafia-related at all, Sabrina is his sister-in-law so he had to be told. But it’s not like he’d be in a rush to blab to overseas relatives.

“When you do talk to your mother, tell her not to worry.”

Sabrina snorts. “As if that will do any good. I’m by far her least capable child so worrying comes with the territory.”

I don’t like hearing her put herself down. Sabrina is funny and creative and plenty smart enough to do anything she wants once she focuses. I just wish her weird, cloistered upbringing hadn’t convinced her otherwise.

“Speaking of Sicilian relations,” she says, “how much of a hissy fit do you think Vittorio will throw when hears why I needed to flee New York?”

“He’syouruncle. You tell me.”

She drums her fingers on her sparkly phone case. “Vittorio Messina doesn’t like surprises. He doesn’t like most people either. He’ll be unhappy that I’ve upset my mother, and even more salty about the way I left Sicily without his permission.”

“What’s the deal with that? Are you a prisoner there?”

“Not exactly. But I’m also not exactly free to do as I please. One unfortunate quality my uncle shares with my late father is an obsolete view of women. It’s unacceptable to him that I’m still single and he’s done his best to talk me into making a marriage arrangement. He even tried to guilt me into agreeing by claiming it would please my mother. He presented me with an assembly line of Sicilian suitors. When I balked at all of those, he made the case for an American option.”

The idea of Sabrina being bargained away like real estate to some degenerate mafia heir boils my blood so much that my brain gets temporarily scrambled.

Which is why it takes me a few seconds to register her last comment.

“What American option?” I ask, feeling queasy.

She shrugs. “Not a New York family. I forget the name. They’re based somewhere out west. This family evidently has a squad of strapping sons on the hunt for mafia princess brides and Vittorio encouraged me to take my pick. He made it sound like shopping for a car.” She pulls her backpack into her lap and drags out her laptop. “Tempo. I think that was their name. Or maybe it was Tempa.”

Nope, that’s not their name.

“Tempesta.” I watch my knuckles tighten on the steering wheel with fresh fury.

Her head whips to the side and her eyes are startled. “Yeah, that’s it. You know them?”

“I’ve heard of them.” That’s all I’m willing to share. No need to add to her worries.

She waits for me to say more but gives up after ten seconds of silence. “Anyway, I doubt Vittorio was too happy with my refusal but at least he didn’t grab me by the neck and drag me to the altar the way my father would have. I think he’s abandoned the quest to push me into a wedding dress.”

I wouldn’t bet on it. Vittorio Messina is one cagey bastard and he’s not used to taking no for an answer.

“What is ityouwant to do, Sabrina?” I ask as she flips the lid of her laptop open.

She stares at the blank screen and chews on the question for a minute. I wonder how often anyone bothers to ask her about her hopes and dreams.

“I want to stay in New York,” she finally says. “Finish my game design program. I want to be celebrated as the unrivaled queen of Comic-Con after writing the most popular video game on the planet and then hire my own personal pretzel cart vendor to supply endless snacks. Modest goals.”

“And that’s all you want out of life?”

This time there’s an even longer pause and I can sense she’s throwing up an invisible barrier. “No, that’s not all I want, Monte Carlo. But the rest is too intensely personal to discuss with some absurdly hot pseudo-friend in the middle of the night and I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your guesses to yourself.”

“You think I’m hot?” I say, cracking a grin.

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